Page 28 of Impossible
God, he felt so weak.
He finished another glass of whisky and was about to get up to pour another when there was a light knock on the door. No one bothered him here at this time of night. Mrs. Bundle had long ago cleared away his half-eaten dinner.
And it wasn’t the library door, so he didn’t think it would be Miss Treadway. He’d successfully avoided her all day too, which he’d considered a victory. She either annoyed him or somehow coaxed him to agree to things he’d refused to consider. She’d even somehow managed to get him to drive her around the damned estate. But he was through succumbing to her magnetic charm.
The knock came again, and Max pushed himself up. He ambled to the door and opened it just wide enough to see who the hell was intruding on his solitude. Itwasher.
Dressed in a tidy, pale yellow gown, she looked fresh and lovely. That included the strands of dark hair that grazed her neck. Rebel hair that refused to remain neatly pinned. Of course she would have that.
“Good evening, my lord,” she said with her usual buoyant tone and easy smile. “I missed you at dinner.”
“I can’t imagine why you would have expected to see me. Last night was an anomaly.”
“I hoped it wasn’t. May I come in for a few minutes?”
“I was about to retire,” he fibbed.
“I shan’t take long.” She pushed inward, and he had no choice but to step back unless he wanted to be a complete brute. He wasn’t that far gone. Not yet.
Her gaze fell on his empty glass beside the chair he’d been sitting in by the hearth. “What are you drinking?”
“Whisky.”
“Irish or Scotch?”
“Scotch. My father was rather fond of it.” He used to have a friend who smuggled it south. “This has been in the cupboard for nearly twenty years, I think.”
“Is it good?” she asked.
“I like it.”
She put a hand on her hip. “Are you going to offer me any, or do I have to ask?”
Max blew out an irritated breath. “I told you I was going to retire.”
“You did, but our conversation will be much more pleasant if we have a nightcap to go with it.”
“Please tell me you aren’t delivering bad news,” he said with exasperation. “Or going out of your way to annoy me?”
“No bad news, and I didn’t think I had to try to annoy you. You made it seem as though my simple existence was enough.”
“Saucy chit,” he muttered as he went to pour her a glass of whisky. After handing it to her, he refilled his glass and set the bottle back on the cabinet beside bottles of port and brandy.
She perched on a small chair situated near the hearth, but thankfully not too close to his. “Did you post the letter to Lucien this morning that I left on your desk?”
“Yes. When did you do that?” He looked at her intently. “It wasn’t here when I left last night.”
“I get up rather early, and especially so today, since I was touring the estate with Archie. Are you going to ask me what the letter was about?”
“No.” He sipped his drink.
“I informed him you are hiring a steward and asked for his assistance. I hope he’ll send some names. That was before I discovered a potential candidate.” She took a sip and immediately coughed. A deep grimace lined her face, and she put her fingers to her lips. “Good lord, this is quite strong.”
Max stared at her mouth and the hand covering it. She had long, delicate fingers, he realized, fingers that ought to play the pianoforte. Or… His mind was suddenly overcome with lewd images of things her lovely fingers could do.
He jerked his attention to the hearth. “Would you prefer port or brandy?”
“No, this is good. After a few more sips, I’ll be used to it.”
