All About Seduction(53)

No one moved. Broadhurst blocked the doorway.

“We’ll just be leaving, then.” One of the men shifted from one foot to the other as he eyed the doorway.

Jack’s sister extended the plate. “Would you care for an apple tart, sir?”

It seemed to break Broadhurst free of his glare. He moved to the side. “Go on, then.”

Everyone filed past, their chins tucked and their gazes down, as if to look at Broadhurst might invoke his wrath.

In a low, threatening voice, Broadhurst said, “No more visitors.” He turned and yelled at a footman. “Do you hear me? No more millworkers are to be allowed in the house.”

The only visitor Jack really wanted was Mrs. Broadhurst, but he couldn’t resist saying, “Thank you, sir. They were keeping me from my rest.”

Not that he could do much more than lie there and try not to think of the pain, but he was incredibly exhausted, and a catnap here and there was better than nothing.

Mr. Broadhurst crossed the room and stood above him. His silence didn’t bode well, and the hairs on the back of Jack’s neck lifted, but he resisted being the one to break the silence.

“Don’t get used to this.”

“I didn’t want to come here in the first place.” Jack clenched the covers. “Sir.”

Broadhurst slowly turned his head, all the while keeping his eye on Jack, until it became a sideways look that sent chills down Jack’s spine. “I expect a fair number of those who suffer an injury like yours don’t live long.”

“I’m told a few die of putrefaction,” said Jack. “But I’m not showing signs of it.”

“Yet,” murmured Broadhurst.

“I plan to leave your house as soon as I’m able.”

“See that you do,” said Broadhurst as he exited the room.

Jack sucked in a deep breath. If the man had any idea of the way he thought of Mrs. Broadhurst, he’d be gone faster than he could shake a stick. And there’d be no telling if it was by fair means or foul.





Chapter 11



Caroline pushed back the wineglass. She was still too shaky to indulge in even just a glass with dinner.

The wind had blown in a rainstorm that put shadows into all the corners of the house. It suited her mood. But she smiled at the remaining men at the table and chatted lightly about the vagaries of October weather, how it could be crisp and clear one day, cold and rainy the next.

Caroline had long since given up the idea she could choose a man who even vaguely suited her. Mr. Berkley sat to her left. He was handsome enough, with a head of wavy russet hair and pale piercing eyes, but something about his thin lips put her off. Still, she sighed in resignation.

After spending most of dinner asking about him and listening with rapt attention as he droned on and on about his horses and his plans to improve his stables once he came into his inheritance, she needed to close the deal. And at least he was giving her increasingly longer looks as she let her gaze drift too often to his mouth.

“I do feel bad the weather is not cooperating. You will find us poor hosts and never return.” She lowered her voice and purred, “I do hope I can make it up to you in some small way.” She leaned toward him.

“I dare say we will not blame you for the weather.” But he made it sound as if he would.

“I hope I could interest you in a few . . . indoor pursuits,” she continued. She was trying to sound coquettish like Amelia. Caroline traced a fingertip along her neck and then dropped her hand to her lap, before anyone else noticed. But the flickering candelabra barely shed enough light to eat by.

His gaze dropped to her décolletage—pulled as low as she could make it without exposing her nipples—and then slowly back to her face.

“What do you like to do when it rains?” he asked.

“I like nothing better than to read in front of the fire in the library. If this keeps up, I imagine that is what I will do all day tomorrow while Mr. Broadhurst is engaged at the mill.”

Mr. Berkley’s eyes flicked to the head of the table and Mr. Broadhurst.

Her foot was nudged, and Caroline drew back.

Mr. Berkley flicked up an eyebrow.

Oh!

She toed off her slipper and reached for his leg with her stockinged foot. He trapped it between his, and seemed as if he would pull her off her chair. Was playing footsies supposed to be violent?

She squeaked in alarm and then grabbed her disdained wineglass and took a gulp to diffuse any attention, but the rest of the men hardly seemed to notice her, as Robert was doing his best to regale the company with tales of his first impassioned speech in Parliament. She’d heard the story before but Robert had added a few embellishments.