Free How to Master Your Marquis by Juliana Gray Page A

should need it.” Sir John’s face turned back to his papers. How he could study them in this jouncing vehicle, lurching about the London traffic, wheeling heedlessly about the corners, Stefanie couldn’t imagine.
    Of course there was nothing to worry about. She’d just been expecting him, that was all. Had risen at half six, despite having gone to bed only five hours earlier. Had dressed herself and brushed her hair carefully with the help of a mirror. She had made sure her collar was clean and straight, she had pinched her cheeks for that irresistible rosy glow, she had rubbed her lips furiously together. For what earthly reason? Did she really want the Marquess of Hatherfield to admire the beauty of Mr. Stephen Thomas?
    Well, yes. Yes, she did.
    Illogical, wrongheaded, muddled, and dangerous in the extreme. But there it was.
    And when she had bounded down the stairs and entered the breakfast room and seen only Sir John and a cross-faced Lady Charlotte, she had felt a huge tide of disappointment well up inside her. No smiling, broad-shouldered Hatherfield, the potent antidote to Lady Charlotte’s venom. He had left her at Sir John’s door last night with a That’s that, then, Thomas, pleasant dreams , and an intimate smile that had hovered in her obediently pleasant dreams all night. Yes, all night. All night she’d kept company with the memory of Hatherfield’s smile, all night she’d looked forward to seeing that smile again at the breakfast table. She’d simply assumed it would be there.
    “I see,” she said now, and Sir John made no sign that he’d heard her, no sign that she existed in this carriage with him. She fingered the fastening on her briefcase and looked out the window. They were jolting up the Strand, nearly there. Her paper lay on Sir John’s desk. She couldn’t even remember what it contained now; the last few pages had been composed in an exhausted blur.
    Probably it was horrible. Probably he would read it in dismay. In horror. In—worst of all—amusement. She would be told to leave, to clear her desk, to clear her Spartan room on the third floor of the Worthington town house in Cadogan Square, and what would she do then? Make her way back to Olympia? Confess her failure? What then?
    Oh, that Stefanie. Flighty, mischievous Stefanie, always getting herself in trouble, one scrape after another, and then charming her way out of it.
    Only this time, there was no charming anyone. She wasn’t a princess anymore, dispensing favors and charm, forgiven for all her faults. She was nobody. She was less than nobody, a fugitive, breaking the laws of Great Britain simply by wearing the clothes on her back. On Sir John’s generosity, she was entirely dependent. And she had failed him.
    The last of the morning’s sweet exhilaration vanished into the London fog.
    The carriage stopped. The door opened. Sir John climbed down without a glance at her and disappeared through the entrance of his chambers.
    Stefanie dragged herself in his wake, carrying his heavy briefcase like the lowliest lackey, like the clerk she was. “I’ll take that,” said Mr. Turner, appearing out of nowhere with his threadbare black arms outstretched.
    “And good morning to you, Mr. Turner.”
    “You may go to your desk, Mr. Thomas. There are a number of letters there awaiting transcription into clean copies.” Mr. Turner gave her a triumphant look and headed off to Sir John’s office, bearing the briefcase.
    Stefanie turned to the desk in question and felt the room stir as four pairs of curious eyes dropped immediately away. Her desk, which she’d left less than eight hours before. On this chair, she had sat and composed her case summary. On that chair, the Marquess of Hatherfield had sprawled his magnificent body and smiled at her. Had devoted an entire evening to ensuring she was fed and safe.
    Well, that was something, wasn’t it? She could take that memory with her.
    Stefanie trudged down the aisle to her desk and