The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(94)

“Of course I did. She’s in the entryway, likely planning to flirt with that baby you call a butler.” Her lips twisted into a familiar impish half-smile. Once, she had given him that smile, leaned into him, and parted her lips . . . right before he’d kissed her.

The memory nearly distracted him from the fact that he didn’t want anyone in the house. Bad enough he had to keep the staff. “I am not receiving callers,” he told her. “And this is not going to help your reputation.”

She waved her hand. “No one worries over a spinster nearing thirty years of age. Now, shall we sit?”

He happened to know she was only twenty-seven, but no use quibbling with her. He glanced about. Books, papers, and various mechanical parts littered every surface. Not to mention there were the three heavy medical volumes on his desk—all on mental deficiencies. With rapid flicks of his wrist, he closed each one and moved the stack to the floor behind his desk. He then came around and cleared a chair for Sophie.

“Thank you.” She lowered gracefully into the seat and arranged herself, bonnet in her lap. “I apologize for barging in. Your butler did try to turn me away, but I haven’t been able to locate you elsewhere. You’ve become something of a recluse.”

Better a recluse than a trip to an asylum. He sat in his desk chair and said, “I have been occupied.”

A tawny eyebrow rose. “So occupied you missed the opening lecture at the Royal Society last Tuesday?”

“I had a conflict,” he offered, lamely.

“A conflict? With what? You’ve never missed one of the opening lectures before. Not in recent memory, at least.”

He tried not to react, though he wanted to grit his teeth. “I did not realize my schedule was your concern.”

She sighed. “Oh, dear. I’ve upset you already—and I haven’t even arrived at the purpose of my visit.”

“Meaning that learning the purpose will only upset me further?”

“Yes, I daresay you shall not approve, but I’ve nowhere else to turn.”

“Why do I feel a pressing need to close the door before you speak?”

She shot to her feet, so Quint started to rise as well. “No,” she said. “Please, stay seated. I think more clearly when I am standing up.”

Reluctantly, Quint lowered. He had no idea what she wanted, but with Sophie it could be nearly anything.

Whatever her troubles, Quint did not care. Could not care. A healthy distance between himself and others must be maintained, especially with anyone who’d known him before the accident. Therefore, he’d hear her out and then show her to the door.

He waited as she traveled the study floor, slapping her bonnet against her thigh. Nervous, clearly. Her dress was both expensive and flattering, yet her boots were worn. No jewels. A practical woman underneath the trappings of a lady.

Interesting.

And he hated that he still found her interesting, even after she’d so thoroughly rebuffed him more than three years ago.

“What in God’s name is that?” She pointed to an abandoned teacup on the desk.

He shot up and grabbed the forgotten porcelain container, which held a greenish-brown gelatinous mixture comprised of various herbs and spices. It looked every bit as terrible as it had tasted. He set it inside his desk drawer.

“Why are you here, Sophie?”

She folded her arms over her chest, a motion that called attention to her small, enticing breasts. He forced his eyes away as she spoke. “I would normally approach Colton or Lord Winchester with this request, but as you know, they are both unavailable. You are the only person I can ask.”

“Your flattery overwhelms, madam.”

She stopped and pinned him with a hard stare. “I did not mean to offend you, as you well know. Stop being obdurate.”

“Fine. I readily acknowledge I am to serve as the last resort. Pray, get it out, Sophie.”

She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin. “I need you to serve as my second.”