Page 16 of Duke It Out
“Annabel?”
Janey puts a hand to her mouth, eyes wide. “Pretend I didn’t say that.” She taps the side of her nose.
I shoot her a sideways look. Today is getting weirder by the second.
“Obviously you’ll get the whole brief tomorrow, but for now this’ll give you some idea where you’ll be working. Not that we’re planning on locking you in here of course.”
“I’d be quite happy locked in a library.” I run my hand along the spines of a shelf of ancient leather-bound books and take a long breath in, letting the smell of the library soak in. I might feel like a fish out of water but there’s something about a library that makes me feel at home.
“And last of all,” Janey beckons me toward a door,chatting as I follow her. “The duke’s study. This is where you’ll find all his papers – and they’re pretty much as he left them, so I warn you it’s going to be a bit of a?—”
I step forward into a room bigger than our London flat. It’s lined with yet more books, and the enormous leather-covered desktop is scattered with journals and papers. A door on the opposite side of the room opens and for a moment time stops.
“How—”
The green eyes that meet mine narrow almost instantly.
“Hello,” says Janey cheerfully. “That saves me the job of trying to pin you down. Edie, this is Rory Kinnaird, Duke of Loch Morven.”
7
EDIE
“I’ll take it from here,”Rory says firmly.
“I was just going to show Edie her room and get her something to eat,” Janey says, but he’s striding across the room and showing her out.
“Leave it with me.”
My heart is hammering, and I genuinely think my knees might be about to give way from underneath me. He closes the door and turns to look at me. His expression is not exactly welcoming.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“Me?”
“Unbelievable.” He shakes his head slowly.
“Sorry, what?”
“Tell me, Edie,” he spits my name as if it was a curse, “exactly what the hell you’re doing here in my house.”
“It’s not exactly a house.”
“You told me you were an investigative journalist.”
Heat rises in my cheeks. “I lied.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you’re a ghostwriter now.”
He’s completely still, like a lion facing down his prey. I’m suppressing the overwhelming urge to jump out of the window and head for the hills.
“Iama ghostwriter,” I protest.
“You’re a liar.”
“People change careers all the time.” It sounds completely pathetic even to my ears. I let out a brief sigh of defeat. “I… embellished.”
He strides over to the desk and pushes a heap of paperwork to one side, clicking open a heavy leather briefcase and frowning for a second. “So, I can assume you signed this” – he picks off the top sheet from a thick stack of papers and brandishes it at me – “with no intention of sticking to it?”
