No Earls Allowed (The Survivors #2)(5)

“Maybe I should come back at a more opportune time,” Slag said.

“Please do, Mr. Slag. I am so sorry we were interrupted.”

“May I call on you tonight?”

“Tonight? No. I’m very, very busy tonight.”

He lifted his stick, then crossed to her and took her hand. At some point during their little dance, he’d removed his gloves, and as she’d removed hers in the kitchen, the press of his bare fingers on hers made her throat tighten.

“You can’t put me off forever, Lady Juliana,” he said softly. “Lest you forget, I’m a man who gets what I want. And the longer you make me wait, the more I want.”

With that, he strolled out of the room, jostling the man entering. The two stopped, looked each other up and down, and then with a warning glare, Slag went on his way.

The other man watched him, then strode into the room. “Friend of yours?” he asked.

Julia let out a breath, then caught it again. She blinked at the man before her, but she had not dreamed him. He was better than any dream her mind might have conjured. It was as though he had just stepped out of a painting depicting a god or an angel. He was tall but not so tall she had to crane her neck to look up at him, and he had olive skin with a touch of gold. His thickly lashed eyes were the most beautiful shade of blue she had ever seen. She had never been to the Mediterranean Sea, but this was what she imagined the waters would look like. His hair brushed his collar, the thick waves falling about his face. With a cupped hand, he brushed them back in what must have been a habitual gesture, then, seeming to remember his manners, bowed to her.

His bow and the attention it drew to his clothing told her everything she needed to know. This man was no crime lord. He was of her father’s ilk. Her ilk, when she was playing the part of Lady Juliana in Mayfair drawing rooms. His dark coat fit snugly over broad shoulders, his cravat was snowy white against bronze skin, and his breeches strained quite nicely over muscled thighs…

She tried to speak over the pounding of her heart. “You will forgive me, sir, if I do not recall having met you before.” She hadn’t met him. If she’d met him, she would not have forgotten.

“My lady,” he said in a deep voice, “it is you who must forgive me.” He had a cultured British accent with no hint of the Spanish or Italian that must run in his blood. “I’m sorry to call on you without notice. I do, however, have letters of introduction from your father and mine.” He reached in the pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew a small packet of papers. He handed them over smoothly, his hand gloved hand brushing hers. Her heart thudded again, and she looked up at his face. He was perfect, so handsome that he did not seem real. If he’d asked her to dance a waltz, she’d have said yes and suffered her father’s displeasure. What she wouldn’t give to press against his strong, muscled body.

The man cleared his throat and raised his brows. Julia realized she had been staring too long and hadn’t offered him a seat.

“Where are my manners?” she said, keeping her eyes down. He must think her a complete ninny. And she was! If she looked at him again, she’d probably start drooling. “Please sit. I should offer you tea, but my cook just—” Quite suddenly she remembered the bread and the oatmeal.

“Oh dear God.” Dropping the letters, she hurried toward the door. Why hadn’t she smelled the smoke earlier? Her bread was burning!

Unfortunately, her guest blocked the door, and she swerved to the side to avoid colliding with his shoulder. That sudden motion brought her hip in contact with the table near the door, which held the box of rats. She’d placed it precariously close to the edge—that was her fault—and at the collision, it tumbled toward the floor. Uttering a shriek, she bent and caught the box, but one of the rats—Mark, she thought—managed to catch his little paws on the edge and began to climb out. Julia shoved the box under her arm, caught the little creature before he could escape, tucked him in the small silk pocket tied under her gown, and raced for the kitchen.

Behind her, the visitor muttered, “What the hell?”

Julia didn’t have time for explanations. She spotted Robbie’s concerned face peering out of the dining room. At eleven, he was one of the older orphans and had stick-straight, brown hair framing a long, amply freckled face. The children’s din had quieted now, as they had probably smelled the smoke as well and realized their breakfast was in jeopardy.

“My lady! I smelled—” Robbie began.

She raised a hand. “I am on my way, Robbie.”

She burst through the door to the kitchen. Smoke filled the area near the oven, its acrid smell making her nostrils burn. She placed the box of rodents on a chair near the worktable and grabbed the first towel her hand landed on, a thin one for dish drying. Wrapping her hand, she used the towel to open the oven door. More black smoke poured out. Waving the towel to disperse the smoke and coughing so hard her lungs burned, Julia reached in and took hold of the bread. As soon as she had it free of the oven, she realized the towel was scant protection from the heat of the charred bread.

“Ow!” She tossed the bread in the air, catching it again so it would not land on the floor, just in case it was salvageable. She quickly dumped it on the worktable and frowned at the charred loaf.

“May I be of some assistance?” her too-handsome guest asked, stepping gingerly into the kitchen.