Page 15

EIGHT

Briar

It had been a good idea.

At least, I’d made it with the best of intentions. Peregrine had seemed so…so vulnerable. So open. I’d never seen him like that.

And it was true—I did have a spare bedchamber in my London townhouse. What I should have said of course is that I owned at least three other townhouses in London, two of which were currently unoccupied. That would have been the smart thing to do.

And now here I was, waiting for my tea to brew, unable to stop staring at the closed door to the corridor.

Through it, along a bit to the right, and then on the left? Peregrine, the Duke of Markham’s new bedchamber door.

I had a permanent house guest.

“What were you thinking, Briar?” I asked myself under my breath as I picked up the small teapot and poured myself a cup.

The trouble was, I knew what I was thinking. At least, feeling. I hadn’t done much feeling. I’d just felt so sorry for him, such a yearning to be close to him. Before I’d been able to stop myself the words had spilled out of my mouth.

Within an hour, I’d ordered my coachman to move most of his stuff into the empty stables that I owned two streets over. By yesterday evening, he was in.

Peregrine. Oh, I knew how stupid I was being. I had a fancy for the man—so what?

A fancy for a gentleman I’d already bedded. A fancy for a gentleman who evidently had major commitment issues, and had already lied to those he was closest to. And had stolen from them. From me.

A gentleman who was kind of my employee? And now was living with me?

I groaned as I sipped the teacup and rose from my chair by my bed, walking out of my bedchamber and down the staircase to the breakfast room.

I was a complete idiot.

What had I been thinking? This was just my own foolishness again, just like everyone said. I’d had the opportunity there to push Peregrine into actual employment, and instead I’d done what?

Moved him into my home.

Not a decision that was going to win me eligible debutante of the year.

I sipped my tea and almost moaned with the relief the sweet drink brought.

What I needed was a plan. A way to get Peregrine back on his feet without me actually doing anything.

No, that wasn’t quite it. I groaned as I took another sip of tea. When did I start letting incredibly attractive dukes distract me from my plans?

When it came to ledgers and investments, I knew what I was doing. Mostly. But courtship? A potential future husband? I’d avoided them all after losing my parents. I’d already had my heart broken twice. Why on earth would I risk it again?

And that wasn’t what this was. Probably.

Peregrine was just a gentleman I had taken to my bed, I told myself.

A gentleman who had bedded me then stolen from me, yes. But I was making him pay for that. I absolutely was not doing this merely because I wanted him close to me. Around me. Holding me. Touching?—

The teacup slipped in my hands and I almost dropped it. Swearing under my breath, I put it down on the breakfast table.

I was being an idiot. Letting my desires get the better of me. Letting Peregrine get the better of me.

I didn’t understand this man. Sometimes he was so…so forward—so obviously wanting to kiss me, it was hard to concentrate around him.

And at other times? I just felt like an anonymous person he might have walked past once. Someone he hardly recognized, but was going out of his way for some reason to annoy me.

I tried to take a deep breath, but my eyes darted once more to the door to the hallway.

There was something about him. I was almost certain there was repentance in his heart for what he’d done, but Peregrine hadn’t exactly said that. He was just the sort of rakehell Georgiana always said I should avoid. Perhaps she’d been thinking of her friend when she’d said that.

Such a shame the roguish men tasted the sweetest.

And that wasn’t the worst thing. The worst thing was?—

“Well good morning,” said Peregrine cheerfully, his expression still sleepy. “And what a glorious morning it is.”

I stared, lips parted, unable to reply.

Well, what was I supposed to say that?

It wasn’t the fact he’d marched into the breakfast room when I hadn’t expected it. It wasn’t his greeting, and it certainly wasn’t the smile on his face.

Honestly? I hardly noticed the smile.

How was I supposed to, when the man had walked in wearing tight breeches, a half buttoned shirt, and…nothing else?

Wiry hair cascaded down a throat that I recognized all too well, his collarbones brash against his shirt. His hands and forearms were tantalizingly visible thanks to how the man had rolled up his sleeves, leaving—to be honest—not a huge amount to the imagination.

Not that it needed to. I’d already seen everything before.

And that was the problem. I’d already seen, touched, tasted. And I had barely been able to get enough of him when he’d first come here, my unexpected boldness bringing him back to my home.

And now Peregrine was here, wandering about and picking up dish covers on the sideboard until he found the eggs.

