Page 49 of Their Master

“Yes.”

“Charles, I presume?”

“Yes.”

He was certainly prettier than Moira.

The feeling in her belly wasn’t jealousy, but something even stranger and equally useless: competitiveness.

Why did she want to compete with one of his lovers?

She forced her thoughts away from that question and her gaze away from the mesmerizing painting and looked around the rest of the room, which was, unsurprisingly, immaculate.

But it was his dressing room that was most eerie; all the clothes—black, of course—were hung with precise equidistance.

“It almost looks as if—”

“A ruler has been used?” Luke asked, pulling a short wooden ruler from the breast pocket of his coat.

Moira goggled. “Good God.”

His eyes crinkled with amusement. “All the items in the house are placed where he wants them.” He shrugged. “It might seem draconian, but it’s just as easy to put things back where he likes them as it is to put them elsewhere.”

“Should I get a ruler? Will he expect my room to be this way?” Or her person?

Luke chuckled. “No. Your room is your personal space.” His pale blond eyebrows descended. “Unless Mr. Smith made a provision that says otherwise in your contract?”

“No.”

“Then you needn’t worry. One thing he is very good about is making sure that what he wants is clear and then not changing his mind.”

Moira suspected that was true, but it didn’t do anything to make the situation any less overwhelming.

Indeed, it only made her dread—even more—what a man like Smith would do if he ever learned that one of his employees was lying to him.

Or scheming against him.

Chapter 12

Moira was curled up in a comfortable chair with a book when Smith entered her room later that night.

He came to a halt in front of her chair before she could stand, his dark, unnerving gaze roaming her person. “You look lovely,” he pronounced. “And your hair is delightful.”

Moira was both pleased and startled by the warmth in his gaze. “Thank you. I—I like it. Please”—she gestured to the chair across from her— “won’t you join me?” she asked, intensely aware of her position in his household, which was essentially that of mistress.

“Thank you.”

“Would you care for a drink?”

“Yes, please. Whatever you are having.”

“It’s wine—from dinner. It’s excellent. Thank you for having such a lovely meal sent to me.” She filled the extra glass that had been delivered along with the bottle. At the time, she’d assumed it must have been a mistake because Smith had left a message that he’d be gone for dinner. She should have known that nothing was a mistake in Mr. Smith’s house.

“Thank you,” he said, when she handed him the wine.

Moira hesitated before returning to her chair, uncharacteristically unsure of herself.

You’re a Bardot, for God’s sake. Pleasing a man is bred into your bones.

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