The Cyprian by Wallis-Eton Alice

Author:Wallis-Eton, Alice [Wallis-Eton, Alice]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Regency romance
Publisher: Alice Wallis-Eton
Published: 2015-11-19T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

Quinn

Quinn was in his favourite spot, the armchair by the fire that allowed him to watch Ianthe from over the top of his book. She sat at her desk, going over her accounts for the month. The late sun through the window lit her from behind, and her fiery hair glowed. She was his angel, and he could watch her all day. Years, if he got the chance. He would never tire of the sight. Of how her brow was drawn as she did sums, muttered to herself, and then did more sums. He guessed she was trying to decide which among the numerous invoices littering her desk were the most urgent.

It pained his heart to see her struggling, trying to determine where to apply her limited funds. Ideas were birthed in the deep recesses of his mind. Even if she would not have him, he would figure out a way to make her free. He would see her as happy as the day she galloped over the fields with the Arabian stallion.

"You're supposed to be reading a book, not staring at me," she said, without looking up from her calculations.

One curl had escaped her bun and coiled down her neck. How he longed to tug the length of silk and kiss her skin as he tucked it behind her ear. "I much prefer the story you present than the one in my hands."

She looked up and met his gaze, clouds of thought swirling in her pale eyes. Her question never emerged, as Perkins rapped on the door and pushed it open.

"Viscount Hoth to see you, miss."

Septimus was hot on the butler's heels, all but pushing the man aside. He stopped upon seeing Quinn sprawled in the armchair. His gaze narrowed as he doffed his hat and drew off his gloves, then shoved them at Perkins. The retainer wore a scowl of his own as he took the accessories, and left the parlour. Quinn hoped he found a passing dog to do its business in the expensive hat.

"Ianthe," he said, wrenching his attention around. "I had hoped to find you alone, but I see the whelp is still underfoot."

Quinn looked from his most favourite view to his least. With each meeting, his distaste for the man grew, and he derived childish satisfaction in blocking his attempts to corner Ianthe.

"Septimus." She rose and approached. Taking the viscount's hand, she leaned up to place a chaste kiss on his cheek. "Quinn is a guest in my house for the week, as you know."

Quinn's throat went dry at the sight of her lips on that desiccated corpse. He fought an overwhelming urge to snatch her away and snarl at the viscount. Instead, he curled his fingers around the edges of the book. He was somewhat placated that the older man didn't return the kiss; otherwise he would have called him out. But as it was, how could she touch him? What went through a courtesan's mind when she played her part, for

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