Page 35

“Do you know,” Georgia began conversationally, finally finding an easy way to carry all of her burdens, “I have never actually seen this footman of yours?”

“Och, well, he falls asleep a fair bit, ye ken.”

“Growing lad, and all that?” she asked in amusement.

“Bruno’s no’ a bad sort, no’ lazy, milady, just…sleepy.”

Smiling gently, Georgia made her way toward the corridor which led to the stairs and the conservatory. “I look forward to eventually meeting him, then. Or at least learning more about him.”

Mrs. Kettel looked as scandalized as if someone had suggested she remove her onion. “Och, nay, milady, we dinnae talk about Bruno.”

That made as much sense as anything here at Endymion, but as Georgia worked with her cuttings, she had to admit she liked it here. Liked the simplicity, the peace, the gorgeous views. And she most definitely liked the master.

She was discovering that her morning “encounters” with Demon weren’t the only time she enjoyed being with him. When they met each other during the day, he was courteous, if quiet. It was the evenings when she saw more of him.

Dinner at Endymion was rather different from her father’s house. There were no waiting servants or multi-course meals. While there was plenty of fine crystal and silver, only two places were set.

And instead of stilted, awkward conversations, Georgia and Demon read while they ate, more often than not.

She’d discovered that, with some careful maneuvering, she could balance a book on the salt cellar and use the lip of her plate to hold it open. This left her hands free to use her utensils, while Demon preferred to hold his book open in his left hand while he ate with his right, and when he finished he used his stained serviette to mark his place, more often than not.

After a few evenings spent thus, she was beginning to understand and appreciate his reactions to what he read. Sometimes she’d spend more time peeking at him from under her lashes than actually reading.

When Demon flipped the pages with his thumb, quickly at that, he was engrossed in the story. When he frowned as he chewed, he was likely reading a political text he found ponderous. And when he began muttering, he disagreed with the author.

“Ignorant pus-fruit!” he burst out, slamming the book shut with one hand. “Nefarious turd-moppet! An absolute suitcase. Doesnae possess any understanding of how the clan system works, or why the Highlands were cleared last century, or even greed itself. Bananas!”

Bananas?

Georgia bit her lip to hide her amusement as he tossed the book halfway across the table then bent to saw at his beef.

“Not enjoying the book, my lord?”

He scowled as he chewed. “A veritable toss-off.”

She calmly turned the page of her own book—Treasure Island was much more engaging than Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes—and hummed. “Why do you torture yourself, then?”

“Why, indeed.”

There was something to his tone…when she glanced at him, he was staring at her with an intensity which made her blush. Was he saying she tortured him?

“Your library is extensive. You might choose another book to read. I…I can admit Stevenson is not quite as dull as I previously believed.”

It had become their habit, after dinner, to retire to the library while the possibly-nonexistent Bruno cleared the dining room. The two of them would bring their books, or choose new ones, and sit on either side of the cozy fire and read. On her second evening at Endymion she had discovered an ottoman, lap blanket, and lamp moved close to the second leather chair. Demon had steadfastly refused to look in her direction, but she knew he’d left them there for her enjoyment. The realization warmed her as much as his morning touches.

Their nightly ritual in the library, where sometimes she could tease him into a debate about what they were reading, was currently tying equally with his visits to her bedroom as her favorite parts of the day. It would be a simple matter to find a new book this evening…

“Good,” Demon grunted. “I’ll let ye choose a novel for me.”

Shocked at his offer, she could only stare at him, wondering what he meant.

He shrugged. “Since I inflicted Stevenson on ye, perhaps ye can foist an Austen on me. I’m willing to broaden my horizons.”

When she continued to stare, his scowl deepened. “Och, dinnae look at me like I have two heads.” He tossed down his fork with more force than necessary. “I get too much of that already.”

The last was mumbled. Georgia suspected he hadn’t intended to admit that. So she cleared her throat and forced her own attention back to her meal. “I have just the thing in mind.”

But later in the library, he stepped away from the book she held out. “A Christmas Carol? Absolutely no’. Irrevocably, unequivocally, nay.”