Page 32 of Tender Blackguard

Chapter Eleven

The next morning, the marquess once again requested his tea along with a breakfast. While Mrs. Reynard prepared the meal, Lark carried the tea tray to the morning room. Though the room maintained the same over-the-top style seen throughout the rest of the house, it was done in muted shades of sage green and pale gray. With the low-angled morning sun drifting through windows that overlooked the garden, the space was almost pretty.

The marquess was seated at the small table, his back to the windows and the newspaper raised in front of him.

Lark set the tea tray on a side table and spoke the words she said every morning. “Shall I pour?”

“Please.” His voice was low and cold and utterly typical of him, which meant it gave nothing away as to how he was faring this morning.

When she set the teacup and saucer at his elbow, he finally lowered the newspaper. His countenance appeared the same as usual. His skin held no flush of color, and there was no sheen of feverish sweat glistening on his skin. Looking into his eyes, she did not detect a dilation of his pupils.

He looked as vitally handsome as always. Even when his dark brows furrowed heavily over his gaze. “Do I pass inspection, Mrs. Evans?”

She cleared her throat and took a step back. “Apologies, my lord.” But then she couldn’t keep herself from adding, “No sign of infection?”

“None at all.”

“You changed the bandage?”

A pause. “I did.”

“And the poultice?”

Setting the newspaper on the table, he leaned back in his chair to gaze up at her with a sharp look. “Shall I strip down to prove how well I’ve followed your instructions, Mrs. Evans?”

For some reason, his frigid, forbidding tone did little to intimidate her this morning. Was it because she’d seen him on the verge of fainting over a bit of blood?

“I doubt that’ll be necessary,” she replied easily. “And I wouldn’t want you to miss breakfast now that you’ve finally decided to partake in what Cook has to offer.”

His jaw tightened and Lark turned away before he could see her smile of satisfaction. But she didn’t quite make it to the doorway before he stopped her.

“Mrs. Evans.”

Replacing any evidence of amusement with a flat expression, she turned around to face him. “Yes, my lord?”

He remained silent for a long, uncomfortable moment. His posture strong and aristocratic. His chin lowered and his gaze hard and direct. She thought for certain he intended to take her to task for her impertinence. And he’d be right to do so.

She usually managed to keep such tendencies in check. The Yeardley Asylum for Girls had done a thorough job in breaking her of her most brazen habits. Most of the time, anyway.

---