Page 4 of Cold November Rake

"Mrs. Higgins," Sutton said, his voice dangerously quiet as he handed his hat and gloves to a passing footman. "Perhaps you can tell me what in the devil is going on here?"

Mrs. Higgins puffed out her chest proudly. "Why, the mistress of the house arrived just under an hour ago."

Sutton unclasped his cloak and handed it to the butler.

"My mother is anything but the mistress of the house," he said crisply, though a smile touched his lips. He had missed her. "She is a guest."

Mr. Ganderson and Mrs. Higgins exchanged an almost conspiratorial glance as Sutton moved toward the grand staircase.

Mrs. Higgins straightened to her full, albeit unimpressive, height. "Not the duchess, my lord. The mistress of the house. Her ladyship."

Sutton went still. The blood in his veins seemed to freeze.

Tonight. Of all the nights in the year.

Without another word to the housekeeper, he took the grand staircase two steps at a time, up to the second floor, his boots heavy against the carpet, his hands clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists.

He passed his bedchamber and reached the lavish suite of rooms adjoining his own.

He paused at the threshold, his pulse thumping in his ears.

The door stood wide open. Bright candlelight spilled out into the corridor, accompanied by the cheerful sound of a woman humming an unfamiliar tune.

Sutton stepped through the doorway, his broad frame filling the entrance.

A young maid stood near the vanity, holding a brush and a towel, but Sutton barely registered her presence. His eyes were fixed on the woman seated at the dressing table.

She wore a traveling gown of rich, emerald silk that clung to her curved frame. Her golden-blonde hair was half-unbound, falling over her shoulders in thick, glossy waves. She leaned toward the mirror, calmly unpinning an earring, as comfortable and established as if she were in her own home—which, of course, she was.

"Temperance," Sutton breathed, the word escaping his lips against his will.

She lifted her face and met his eyes through the mirror.

Her eyes, in the shadows of the room, were dark brown.

Harsh.

Bitter.

Like chocolate.

She was still beautiful, though. Even after all these years, one look at Temperance was enough to steal the breath from his lungs.

Her cheeks had hollowed slightly, sharpening her jawline into something far more regal and defined. The youthful glow of the girl he had once known had settled into the luminous, unyielding composure of a fully realized woman.

"Leave us," Sutton snapped at the maid, without taking his eyes off the woman before him.

The girl dropped a quick curtsy and bolted from the room, pulling the door shut behind her.

Sutton narrowed his eyes, his breathing heavy, his jaw locked so tightly it pained him.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he growled.

Temperance did not flinch. She placed her earring down on the mahogany surface with a soft clink, then turned in her chair, meeting his furious, icy stare with unbothered calm.

"I have the right to be here—" she began softly.

"The hell you do," Sutton spat, taking a sharp step toward her.