Page 69 of The Ladies Least Likely

“It’s possible your book was hers. She was mad about old things.

” Mal took a bracing swig that emptied his glass again.

“I suppose my mother might have used the title. She always insisted my father had wed her properly, but of course he would have said anything to win her. No record of a legal marriage, though. My grandfather claimed that my father deceived her, and I’ve never doubted he did. ”

Mal debated whether to refresh his glass. The brandy was fuzzing his perceptions, making him think imprudent things about Miss Illingworth. Enchanting, indeed! When she sat across from him as prim and proper as a governess.

He’d best get a grip on these galloping fancies. There was no sylph hidden beneath that drab, worn gown, no passionate heart subdued by the constraints of her station just waiting to be awakened by a kiss.

And if there were, he had no business knowing such things about her. Not when he had so little to offer her in return.

“When my father married Christine, she became Lady Vernay for a short time.” Mal moved his mind back to the matter at hand.

“My grandfather didn’t live long after the wedding, from what I understand.

It was the aim of his life to ensure his heir married into a family of suitable wealth and station, and he achieved it. ”

She set the portrait gently in its place. Mal battled the impulse to take those cool, capable fingers and press them against his aching head.

“And where is your mother now?” Her steady, fathomless gaze rested on him.

“She died when I was young.” Dear Lord, he was becoming sentimental. He pushed the weakness aside. “You are coming to know a great deal about us, Miss Illingworth, and I know very little about you.”

Her eyes crinkled as she smiled widely, and Mal cast about for breath. “We have not even been properly introduced.”

“Malden Grey of Bristol, aspiring to the bar.” He held out his hand.

“Malden,” she said, and a silken quality in her voice made him shudder, as did the slide of her fingers as she placed them in his. “There is an Anglo-Saxon poem about a battle at an English ford called Maldon. One of those manuscripts sadly lost in the Cotton fire, actually.”

“You haven’t told me your name.” His voice roughed his chest.

“Miss Amaranthe Illingworth of St. Cleer, Cornwall. My father was very fond of classical antiquity, so he chose a Greek name for me. He gave my mother the honor of naming my brother.”

“Joseph,” Mal said. “A Hebrew name. Very different tradition.”

“My mother’s family were Portuguese conversos .

” She withdrew her hand. “Jews who converted to Christianity so they might escape the Inquisition with their businesses and their lives. They practiced in secret for centuries, or so I’ve been told, but in the end my mother converted in truth and married a man bound for the Anglican church.

” She held the housekeeper’s volume close to her chest, like a shield.

He sat back. The confidence stunned him. She’d learned he was a bastard, the status he wore like a brand on his forehead, marking him as deficient. But if her family had been Jewish, then she knew something as well about being set apart.

She rose, and he scrambled to his feet. Very neatly she placed her glass on the shelf beneath the decanter. Her eyes traced the figurines above, all of them representing mythological half-women with breasts prominently displayed.

“They’re not mine,” Mal said.

That small, maddening smile quirked her lips again.

“No, they are young Hunsdon’s now, I imagine.

I’ve seen this and worse among some of the medieval marginalia I’ve copied, Mr. Grey.

You wouldn’t believe some of the grotesques those monks could dream up.

I suppose it comes from being locked away day after day with no company but other men. ”

That was his problem as well, Mal decided. Too much time in the company of other men. That was why she’d riled his senses so potently. He needed a woman now and again to relieve the pressure.

Mal moved around the table toward her as she stepped away. “I can drive you tomorrow. To the orphan place with the distressed women.”

Again the dance of those interesting brows. “You sound terrified at the very thought of confronting those in distress. Yet as a barrister, I imagine you frequently encounter persons in unfortunate circumstances.”

“Prospective barrister. I am waiting to be called to the bar.” He hated appearing so helpless, so insufficient around her. A woman could not desire a man she pitied. “What time shall I bring the carriage round?”

She hesitated, and her face went studiously blank. A slither across the back of his neck told him this was the expression she assumed when she was withholding something. He was beginning to recognize it.

“Eyde made up a room for me here,” she said. “Do you mind?”

“Of course not. There are dozens of rooms.” Or so he thought. Hunsdon House was not his, as nothing about the Hunsdon estate was to be his—not even the family name—and so he’d never let much of it occupy his attention.

He wondered which room Miss Amaranthe Illingworth would select for her own.

Did she see her silk-smooth skin as best set off by the draperies in the Blue Room?

Would she choose the Oriental patterns of the Jade Room?

Or would she, like an empress of old, demand the royal purple?

He imagined her nearby in the house going about her nightly routine, taking down her hair, drawing off her prim robe, perhaps splashing water onto her face that would run down that softly stern neck to the collarbones hidden beneath her gown and?—

He’d best stop imagining Miss Illingworth at her ablutions. He was about to embarrass himself.

“Till tomorrow then, Miss Illingworth.” Had she said he could call her Amaranthe? He wanted to roll the name over his tongue. It was exotic, yet robust. A name with command and presence, much like the woman.

Good Lord! That brandy had turned his wits. He was behaving like a moonstruck calf. No, worse.

“Till tomorrow,” she said softly, and her gaze held his. The flickering candlelight brought out violet shadows in her eyes, and all the air left Mal’s body. He wanted to be found worthy of that calm, assessing gaze.

There was no way she would ever find him worthy.

The door shut behind her, and Mal smacked a hand to his head to clear it. He’d best bring himself in order. They had business to conduct. Problems to solve.

She had secrets he wanted very much to discover.

He had gotten his first good look at Miss Amaranthe Illingworth. He wanted a second. And a third.

In fact, he wanted her in his bed, without a stitch of clothing, where he could study her at leisure and finally form a full picture of this alluring but very mysterious woman.