Page 19 of Dangerous

The wailing of the older woman reached his ears halfway down the hall. Adam stopped outside the door, his hand resting lightly on the handle. He grimaced as a piercing sob came through the heavy wood. Hadn’t he endured enough emoting for one day?

“You bloody coward,” Adam muttered under his breath. He began to turn the handle but paused as another earsplitting wail rent the air.

Bloody hell! It was nothing but a weeping female. He jerked open the door.

His wife-to-be sat calmly on the sofa, the sobbing woman beside her. She smiled at Adam and whispered something into her cousin’s ear. Whatever she said caused the wailing to drop to a noisy snuffling.

Adam clasped his hands behind his back. “Would you care to ride in the park tomorrow?”

She smiled and her emerald eyes glinted at his obvious discomfort. “I would like that very much.”

“I shall come early, so that we might avoid the usual crush. Perhaps three o’clock?”

“I will be ready, my lord.”

Adam bowed. “Your servant.” He strode from the room with unseemly haste, wishing to be far away before the older woman recommenced her caterwauling.

He snatched his hat and gloves from the servant who waited in the foyer without stopping. Outside, a throng of curious onlookers milled across the street from the duke’s imposing mansion. Mostly they were from the lower orders, people who had come to catch a glimpse of Euphemia Marlington.

Adam paused at the top of the steps and pulled on his gloves while he surveyed the restless crowd. He estimated close to one hundred people milled on the opposite side of the street. No doubt one or two newspapermen mingled within the herd and he would read all about his visit tomorrow, if not later today.

He leapt into the phaeton and took the reins, imagining the scandal sheet headlines: “Murdering Marquess to Wed Duke’s Mysterious Daughter.”

Adam snorted and earned an odd look from his groom. He snapped the reins and the grays sprang forward, their eagerness to be away from Carlisle House nothing to his.

Chapter Seven

LaValle placed the frothy confection on Mia’s head with all the pomp of an archbishop crowning a queen. Mia squirmed in her seat but let the woman enjoy herself. After all, fussing with Mia’s clothing seemed to be the only thing that made the humorless Frenchwoman smile.

Mia was looking forward to this time alone with her husband-to-be. There were several important matters they needed to discuss and a short time to do it before their marriage.

The duke had summoned her to his study after the marquess’s departure yesterday. In marked contrast to his attitude during her last visit to his masculine sanctum, her father’s mood had been ebullient, almost festive.

“Congratulations on your good fortune, my dear.” He’d briefly patted her on the shoulder to express his joy, his hands clasped behind his back as he beamed down at her. “Exley wishes to marry as soon as possible. Do you have any objections to your fiancé’s desire for haste?”

The word fiancé had sent a shiver of excitement up her spine.

“The sooner we are wed, the better, Your Grace.”

The duke had become positively beatific at her response, going so far as to triple her pin money; money she was already putting to good use, thanks to an idea that had begun forming in her head.

Mia had been aware for some time that her father’s youngest footman would cast yearning—and decidedly carnal—glances her way whenever he thought she wasn’t looking. She could turn that carnality to her advantage with only a little effort. He would be just the person to do the things she could not. Things like going to pawnbrokers, visiting port towns, and, eventually, booking passage on a ship. It wasn’t possible to make definite plans until she knew what the marquess would do after they were married, but she could start recruiting the young footman to her cause now. Her first step would be to have him measured for a fine cloak to match his livery, an act which would single him out as her favorite and elevate his status.

Even with her maid’s excessive fiddling, Mia was dressed and ready for her ride with the marquess a quarter of an hour early. She had to pass the open door to the small sitting room before she could reach the stairs. Rebecca was inside the room, working on one of her interminable stitching projects. Mia tiptoed past the doorway, not wishing to draw her attention; the last thing she needed when the marquess came to collect her was a sniveling woman clinging to her side.

She couldn’t help laughing at the memory of Exley’s face yesterday. His normally impassive features had been rigid with terror when confronted with her wailing cousin. Mia tucked that convenient information away. If all else failed to move him, she could always weep.

Two footmen—one the very man she’d just been contemplating—stood beside the arched opening to the entry hall. Mia eyed his muscular form and came to a halt inappropriately close to him. “I am waiting for the Marquess of Exley.”

“Very good, my lady. Will you be waiting . . . er . . . here?” His voice cracked on the last word and a slight sheen of sweat formed at his temples as he endured her silent, smoldering stare.

“Come fetch me from the drawing room when he arrives.”

The footman scrambled to reach the door before her. She smiled to herself as the door closed behind her. The young man would be easy to recruit.

The English servant situation was beyond comprehension to Mia. She doubted she would ever become accustomed to having handsome, virile young men within her reach.

The sultan had kept his wives and daughters in an impregnable fortress and surrounded them with men incapable of sexual thoughts or behavior. In England, the more prestigious a household was, the more physically appealing the servants were. This was particularly true of footmen—most of whom spent far more time with the lady of the house than her husband ever did.