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“Milord? There’s a nice-looking lady out here to see ye.”

Scowling, he stuck his head back out. “I ken that. I’m avoiding her.”

“Really?” Mrs. Kettel’s brows went up and she wiped at her forehead with a flour-coated forearm. “Seems silly, what with her standing right here.”

Sure enough, the woman—Stoughton, something-or-other Stoughton—was trying to hide a smirk.

At him.

He growled again, then flopped a hand back and forth.

Her brow rose. “What are you doing, my lord?”

Wasn’t it obvious? “I’m trying to shoo ye away. Shoo. Leave. Ye’re no’ wanted here.”

Now the Stoughton woman was outright smiling as she pulled off her winter gloves and shoved them in the pocket of that fine coat she wore.

His housekeeper cook clucked her tongue. “Pay nae mind to the master, dearie. He’s a grumpy one. What did ye say yer name was?”

“Lady Georgia Stoughton, daughter to the Earl of Bonkinbone.”

Mrs. Kettel drew herself up and thrust her hand in the woman’s direction. “Well, lah! How do ye do, milady?”

To Demon’s surprise, Lady Georgia hesitated only a moment before taking the older woman’s hand and giving it a firm, if quick, shake.

Flour drifted through the air.

“Now, milady, seeing as how ye made it into the castle after all, how do ye feel about mutton on Tuesdays? ‘Tis said to attract haunts.”

The woman was grinning again as she unbuttoned her coat. “Not witches?”

“Och, aye!” Mrs. Kettel chuckled as she slapped her hand down into the dough once more. “Witches love mutton, do ye ken nothing? ‘Tis onions they cannae stand, which is why I tie one to my drawers.”

Enough was enough! Demon didn’t wait to see how Lady Georgia Stoughton, daughter to the thrice-cursed Earl of Bonkinbone, was going to respond to that. He now already knew far more about his servant’s drawers than he had ever wished. He merely turned on his heels and stamped from the kitchens.

Perhaps she’d be distracted by Mrs. Kettel’s superstitious nonsense.

The door to his study was open, on account of Rajah, but he paid no mind to the cat when he closed it.

There. Safe.

From her at least.

Deformed wankpuffin, what was she doing here? Oh, he knew why she was here; she was the “representative” the Earl said he was sending. But how in the fook had she managed to make it as far as Endymion, much less into the back gardens? He’d paid the villagers well to keep visitors away, and made it clear he didn’t want the Earl of Bonkinbone’s representative here.

But she’d come anyway.

And he’d felt like an idiot when he’d turned and seen her staring at him, because he couldn’t help but stare back.

She was beautiful; despite the heavy coat and bonnet and the way her nose had been red from the cold, he could see her beauty. Thick hair, lush curves, and a mouth made for ravishing. Five years ago, if he’d met her in London, he would’ve—

Well, he’d never been charming, not like Thorne. Or wealthy, like his once-friend Rourke. But if a woman who looked like Lady Georgia Stoughton had smiled at him, the Demon from five years ago would’ve bloody well found a way to get her alone, and see if she tasted as good as she looked.

Nay, he’d never been charming, but the ladies hadn’t complained.

Today in the garden she’d stared at him, at his scars. He’d known that’s what she was staring at; how could she not? Everyone stared at them—twatwobble, he stared at himself in disgust when he happened to pass by a mirror Mary had dusted against his instructions!

He was a monster, and the way Lady Georgia Stoughton had gaped had proven it. This was why no visitors were permitted! He had enough horrors at Endymion without nosy, determined ladies traipsing around.