Free Kasey Michaels by Indiscreet Page A

into the study ahead of him before closing the door on the hallway and the interested footmen milling about in the foyer. “I did not want to get you alone , as you term it, for any romantic notion you might have taken into your head.”
    Sophie spied out a decanter of brandy warming on a small table near the fire and went straight to it, pouring His Grace a snifter and returning to hand it to him. “Why, did I say anything about romantic notions, Your Grace?” she asked, smiling up at him as she insinuated herself between Bramwell and the desk. “No, I’m quite sure I didn’t. I’d rather assumed you’d brought me down here to read my incorrigible self a stern lecture, yes?”
    He took the drink from her without so much as a word of thanks, brought it almost to his lips, then leaned forward and slammed the snifter down on the desk, its contents untouched. “Oh, no, you don’t! You’re not going to do that again.”
    “Do what again, Your Grace?” Sophie asked, bracing her palms against the desktop and gracefully lifting herself onto the surface so that her slippered feet swung freely, only the faintest glimpse of well-turned ankle visible below her hemline. “I’m sure I haven’t the faintest notion what you’re talking about.” She turned her head, inspecting the wide, clean expanse of desk, then looked up at him again, her expression one of absolute innocence and confused inquiry. “I don’t seem to see my letter here.”
    Bramwell made a growling sound low in his throat as he ran a hand through his warm brown locks, effecting great inroads on its sleekly combed style and making himself look much younger, much more approachable. Not, she was sure, that he knew it or, if he did, that he would ever do such a thing again. She couldn’t remember when last she’d seen such an unhappy man—or a man so woefully unaware of his unhappiness.
    “You’re enough to drive a man out of his mind,” he said at last. “You do know that, don’t you? Hell and damnation—why am I even asking? Of course you know that. You do it on purpose. You do everything on purpose. You don’t make a single move, a single gesture, without a purpose. You wheedled yourself into my aunt’s good graces with woebegone expressions, some lip rouge, and promises of lurid gossip. And then you turned yourself around and played the eager, feather-headed ninny so that my fiancée sees you as no more dangerous than a lump of clay that she, in her goodness, will mold into her own image—as if that were possible.”
    “You’re absolutely right, Your Grace. Of course I did—I do! And you’ve seen through it all. Even the lip rouge.” Sophie sighed and shook her head. “But, all that being said, I don’t see why you’re flying so into the treetops, Your Grace. It isn’t as if I didn’t warn you, yes? I was raised to please, raised to see a need, then accommodate it—until it has become second nature for me. I simply can’t help myself. I warned you of that as well. Besides, it’s much nicer all round when people like you, yes? You’re happier, the people around you are happier.” She spread her arms wide. “The whole world is happier.”
    He raised his own arms from his sides, then brought his hands close together in front of him, as if trying to hold on to something he could not quite see, found impossible to completely grasp. “But—but that isn’t honest !”
    Now Sophie did roll her eyes, beginning to feel the first flush of what Desiree had once called her “fire-flash” of anger. She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, hoping to remain calm, in control—thus retaining the upper hand over this man, this unexpected and unexpectedly attractive adversary. “Honest? What isn’t honest, Your Grace? I very honestly enjoy both the ladies who are sitting upstairs in the drawing room, planning ways to make me a success. Truly I do. Lady Gwendolyn is happy to have a companion, someone to laugh with, to make her feel