Free The Counterfeit Mistress by Madeline Hunter Page B

footfalls pacing down there now.
    She looked around desperately, but indeed there was nothing in this house to steal, or to use as a weapon.
    She was being a goose. No one had tracked her here to do her harm. Even so her breaths shortened when those boots began a slow climb up the stairs. She slipped to the wall behind the open door and pressed against it. With luck, whoever’s curiosity had brought him here would glance in and move on.
    The steps stopped right outside. Logic said it would not matter if he entered or not, but her blood pulsed hard and her soul prayed he would not. It had been years since such irrational terror had owned her, and she hated that even now, as a grown woman who had braved much, she could not conquer it.
    A step. Then another. Finally he was inside. She examined the back of the lean, broad-shouldered man wearing a fine dark blue coat and fawn breeches and high boots. Her breath caught in surprise, then she exhaled annoyance. What was
he
doing here?
    She did not move. Hopefully he would turn and leave the way he had come. She might not be seen. There was a chance she could avoid even greeting this man.
    To her horror, not only did he not leave. He walked farther into the chamber. Then he turned and looked her right in the eyes.
    â€œAre you hiding, Miss Lyon? Not from me, I hope.”
    â€œNot from you. From an intruder who should not be here.” She left the wall and walked with studied indifference while she put more space between them. Feigning boredom, she kept him in view out of the corner of her eye, looking for signs of anger or even potential violence. She did not think he had forgiven her for what she did to him the last time they had seen each other.
    He stood there, tall, handsome, and formidable, looking at her as if he debated what to do with her. A very different shiver ran through her, and an oddly compelling kind of fear. She tried to think of him as Handsome Stupid Man, but that trick no longer worked to block his dangerous appeal. She knew him too well now to pretend he was stupid.
    â€œHow did you know I was here?” she asked.
    â€œI followed your scent.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a neatly folded square of patterned silk. With a flick of his wrist it grew and flowed. He held the shawl to his nose. “Lavender. I caught a whiff of it near the stairs.”
    She grabbed the shawl and passed it by her nose. “It does not only smell of lavender.” She picked up more primal odors, lying in a musky depth beneath the floral one. The sweat and fear and, yes, even notes of that day’s arousal permeated the silk.
    â€œTrue. Not only lavender.”
    She began folding the shawl again. “I do not mean how did you come up to this chamber. I wonder how you found me in this town and this house.”
    â€œThe ladies at your house told me the town. Madame Betrand told me the estate agent. The estate agent’s clerk told me the house. So here I am.”
    Madame Betrand? Dominique had betrayed her? She would have some strong words for her old friend when she returned to the inn. “Does everyone always tell you what you want?”
    â€œNo. You don’t.”
    She did not respond. Better to try to keep that door closed now.
    He paced around the chamber like a man taking its measure. “Sometimes they do not know that they have told me what I want. The estate agent’s clerk, for example. He assumed—I have no idea why—that I was your cousin as soon as I asked after you and whether you were using that firm’s services. I did not realize you had a cousin in England.”
    â€œI do not know why you followed me at all, and put yourself to such trouble. Surely a viscount has better ways to spend his time.”
    He stopped his pacing. “You know why. There is unfinished business between us.”
    She hoped he referred to those questions he wanted to ask. Only the rest was in his eyes—the anger at