Page 27 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
Without looking up, she murmured, “You don’t have to help—you don’t have to stay.”
He made a dismissive sound. “If you imagine I’ll leave before we see those photographs, you’re dreaming.”
She grinned; she hadn’t imagined any such thing. In his place, she’d be curious, too.
They settled companionably side by side to complete the finicky task.
By the time twelve o’clock came around, all the usual chores had been completed.
“We only got done thanks to you lending a hand.” Lipson shrugged on his coat. “Or hands, as the case was.”
Izzy noticed he included Gray in his grateful nod.
The others got ready to leave, somewhat reluctantly; it was plain all were keen to see what Digby produced. As usual, they left in a group, calling their farewells—in which they all included Gray.
Hmm.
Izzy knew very well that, at that point, trying to get rid of him would be wasted effort. Instead, after checking that the rear door was locked, she walked back to her office, sat behind her desk, and immersed herself in the neglected accounts.
Gray watched her with a far-too-understanding smile curving his lips, but said nothing. He sat in the chair opposite, stretched out his long legs, folded his hands on his chest, and closed his eyes.
Glancing up from beneath her lashes, she confirmed his eyes were truly shut, swallowed a humph, and got on with her work.
Chapter 4
Izzy completed every last scrap of outstanding paperwork, then tidied her desk. With everything in place, she looked hopefully at the clock; it was barely two-thirty.
She listened, but could hear no movement in the workshop. Digby must still be in the darkroom.
The lad had emerged at just after twelve o’clock, saying the developed calotype negatives were fixing and assuring her and Gray that the images were nice and sharp and would print well.
Gray had just returned from buying pies and drinks, and she and he had already consumed theirs. She’d given Digby the pie bought for him. He’d wolfed down the meat-filled pastry and gratefully accepted the bottle of ginger beer Gray had handed him. From the way Digby had savored both pie and drink, she suspected he didn’t get to taste such treats often, if at all.
After tendering his thanks, Digby had retreated to the darkroom to print the three sets of the seven photographs they’d decided they would need.
He’d said it would take three hours at least.
Izzy looked around the office, searching for something to do.
Inevitably, her gaze landed on the one object she’d been attempting to ignore. Gray was sunk in the armchair he seemed to have claimed, his long legs stretched before him and his hands loosely clasped on his chest. His chin rested on his neckcloth, and his eyes were closed. He hadn’t moved for some time; she assumed he’d fallen asleep.
This seemed the perfect opportunity to look her fill and sate her curiosity, her fascination with this “new” him. If she studied him for long enough, perhaps she would no longer feel the constant need to examine his every expression to see if his reactions had changed from what they’d been before.
The long, angular planes of his face were at ease, yet even when relaxed, there was no hiding the patrician cast of his features. His broad forehead, well-set eyes, and lightly arched brown brows could have been chiseled by some artist, so ineffably aristocratic were they in line and form, yet his well-shaped lips and the slight cleft in his chin softened the image to something more human and infinitely more appealing.
That she still found him so was an unwelcome realization.
As she let her gaze roam, studying, examining, drinking in all she could see, she couldn’t help wondering what might have been.
Unsurprisingly, that led her to dwell on what had actually happened back then. Courtesy of his revelation of yesterday, she now had a more accurate idea, yet from her perspective, questions remained. Even though the incident and their connection of that time were in the distant past and undoubtedly irrelevant now, she still wished she knew the whole story.
Even with his eyes closed, Gray was acutely conscious of Izzy’s scrutiny—as, he now accepted, he would always be alert to everything to do with her. If she was in his orbit, his senses locked on her. No matter what else he might be doing, no matter what other distractions presented themselves, he would always be aware of her.
He wondered what she was thinking. What was going on behind those lovely emerald eyes? If anything, their vibrant hue seemed more intense than in his memories.
Deciding the moments of quiet waiting was an opportunity too good to pass up, without stirring, he asked, “How did you come to ownThe Crier?”
Her attention snapped to his face. She studied it for a second, then replied, “I needed to make money, and believe it or not, this is a nicely profitable business.”
