Page 20 of Tender Blackguard

Still being short-staffed, Lark assisted the maids in cleaning up the dining room. She’d be meeting with Gideon’s granddaughters the next day and hoped they were as well trained and motivated as the butler had assured. She’d just started gathering the table linens when she heard the guests in the front hall, preparing for their departure.

A few moments after the front hall quieted again, Lark sensed someone entering the room behind her.

Turning around, she stiffened at the sight of Warfield’s dark and handsome form.

His gaze was coolly direct, making her insides quiver involuntarily before she managed to still her unease. She returned his stare calmly. “My lord? Is there a problem?”

It took a moment before he answered. “No, Mrs. Evans.” He took a few steps into the room. Filling the space with his presence. “In fact, dinner was wonderfully prepared and expertly served.”

“Thank you, my lord. Cook will be delighted to hear it.” Lark tilted her chin. “Perhaps you’d like to tell her yourself?”

It was an impertinent suggestion, but Mrs. Reynard had worked exceptionally hard to make a good impression with the evening’s unexpected dinner party, and the woman deserved proper acknowledgment.

The lord’s eyes flashed and his brows lowered, and Lark braced herself for a harsh set-down. He gave a short nod instead and muttered, “I will. Thank you, Mrs. Evans.”

She allowed her surprise to show, but then the man abruptly turned and left the room in long strides, presumably to head to the kitchens.

Lark waited to a count of twenty before taking the table linens below stairs to the laundry. She really didn’t wish to encounter the marquess again this evening. The dinner party seemed to have put him more on edge than usual.

Though the role of housekeeper was one of management and supervision, every good housekeeper knew how to complete the tasks of her subordinates. And when a house was as short-staffed as this one, every hand was needed when the work overflowed. By the time all the work of the evening was done—all the dishes washed and dried and put away and every bit of leftover food carefully stored, the dining room refreshed, and the parlor neatened—Lark was ready for the couple hours’ sleep she’d hopefully manage to claim before she’d be rising once again.

Thank goodness the marquess preferred to sleep late in the mornings.

After checking the dining room one last time to ensure everything was set back to rights, she crossed the entry hall toward the back hallway and the welcome comfort of her waiting bed. Passing the lord’s study, she paused when she noticed a light on within. Someone had left a lamp burning.

With a sigh, she altered direction and entered the quiet study. She made it halfway across the room before she realized too late that it wasn’t unoccupied.

The marquess sat in his favorite chair before the fireplace. But instead of his usually straight posture, he lounged almost carelessly. Slouched into one corner of the chair, he had his legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles. His evening coat had been tossed aside, and his sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows. Lark noted the empty snifter of brandy nestled in the palm of one strong hand.

She should have backed out of the room as soon as she saw him there, staring up at the portrait above the mantel. But she paused instead and gazed up at the painting herself. It depicted a gentleman in elegant finery, standing beside a dark-colored desk piled with books, a candelabra, a scale, and a few other items. The subject had pale hair and an athletic figure. His expression was solemn though there was a disconcerting tilt of amusement to his mouth and his pale, narrow-eyed stare was directed outward. She knew from a previous perusal of the portrait that it was the marquess’s father, the first Marquess of Warfield, staring back at her.

For some reason, the image always managed to send a shiver creeping down her spine.

“Do you find him handsome, Mrs. Evans?”

The marquess’s dark words surprised her. She’d had no idea he knew she was there.

When she didn’t answer, he continued, “My mother found him so, though she also claimed to have been bewitched by the devil. I suppose evil has its own appeal. Wickedness a certain allure.”

His words were only very slightly slurred, suggesting that although he was affected by the alcohol he’d consumed, he wasn’t completely foxed. It resulted in a manner and tone that were far more relaxed than usual. More intimate. Her body responded unexpectedly to the alteration in him.

Softening. Melting.

He made a gravelly sound in his throat that might have been a harsh laugh or a simple clearing of his throat. “Though I cannot imagine you ever falling victim to such a clichéd temptation.”

Without even realizing she’d moved closer, Lark found herself standing beside his chair. Having no further desire to look up at the portrait, she looked at the flesh-and-blood man beside her instead.

“I’ve had too close an acquaintance with the evils men are capable of, my lord, to find it attractive under even the most deceptive circumstances.”

Warfield turned to look at her. His eyes sparked with an odd, unholy light, and his teeth were clenched so tightly she could see the muscle ticking in his jaw. If he was surprised by her candid reply, he did not reveal it.

“Do you see evil in me, Mrs. Evans?”

His voice was heavy and dark, the tone of it felt intimate, like a drift of black smoke through the night.

She couldn’t answer.

And he didn’t make her.

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