Page 38 of Tender Blackguard

Her response was a throaty laugh that sounded surprisingly genuine. “Not at all, my lord.”

Chapter Thirteen

Alastair stood with his back to the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back as he watched the lovely Lady Sapphire settle gracefully on the sofa. Her wide hooped and layered skirts took up the full width of the cushions.

He glanced toward the liquor service. “Would you like a drink?”

“A splash of brandy would be lovely,” she replied readily.

After pouring a finger for her and two for himself, he returned to her side. The lady gazed up at him with a tilted head and a gleam of intelligent curiosity in her eyes as she took the snifter. “Thank you, my lord.”

He arched a brow.

She grinned.

“I assume you intend to explain your cryptic remarks from earlier.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Of course. Just as soon as my husband joins us.”

As though simply awaiting his cue, a young man strode confidently into the parlor. In possession of a lean-muscled frame, brown hair, and strong yet common features, the newcomer crossed the room with a straight posture and unhurried gait. Despite his rather average appearance, Alastair sensed an interesting air of self-assurance in the man. Something in his steady gaze suggested a level of experience that went beyond his age.

It certainly wasn’t the footman the lady had claimed as her husband earlier. He was right to have suspected a lie in that declaration. This man carried himself with far too much confidence, and Lowndes’s footman certainly hadn’t possessed such an intense gaze.

The newcomer’s focus went first to the woman seated casually on the sofa in a thorough assessment. But then he shifted his attention to Alastair as he came to a halt and offered a respectful bow of his head. “Dell Turner, my lord.” When the man glanced back to the lady, Alastair noted how the firm press of the man’s mouth briefly softened while his eyes sparked possessively. “And my wife, Portia.”

Focusing his attention on Turner’s features, he suddenly noted the details in another way. With a twinge of shock, he realized it was the footman. And the driver.

“I can see you’ve figured out our game, my lord.” Mrs. Turner’s tone was amused and slightly admiring.

“It’s not a game, Portia.”

The lady rolled her eyes at her husband’s quick and stern correction before replying smoothly, “A matter of perspective, my love.”

At another time, Alastair might have been amused by their interplay. Tonight, however, another matter claimed his focus. “Have a seat, Mr. Turner. Can I get you a drink?”

“No, thank you.”

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