How the Rogue Stole Christmas by Stevens Rosemary

Author:Stevens, Rosemary [Stevens, Rosemary]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Romance
Publisher: Belgrave House/Regency Reads
Published: 2010-11-28T16:00:00+00:00

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Chapter 8

“You frightened the wits out of me, you provoking man!” Margery said, trying to regulate her breathing. She did not know which was more disturbing, being discovered or being discovered by Lord Reckford.

“Obviously you did not have many wits to begin with, since you are poking about Mr. Lemon’s papers, instead of upstairs sleeping. What if he had been the one to catch you?”

“And what, pray tell, are you doing in here?” Margery demanded, finding refuge in throwing the question at him. She gathered the folds of her nightgown around her, embarrassed at her appearance. He, on the other hand, was still in his evening dress, looking as fresh and elegant as if it were eight o’clock at night rather than two in the morning.

The viscount did not answer. He leaned casually against the desk and considered her. “Surely the incident young Thomas related about Mr. Lemon’s sharp temper did not prompt you to come down here in the middle of the night to search his office. What did?”

Though he asked the question with interest, it was clear from the way his gaze raked over her that his thoughts were taking a different turn.

The silence of the house was complete. Margery was acutely aware of how alone they were. Their two candles made the light in the room low, and only the desk separated them. Staring into Lord Reckford’s eyes, Margery could not for the life of her form a response to his query. The very sound of his voice affected her deeply, causing her to feel a tingling through her veins.

He held her gaze and the tension in the room increased.

She fought between the need to pour out her suspicions about Mr. Lemon, and the need to feel the viscount hold her in his arms, his lips on hers again.

The man’s nickname is “Reckless.” You are merely someone to dally with during the holiday. Mrs. Norwood’s words rang in Margery’s ears like an alarm bell. She should get away from him.

Deliberately, she placed the papers back on the desk. “It appears we are at an impasse. I shall return to my room,” she told him.

He let her get all the way to the door before trapping her there by the simple measure of placing his hand against it.

“Running away, Lady Margery?” he taunted.

She felt frozen to the spot, unable to tear her gaze away from his. She wanted to lean her face into his neck and fill her nostrils with his scent.

His posture was rigid, as if he were holding himself in check. “You smiled at me so bewitchingly when I asked you to dance at the assembly. Then, when I came to you, you were distant, wary. What disturbed you? Was it something Alfie Cranston said? Something about your husband?”

Margery felt a sharp stab of pain at the reminder of her husband’s friend, and the contempt with which he had treated her, blaming her for Simon’s misery. “Let me pass.”

“No.”

A tiny sound escaped her lips, and she looked away from the viscount’s knowing gaze.

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