The Duke of Defiance (The Untouchables #5)(6)

Bran pressed his palm flat against the smooth top of his desk. His father’s desk, rather. Like everything in this house, it wasn’t his. How in the hell could he think of this as home—could Evie think of this as home—if everything had belonged to someone else?

“Do you know anything about decorating?”

She stared at him a moment before blinking, those dark lashes of hers briefly shuttering the sparkling hazel of her eyes. They were remarkable, he realized. How had he conjured the word dull in reference to her?

“Decorating?” she repeated. “Er, no. At least not here in London. I had to commission new drapes once. And order a new settee after the old one broke.”

“And how did you do that? Particularly if you weren’t in London.”

She inhaled as her gaze traveled the room. “I hired a seamstress from the village to make the drapes, and the settee came from a furniture maker in Cambridge.”

“I see.”

“I’m sure Nora could offer assistance. Or Lady Satterfield. She’s Nora’s mother-in-law.”

Bran had met her last week while visiting his godmother, Lady Dunn. In fact, he should ask the viscountess—he’d much rather seek her counsel than his mother’s. And wouldn’t that annoy his mother? She’d never cared for Lady Dunn, who’d been his father’s choice as godmother.

He shoved thoughts of his mother aside. He’d have to deal with her soon enough when she arrived from Durham, where she’d been staying with her sister.

“I’ll consult them, thank you.” Or maybe he’d just delegate refurbishment to his secretary. Wouldn’t the staid, fussy Dixon enjoy that?

Hell, what Bran really needed was a wife. And he was about as versed in searching for one of those as he was in securing nurses and furniture. It had been easy on Barbados—there simply weren’t many choices.

He eyed Mrs. Shaw and realized he couldn’t very well solicit her input on that topic.

He recalled the duchess’s daughter’s comment the other day, that both and he and Mrs. Shaw were unmarried. However, she didn’t look as though she were ready to marry again. Indeed, she seemed to perhaps still be in mourning, given her attire.

“How long ago did your husband pass away?” he asked.

She started, her shoulder twitching slightly as she blinked at him. “It’s been about a year.” She smoothed her hand along the top of her knee. “And your wife?”

“Nearly four years. She was struck by fever. Evie became ill as well, but thankfully recovered.”

“My goodness, that must have been frightful. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“And I’m sorry for yours.” He noted she didn’t offer a cause of death, and he wouldn’t ask. He could be blunt and occasionally brash, but he wasn’t a complete boor. Usually.

A soft rap on the doorframe was followed by Kerr announcing the arrival of the first candidate.

“Please show her in,” Bran said, ignoring the perennially pinched expression on Kerr’s face.

“Do you expect me to remain quiet for the duration of the interview?” Mrs. Shaw asked.

Bran hadn’t actually thought about that. “No, if you have something to ask after I’m finished with my questions, please do so.”

Mrs. Shaw gave a prim nod, then straightened her spine. As she did so, her tongue peeked between her lips, wetting them. She seemed completely unaware, but Bran was not.

The quick, innocuous gesture sent a shaft of heat straight to his groin. Of all the inconvenient times… The candidate stepped into the office, and he was forced to drive all thought of Mrs. Shaw from his mind.

For now.





Chapter 2





By the time they’d finished the third interview, Jo had a clear favorite, but she had no idea what Lord Knighton was thinking. He’d been thorough in his questioning, if a bit monotone. If she’d had to guess, she would say he hadn’t cared for any of them. Which she supposed was possible.

She opened her mouth to speak and promptly froze. But just for a moment. Then her jaw dropped as he untied his cravat, pulling the fabric loose until it hung down his front in two snowy white swaths. The top of his shirt gapped open, revealing a triangle of bronze flesh.

“What are you doing?” She blurted the question before she could censor herself.

“Removing this bloody nuisance.” He tugged the cravat from around his neck and tossed it atop the desk. He pulled at his collar, which widened the gap in the top of his shirt, which in turn exposed more of his bronzed flesh.

Jo realized she was staring and abruptly looked away. “Er…” She struggled to find the right words. Were there wrong words in this instance? “I don’t know what you’re used to in Barbados, but in England, it’s improper for a gentleman to disrobe in front of a lady.”

“Hell,” he muttered. “I hadn’t considered this disrobing. Things were different at home.” He scowled. “I beg your pardon, but I can only wear the troublesome garment for short periods at a time. Though it will likely offend you horribly, I can’t put it back on.”

Would it offend her? It most certainly should, but so far she found the earl’s eccentricities curious. Plus, he’d used the word “can’t,” not “won’t.” “Why does it bother you? If I may ask.”