Page 3 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
Instinctively, she backed away, then caught herself, locked her spine poker straight, and halting squarely in the doorway, raised her chin and narrowed her eyes warningly.
He halted mere inches away and peered around her, surveying the office, and she realized she was holding her breath.
She knew what he would see—to his left, before the window, twin armchairs flanking an occasional table, then opposite the door, the bookshelves packed to bursting with a jumble of volumes, and to his right, the large desk, its surface strewn with articles and layout sheets illuminated by two banker’s lamps, and most notably, the chair behind the desk and the two armchairs before it, all empty.
Weighted with increasing suspicion, his gaze returned to her face.
Lips compressed, she met his gaze.
He searched her eyes. “I. Molyneaux. ThatIwouldn’t happen to stand for Isadora, would it?”
She held her nerve and his gaze and, as coldly as she could, responded, “What is your business withThe London Crier?”
He scanned her face, then his tone flat and faintly menacing, said, “The Crierhas recently commenced touting an exposé that…greatly concerns me.”
She did her own searching. “Why would that—”
“Concern me?” He studied her eyes, and his incipient glare faded to a puzzled frown. “Obviously, I don’t appreciate having my—”
Comprehension struck; he saw it leap in her eyes, saw dawning realization lighten her expression, and belatedly pressed his lips shut.
She nearly laughed; she didn’t need further confirmation. Unable to conceal her mirth, she grinned. “Really?Youhave just returned from abroad and are as rich as Golden Ball, too?”
“Too?” He dropped all pretense, letting his aggravation show, along with his confusion. “Who else…?”
His face wasn’t all that easy to read, but she’d once studied his expressions avidly, and that long-ago knowledge stood her in good stead; she knew he’d accepted that he’d irretrievably given himself away and also that he at least suspected who the intended target of her exposé was.
His gaze locked with hers. “Who isThe Crier’ssupposed Golden Ball?”
“Ah, now—that would be telling. Buy the next few months’ editions, and you’ll find out, along with the rest of the ton.”
“Izzy—”
The sound of her nickname, falling from his lips in that half-pleading, half-threatening way, sent her whirling about and walking purposefully to her desk and around it. She gathered her skirts, sat in her chair, and waved him to one of the chairs facing her.
While he subsided into it with the graceful elegance he’d always possessed, she reminded herself to be careful in how she dealt with him. He could make life exceedingly difficult for her, her family, and all atThe Crier. With little effort, he could destroy all she’d worked to establish and build since they’d last met.
As for their past association, that was water long under the bridge—and all the way out to sea.
She folded her hands on her blotter, met his gaze as it returned to her face, and succinctly stated, “Suffice it to say that the gentleman referred to isn’t you.”
His amber gaze roamed her face. “How many ‘scions of noble houses’—ducal houses, no less—have returned from ‘far-flung lands’ recently, much less as wealthy as Croesus?”
“Apparently, there are at least two.”
“Indeed, and I know them both.”
Gray hung onto his temper, admittedly one of the lesser emotions feeding the unprecedented tumult churning through him. “Permit me to assure you that neither of us will be delighted shouldThe Crierproceed to wave our wealth like a red flag, alerting all society and bringing every matchmaker, trickster, and chancer in town down on our heads.”
“I daresay not,” she coolly replied. “Equally, there are those who would maintain that society has a right to know the status of those the hostesses welcome, and not least among that group are the hostesses themselves.”
“Not to mention the matchmakers, although admittedly, they’re often one and the same.”
“Indeed.”
Her serenity pricked his temper, but he bit back the words that leapt to his tongue; given their past, mentioning mercenary, husband-hunting females would assuredly cut too close to her bone, and from the awareness in her emerald eyes, she was half expecting him to attack on that front.
He shifted his gaze from those mesmerizing eyes to the wall behind her, which was covered with framed copies ofThe Crier’spast front pages.
