The Sins of Lord Lockwood (Rules for the Reckless #6)(7)

“You once told me that no post reaches Rawsey in winter.”

“It was a mild winter,” she bit out. “And behold: it is almost May.”

The journalists were correct, his fashions were the definition of au courant. His dark suit fit him so closely she could see the bulge of his muscled shoulder as he shrugged. “I meant to write,” he said. “Besides, you keep so busy there. I imagined I had until June at the least.”

The way he phrased it! As though she were some kenneled animal, safely ignored until summer! She opened and closed her mouth before recovering her aplomb. “Well, it’s good to confirm it with my own eyes. Your dreadful cousin kept insisting you were dead. I hope you have put that to rest. He harassed me terribly.”

Something violent flickered over his face. For the first time, she had the startled sense that he was not nearly as calm as he seemed. “What do you mean, he harassed you?”

“Precisely what it sounds like. He seemed to labor under the impression that this”—she waved a hand around the room, the leather gaudily trimmed in gilt—“belonged to him now. And my properties as well, though as I had my lawyers explain to him, even if you were dead, the Scottish estates belong to me.” She rolled her eyes. “These little English brains can hardly compass it, the idea of properties entailed through a woman.”

“Do you have any of his letters still? Those in which he said I was deceased?”

“Why should I save kindling? But you can hardly blame him, Lockwood. Three years without news—even I was tempted once or twice to bury you.”

He slumped against the door again, his smile lopsided, designed to charm. “How good of you to refrain.”

“Yes, well, I know your character better than your cousin does. Stephen’s mistake was to overestimate you; he felt certain you’d never run away for years on end. I informed him that running away had been your plan all along. I said, why, Lockwood never promised to stay at all! He married only so somebody else would fix up his estates.”

She paused briefly.

He made no denial.

You are a fool, she told herself.

“I’ll confess, though—” She pushed out a light laugh. “I did expect you to make it through the honeymoon. Especially since it promised to play to your strengths! Drinking and lounging and loafing, and not much else.”

Another man, any man with some pride in him, would have objected. But again, his only reply was a long, mildly quizzical stare. He looked the very picture of a dissolute rake: all chiseled bones and full lips, no brains whatsoever.

Her discipline began to fray. She bit her tongue hard, but could not stop herself. “You’re not even going to apologize, are you?”

Unblinking, he replied: “For what? As you say, we had a bargain.”

Snap went her temper. “You shameless fool. I did think you were dead, near the end. That money you took must have run out. What else was I to think? How dare you not write me a letter, cable a single line!”

“My apologies.” His own tone sounded very mellow. “I should have written, yes. But my travels took me to some very . . . remote corners of the world.” This appeared to amuse him; a faint smile played over his lips. “The money stretched farther than I’d expected. The telegraph wires did not.”

“Then you should have made a detour.” Her hands were fisted; she fought the urge to stalk him down, to slap some real emotion, some proper regret or repentance, into that handsome face. But the effort would be wasted, obviously.

“Well,” he said, flipping his hand to prompt her to continue. “Was there something else? As you saw, I have guests.”

She marveled at him a moment. “I don’t recall you being such a jackass.”

He laughed, a low, husky sound. “I don’t recall you cursing like a sailor.”

“Then it’s true, time does reveal all. On that note, I will be in residence for the remainder of the spring, so I expect—”

“Alas, no.” He pulled open the door to the hall. “I will send to Claridge’s to book you a suite.”

“You will not. I am staying here.”

He turned back, looking puzzled. “I’m afraid it won’t be possible.”

“I paid for every furnishing in this house.”

“And you have exquisite taste,” he said solemnly, and then laughed again.

She glared. At least he was amusing himself. “Regardless of my taste, I intend to enjoy what I have purchased.”

“But there’s no room,” he said genially. “Guests, you know.”

“Expel them.”

He hesitated, sighed, then closed the door, giving her his full and apparently earnest attention. “Lady Forth. It seems I must explain to you—”

“South of the border, I am known as the Countess of Lockwood, I am very sorry to say.”

He did not seem to register the barb. “I must explain how unsuitable the company is. You cannot stay here. Not tonight, at any rate.” He tipped his head, looking thoughtful. “Perhaps not tomorrow, either.”

He was not drunk, but something was addling him. As she advanced on him, she saw that his pupils had nearly disappeared; his amber irises were huge and unnervingly bright. “Did somebody hit you very hard on the head?” If so, she could not blame them. “I am here. I am certainly staying. If the company doesn’t suit, then it is the company that must change.”