Free 0062412949 (R) by Charis Michaels Page A

Some fell heavily forward over her neck and shoulders, more fell down her back. A particularly unruly lock dangled in her face. Her cheek was smeared with dirt, and she looked moist. With sweat.
    She was perspiring.
    She had rolled up the sleeves on her veil-weight blouse, and several buttons were loose, revealing damp, creamy skin from her chin to . . . to much lower.
    Dear God. She was not wearing shoes.
    Trevor narrowed his eyes, trying not to linger over any of it—the wild hair or bare feet or any of the sweaty bits in between. He failed miserably and looked again, endeavoring to be quick about it—sweeping his gaze up and down the length of her body. Only when he’d seen it all three times, did he manage the restraint to focus on her face.
    No surprise, she was smiling back at him sweetly. Smiling like an attendant at a wedding—a happy cousin, perhaps, enlisted to distribute refreshment. Smiling as if she’d just won top prize at the parish vegetable match.
    Not at all, he thought, as if she were defying all social convention, repeatedly breaking into his home, and driving him mad with lust.
    “I couldn’t help but overhear—”
    “What are you doing here?” His voice was flat.
    “I’m sorry,” she began, “but by here do you mean in the second floor of my house?” She gestured to the room. “Or here paying you a call?”
    “You are not paying me a call, Miss Grey. You are breaking into my home like a criminal. And I mean both .”
    “Hardly breaking in. I knocked, and you admitted me.”
    “I was referring to your breaking in while I was out.”
    “Because the reason I’ve knocked and have been admitted here ,” she continued, ignoring him, “in your empty room, is to intervene. On behalf of Joseph. Please, my lord.” She looked at him sweetly. “This is not his fault.”
    “At least we agree on that.” His words were clipped. “Dare we risk some accord on whose fault, exactly, it might be?”
    “Of course we dare,” she said. “The fault lies with no one. Because no offense has been committed.”
    He pivoted away, shaking his head, and fell into an agitated line of pacing. Every moment or so, he stole a look at her. She smiled. It was then that it hit him—a moment of clarity—although he had no idea how he managed it. His current frame of mind was an agitated clash of anger and lust.
    Why not, he thought, simply concede ? Remove himself from the whole bloody cock-up and allow her to do as she pleased? Would it really be so bad? Could it ever be as bad as this?
    He stopped pacing and spun, turning to face her. “Where are your shoes, Miss Grey?” he asked. He began a slow and steady march in her direction.
    “My shoes are not relevant,” she said, straightening her back. Her smile dissolved, just a touch. She appeared uncertain. “I . . . I paid to live in your house, my lord, but have—”
    “Stop talking,” he interrupted. “I have good news for you, Miss Grey, very good news indeed. You will absolutely want to hear it.” He continued to advance. She stumbled back.
    “You have convinced me,” he said. “The passage is yours. The stairs. The kitchen door. Please, summon Joseph whenever you require entrance or aid, just as you did today. I will instruct him to attend you.”
    He took another step. She was forced to back up or be bumped by his chest. She reached behind her, feeling for the wall.
    “Mine?” The word was followed by a raspy breath.
    It was the shortest sentence she’d ever uttered in his presence. In the absence of words, he advanced until he found himself looming over her. He was so close, he could see the individual strands of gold that made up the curl that hung in her face. So close, he could see that curl flutter, ever so slightly, each time she breathed in and out. His hands twitched to reach out, to tug gently, to see how long it would extend, and then watch it bounce back.
    He heard himself say, “It is not the lease arrangement you made with my