Excerpt
Sinclair lifted his head and sharp blue eyes met hers. “Lady Rochford, upon my honor to make your acquaintance.”
The assessing way he studied her, and the desk she took refuge behind, undermined the politeness of his greeting. If she wasn’t careful, this attentive man would see right through her, and the deceptions she’d constructed.
“Would you like a refreshment, Mr. Sinclair?” She gestured to the miniature glasses next to the crystal decanter filled with amber liquid.
He acknowledged the offer with another polite tilt of his head and crossed the room, giving wide birth to the crackling fireplace. After offering her a glass, he raised his in salutation and sipped slowly, drawing her attention to his well-shaped mouth.
She had an appalling sense of what those full lips were capable of, beyond reciting the Lord’s Prayer.
“Lady Rochford?”
Faith blinked. “You were saying?”
“Madeira. It’s unusual to serve it as an apéritif.”
“Heavens, I hope we haven’t caused a scandal.”
“Only if generosity is considered outside of the rules of good society.” A charming grin spread across his face. “This is a very old Madeira, and you do any guest a great privilege in sharing it.”
Pretty words. Delivered with an even prettier smile. She may have overestimated his intelligence if he believed such insipid overtures would lower her guard.
“Are you a connoisseur of spirits?” she asked. “I thought most members of the clergy frowned on imbibing.”
“You’ll find that I subscribe to more liberal views.”
An understatement if ever she heard one. The man was overly familiar in his manner. She suspected his liberal views were the reason he wasn’t ensconced in a parish of his own.
“Madeira is a favorite of mine,” Sinclair added. “My father was a merchant, and it was his primary trade route.”
“It must have disappointed him that your calling prevented you from following in his footsteps.”
“Fortunately, he didn’t live long enough for that particular disappointment. He died when I was young.”
His tone was teasing, but the tightness in his eyes felt weighty to her.
“My sincere condolences,” she murmured.
“Am I correct in understanding that you once called the island home?”
It never was home, she almost confessed, rattled that he was so well-informed. Had the bishop prepared him, or did he have other sources? Surely, the scandal sheets weren’t still writing about her missing husband.
No, she’d wager he’d done his own research. Throughout their conversation, Sinclair had scrutinized the room as if he was compiling a mental inventory. But his focus was divided; his gaze kept sliding back to hers. Likely, because she’d inhaled a little too much Madeira, a little too fast, for it not to be scarring her cheeks with heat.
She couldn’t recall the last time an attractive man had paid her such attention.
“It was a long time ago,” she eventually responded to his question. “And very far from Cumbria. But so is London.”
“The journeys are comparable,” he replied with mock solemnity. “And I must get used to leaving London. My orders will take me to Manchester soon. Unless, of course, you find my services indispensable here.”
He flashed another brilliant grin, which did nothing to assuage her flush. His presumption that such a flirtation might have an effect on her made her more self-conscious.
The man had to leave. Immediately.
.jpg)
.jpg)
No comments:
Post a Comment