Page 64 of The Hunter
Millie’s wide eyes leaped from Argent to his butler and back with unmasked skepticism. “Are you both toying with me?”
Welton sniffed. “Certainly not, madam.”
“I didn’t instruct you to do that.” Argent studied Welton from narrowed eyes. The man had come with the house, and had proved handy to have nearby, once Argent had made it clear that if he ever said a thing about his comings and goings to the police, Argent would snap his neck.
Slowly.
Five years, and Argent had gotten used to having the old codger around. He never questioned his place, and was a font of information regarding the world of thetonand the circles in which Dorian and Argent now maneuvered.
“I am an English butler, Master Argent. It is my job to provide you and your household with whatever may be requiredbeforeits lack is noted.” He, too, glanced into the space behind the door to which Argent clung and sniffed through one side of his prominent nose with an air of disdain. “It is not customary for a female, spouse or guest, to share the… chambers of the master, and so she is afforded her own for him to visit at his leisure.”
Millie’s other hand joined the first over her chest. “That is your… where you sleep?”
Argent remained silent, curiously loath to claim it. The way she was looking at him now, her eyes swimming again, thrummed an unpleasant chord deep in his gut. If she would pick one emotion and decide to land upon it for longer than a blink, he’d greatly appreciate it. The speed with which she swung from horror, to disdain, to sympathy had him feeling as unsteady as a toy ship in a typhoon.
He just wanted her. Now. His mouth needed to be on her again. But not like before, not frozen with fear as she’d been in her apartments. Or angry then resigned as he’d had her in the baths. He wanted her as she’d been that first time at the Sapphire Room. Hungry, willing, and bold.
If you don’t kiss me, I’ll die.
He hadn’t truly understood what she’d meant at the moment she’d said it. Though the longer he was denied her mouth, the more the words made sense.
“Right this way, madam, if you please.” Welton gestured down the long hallway with a stiff bow and marched toward a large, arched door at the end.
Blinking away a rather dazed expression, she cast a very different sort of look at the neat pallet on the floor before sweeping past it to follow in his butler’s wake.
Once they’d entered the chamber, Argent made the first personal conclusion about his butler in five years. Welton’s favorite color was green.
Argent didn’t focus on the domed ceiling depicting seraphim and mortals alike engaged in some form of romping. The excess of potted trees, flickering lanterns, and delicate wood furniture that lent the room a forested feel all blurred behind the woman gliding into the midst of all the frippery.
“Welton,” she breathed. “It’s like… like an enchanted forest.”
“Thank you, madam.” With brusque movements Welton turned down the dark coverlet on the bed, uncovering butter-beige linens stitched with tiny leaves that matched the drapes tumbling from the canopy. Next he poured water into the basin from the ceramic pitcher and fluffed the few towels on the stand.
“Welton,” Argent growled.
“Yes, sir?” His butler turned to him.
“Get out.”
“Of course, sir.” Never breaking form, the butler bowed again to them both, and left.
Argent turned to Millie, who stood in the center of the room regarding him from under disapproving brows. “You could have thanked him,” she reproached. “He’s really very good.”
“Take it off.” The words left his mouth the moment he thought them.
Her breasts lifted in an audible breath and stayed there. “You… mean… my dress?”
Striding to the washbasin, he retrieved a cream towel and plunged it into the warm water. “I mean your makeup. I want to see you.”
She approached him in an arc instead of a straight line, her hands clutching her skirts and her teeth chewing at her bottom lip. She held her hand out for the towel and he gave it to her, stepping back so she could use the mirror.
Her reflection added magic to the experience that Argent could never have guessed. He could see the tumble of her hair and the curve of her ass from behind, as well as her face in the mirror. A face so beautiful that his chest ached if he looked upon it for too long.
After a tense moment, she picked up the soap, dipped the linen, and ran it across a portion of the fabric before lifting it to her face. She washed the kohl from her eyes first, their shape morphing from long to round.
“Most men prefer me with this on,” she remarked nervously. “It—covers all the imperfections and accentuates the beauty.”
“You have no imperfections,” he said honestly.
