Page 57 of The Duke's Bartered Mistress

“I told ye my valet was unavailable. They werenae dirty enough for the hamper, and I might wear them again.”

“Ah, yes…” Georgia slowly turned in a circle, absolutely delighted to be in a man’s bedroom—this man’s. “And I see you have managed to miss said hamper when you tossed your drawers—are you blushing?”

“I’m no’ blushing,” Demon growled, waving dismissively as he stalked toward a closed door. “I dinnae blush. My skin lacks the capabilities.”

Actually, with all that scarring, it was possible. But Georgia vowed to tease him about his untidy ways as often as possible, in the hopes of making him blush more often.

As muttered cursing arose from the other room—“Shitestockings, I ken they were just here—och there ye are!”—Georgia had to admit most of the mess she saw was superficial. Just the result of day-to-day living without a servant to rush around behind one and put things away properly. The top of the dresser was strewn with small items—scraps of paper, coins, a magnifying glass, what looked like a few interesting rocks—which might’ve been emptied from a pocket. The bed wasn’t made, but the counterpane had been yanked toward the pillows, as if the sleeper understood the concept of making a bed, without ever having been trained to do so.

Georgia had spent the last two and a half weeks without a personal maid, and although Mary was kind, there was only so much she could do. Demon had obviously forbidden the maid from attending to his room on a daily basis.

He stomped out of the other room flourishing the shears. “Here. Clean me up.”

His abruptness was somehow endearing. Still, Georgia plopped a hand on her hip and raised a brow. “The magic word, Demon? P-P-Puh…?”

Reaching the hearth, he swung about. “P-P-Puh-now, Georgia. My hair willnae get shorter on its own.”

Goodness, he was exasperating. Shaking her head, she sighed heavily. “Very well, my lord,” she intoned, trying to hide the smirk in her tone. “Although why you think I have experience cutting hair…”

When she took the shears from him, Demon turned about to present the back of his head. “Ye’re a woman, and ye care about these sorts of things. Try to get most of the hair on the hearth, so I can sweep it up later.”

Because he was willing to look after himself. Thoughtfully, Georgia shkkk’d the shears a few times—because really, it was compulsory when one anticipated using them—and stepped up to him.

Father had spent his life surrounded by servants, and didn’t notice them. If she was being honest with herself, Georgia didn’t either, until she’d been forced to live without them with Roger. But here was a man who would sweep his own hair into the hearth so Mary didn’t have to.

She blew out a breath. “You will have to sit down, Demon. I cannot reach your head.”

Instead, he sank to his knees.

In front of her.

Swallowing, she reached for his head, realizing her hand was shaking. He wasn’t facing her, which gave her the time she needed to examine him. His dark hair was thicker than she’d expected, now that the length didn’t weigh it down. There was even a bit of curl to it, and she was loathe to cut too much of it off.

Her fingers scraped across his scalp, enjoying the feel of his hair’s softness. She saw him give a little shudder.

“Well?” Demon growled, as bumps rose along the back of his neck. “Are ye going to stand there all day, feeling my head? My knees are aching, woman.”

Right.

“Careful, my lord.” She began to carefully snip some of the more wayward chunks of hair. “I have never done this before. Contrary to your claim that I care about these sorts of things, earl’s daughters are rarely called upon to actually perform a haircut. If you continue to insult me, I may accidentally lop off too much. Or your ear.”

That shut him up.

Despite his demand—command—she cut his hair, he was obviously uncomfortable in this position. She couldn’t tell if it was the kneeling-on-a-marble-hearth thing or the someone-close-to-his-vital-bits-with-a-blade thing. Or perhaps it was just her.

Whatever it was, as she worked in silence, Georgia watched the way his muscles moved in his neck and shoulders. He’d discarded his jacket, likely to keep it clean, and his sleeves were rolled up enough she could admire his forearms as he crossed them in front of his chest. But whenever she dragged her fingertips across his ear or neck, he flinched.

Perhaps it was her.

There was only so much she could do with the shears…she was merely guessing at how a man’s hair might be cut and styled. Finally, she deemed it good enough; there’d been an incident during which one side was cut shorter than intended, so both sides and the back had to be cut to match…but even she had to admit that the top looked almost professional.

“There,” she murmured, stepping back and cocking her head to survey her work. “I think that is as good as I might hope.”

He climbed to his feet in a graceful movement that belied the whole kneeling-on-the-hearth theory, and began to brush the little hairs from his clothing. “Thank ye.”

Georgia gave a nervous little chuckle, shkking the shears again. “You might want to look at a mirror before you thank—”

“I dinnae look in mirrors.” Demon glanced up and held her gaze as he finished running one hand along the opposite arm to clean it off. “If ye say I look fine, I’ll trust ye.”

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