My sideboard. My Peregrine—I mean, my house guest. Damn.

“You…hello,” I said weakly.

My heart was hammering beyond what I could deal with and my lungs were tight, every breath an effort.

How in God’s name was I supposed to survive having Peregrine here for more than a day?

I couldn’t top staring, couldn’t help but appreciate the muscles that tightened in his shoulders as he reached out for a plate.

Couldn’t stop looking when he returned to the table and lounged on a chair, couldn’t help but admire the way his jawline moved as he took a bite of toast without butter or?—

Without butter?

“Are you some sort of animal who’s never heard of butter?” I said, astonished my voice had enough strength in to be heard by another human being. “Peregrine!”

Peregrine stopped eating, gazing at me curiously. The lack of movement only succeeded in drawing my attention to his perfectly clipped stubble, the way his hand now hung lazily at his side.

This was a man who had never had to worry about what to do with his hands. He’d certainly known what to do with them when?—

Not helpful, Briar!

“You wanted this piece?” Peregrine said, holding out the piece of toast.

Perhaps that was a discussion for another day. I’d never actually lived with anyone as an adult, now I came to think about it. Perhaps that was the sort of thing you were just supposed to…let slide.

“I’ve got my tea, thank you,” I said, gesturing with my cup.

Peregrine nodded, then turned blearily away from me and started to eat his toast again.

Not a morning person, then.

I should be doing something—something other than gawking at my new house guest. Reading the newspaper, getting updated on the financial markets, reading my letters. Anything to stop me from being such a gawker.

The trouble was, Peregrine was strangely hypnotic. I’d never seen someone so…so at home in their own body before.

I liked the way I looked, yes, but it had taken a little while to grow into my body. I'm sure I wasn’t the only one who had that struggle, but still.

Peregrine was entirely different.

He seemed so comfortable. So fluid. Every movement he made was instinctual, and he never seemed to worry about how his body looked.

I mean, why would he, when he looked like that?

Still, I couldn’t just allow this to continue without saying something. I mean, we were going to be living together for weeks. Perhaps more. I still hadn’t decided what I was going to do when his time was up.

What was I going to do with Peregrine, the Duke of Markham? Cut him loose, let him fail on his own terms?

Keep him as an advisor of sorts, find out a way to extract a salary from the trust?

Or…or something more?

I pushed that thought down, way down. That was not going to happen.

So I needed to say something. Lay out the rules. Make it clear that being properly dressed at breakfast were not optional.

“You…” I swallowed. I would control myself! This was my home! “You don’t want to put a waistcoat on? Or…or a cravat, or something?”

When Peregrine met my gaze, it was with a wicked glint that told me he saw right past my attempt at nonchalance.

“Why?” he said, leaning against the chair like he was a model for a painting master. “Is it bothering you? My body?”

Markham

“Is it bothering you? My body?”

What was wrong with me?

I could see the way my words affected Briar—blast, Lady Briar—and that was precisely why I had done it. What man wouldn’t look at her, all ruffled in the morning looking like butter would instantly melt, and not say such a thing?

Besides, she may want to criticize me about my clothing, or lack thereof, but she was far worse.

Bloody hell, she was wearing a gown with a bodice hemline that skimmed so low…and as far as I could see, she was once again not wearing a corset. Did she have any idea how tempting she looked?

“N-No!” Briar stammered, cheeks flushed, gaze averted. “No, your body is—it isn’t?—”

“Because it sounds to me that you either don’t like the way I look,” I persisted, unable to stop myself, unwilling to give her any relief. “Or you really, really like the way I look.”

I tilted my head slightly as I took in Briar’s response.

She didn’t need to reply in words. It was all there, clear as day. She wanted me. She didn’t even know how much, and I was still finding out.

Perhaps this was a bad idea.

I mean, when Briar had suggested it, it had seemed like the perfect way out of my problems. No rent? No being thrown out of my townhouse in a week with nowhere to go? A hostess as delectable as Lady Briar Weatherford?

Sign me up.

It had stopped being such a fun idea when I’d arrived yesterday. Briar had shown me about the place, flushing as she pointed out her bedchamber.

Well, it wasn’t like I hadn’t already been in there.

And that had been it. She’d given me a key to my own bedchamber, pulled on a spencer, and said with a smile that she was heading out, that she probably wouldn’t be back until the early hours, and to not wait up.