His Lady in Breeches

XXII. Open Talk

Maxwell waited inside the drawing room, fingers curled under his chin, eyes narrowed into a frown. He crossed his legs, uncrossed them, and crossed them once more.

He took a deep breath, cocked his head to the right and frowned even more. He let out a sigh and shook his head.

Ah, whatever it was, he could not deny it.

That kiss was astounding. Why would he ever deny it was not? Men who did looked like fools and he was no fool.

He did not plan to kiss her. Truly, he did not. She did not even look ravishing with her hair tied tightly behind her and that horrid valet uniform. But her voice invited him, her words seduced him. Pathetic as it may be, but he was pulled in and to pull back was unthinkable.

And she did not fight back. She welcomed the kiss. He scoffed at the memory. She did kiss him back.

He stilled when the door to the room opened and the valet walked in, her face stone-like and unreadable.

Who was this woman? Where did she come from? He wanted to know, yet he knew that forcing the truth from her would merely lead to one of their useless disputes.

She had fixed her hair tightly behind her once more and Maxwell regretted not having ruined it earlier. She did look beautiful with her hair down in the Macy ball.

"Have you rearranged your muddled mind?" he asked when she placed a tray of sandwiches and tea on the table before him.

Straightening to full height, she lifted her chin and haughtily looked down at him. Definitely gentry, he thought. "Quite," she admitted.

"You do admit I caused you confusion," he said, greatly satisfied when her eyes flickered with annoyance.

"Yes, of course," she uttered. "But it makes me wonder if you do know where you are."

Maxwell frowned. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Mayhap you have mistaken your brother's estate to yours, my lord," she said with a shrug. She waved her hand around the drawing room, adding, "As you have mistaken that your mistress is at your residence and not here."

Maxwell's lips twitched. "Ah, you are bringing up the subject of my mistress again. Why?"

She shook her head in disbelief. "Now that I have delivered your sandwiches and tea, could I leave? I was hoping you would discuss how you are to aid me in my mission, but it seems that you are not currently in the right mind to do so."

He studied her for a while before motioning his hand over the tray. "Eat."

She frowned. "You do like to order me around."

"And you do hate to be ordered around," he countered. "Eat. You said you are famished."

Her jaw tightened.

"Well? Would you rather share your luncheon with Molly?" he asked, voice filled with meaning.

"I cannot eat your meal. Anyone could walk in and find us—"

Maxwell impatiently stood up and walked to the door. He turned the lock and faced her once again. "Satisfied? Now, eat."

She sighed and sat on the chair he vacated. "Very well, since I am famished." She picked up the sandwich and turned to him with a mocking smile. "And while I feed myself with your sandwiches, I would appreciate if you could grace me with your marvelous plan."

"My plan," he uttered, walking to the chaise across from her. He did not have very precise plan at the moment. The only one he had was one he could not share with her.