Page 12 of An Extraordinary Lord
A slow smile unfolded at her lips. “Ah, Mrs. Fitzherbert, how well you know me.”
“I’d like to know you better.”
Her heart skipped, followed by an immediate stab of self-recrimination. How pathetic she was! He certainly didn’t mean his words as a flirtation. Yet a foolish part of her wished they were.
She rose to her feet and turned away before he could see the flush he put into her cheeks. Good God, a blush! She felt like an idiot, being well beyond girlish coquetry. In every way.
But then, hewasa most unusual man.
Taking another sip to cover any emotions straying across her face, she slowly circled the large room. Stretching her legs felt good after sitting for so long. So did the brandy. And very fine brandy at that. As the warm liquid moved smoothly down her throat, she craned her neck to look up into the darkness of the tall tower, the large gas chandelier overhead unlit. Then she trailed her fingertips along the stone mantel of the massive fireplace as she slowly passed it. The turn about the room was simply a delay tactic to give her time to settle her whirling mind. But with the way he sent little thrills crackling inside her as his eyes followed her, she doubted there were enough hours in the night to put her at ease in his presence.
She stopped to contemplate the shield above the mantel. A matching one with the same Latin inscription decorated the outer entrance. “Ubi malum timet calcare?”
“Where evil fears to tread,” he translated, not moving from the chair except to swing around on it to watch her. He was still studying her every move, the same way a fighter observed an opponent. “It’s our motto.”
“Of course,” she murmured dryly. “In Latin. About evil.” Then, more loudly, her bewildered mind unable to take it all in, “Whatisthis place?”
“This is the Armory.” He cast a glance around the room as if attempting to see it through her eyes. “Think of it as a gentlemen’s club of sorts for former soldiers returned from the wars.”
The light from the gas sconces fell into the adjoining room just far enough to reveal walls decorated with all manner of weaponry. “And the claymores?”
“A gentlemen’s club with its own weapons cache,” he amended wryly.
“I see.” Actually, not at all. But she’d never admit that.
Leaning back in the chair, he kicked out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. The perfect posture of a gentleman at ease. But she knew he’d pounce in a second if she dared to sprint toward the door.
“The building was originally an old armory established by Charles II in the mid-seventeenth century,” he explained.
“And what is it now?”
“A sanctuary.”
When she faced him at that puzzling comment, his gaze drifted up to the shield.
“Marcus Braddock, former general and now Duke of Hampton, originally purchased it to use as a warehouse,” he continued. “But he decided to renovate it instead.”
“With walnut paneling, imported rugs, and a supply of expensive liquor inside ten-foot-thick stone walls?”
“Twenty, actually.”
Her lips parted, stunned.
“Home sweet armory,” he said drolly. “The general knew it would serve a better purpose as a place where his former subordinates could come to get away from their new lives back in England.”
“Is that why you come here, Merritt?” she asked, thinking of the people she lived with in the Court of Miracles and how most of them would do anything to be able to escape that existence. “To get away from your life?”
He paused as if considering an answer. Then he blatantly dodged, “The general’s planning on hiring a butler and housekeeper for the place.”
“Ah. Roughing it, then, are you?”
An amused smile played at his lips. “There’s a kitchen in the basement. Shame to let it go to waste. Might as well put it to use in roasting pheasant dinners.” He shrugged. “And the general thinks having someone here watching over us will keep us from running over the settees during fencing matches. He’s tired of finding boot prints on the leather.”
“Will it?”
“Unlikely.”
Hiding her amusement, she gestured toward the adjoining room. “Nice weaponry.”
