Free Lady Maggie's Secret Scandal by Grace Burrowes Page B

repeated glances at the flowers, her expression betraying muted strains of longing and bewilderment. He saw her gaze flicker over the chocolates every time he paused to take a bite of his food. He saw her stirring her tea with her spoon, tapping it against the bottom of the cup—plink, plink, plink—as he went on about the weather and the seasonings on the chicken and the previous evening’s music.
    She was good, never dropping a conversational stitch, never letting the polite interest slip from her eyes.
    He was good, too, babbling away, stuffing his maw, and all the while not allowing his attention to linger on the long, graceful line of her throat or the way the sun glossed her hair with brilliant gold highlights.
    That hair, spread over a pillow…
    “May I offer you another sandwich, Mr. Hazlit?” She lifted the caddy toward him, which meant her décolletage was inclined toward him, as well.
    “No, thank you. I’ve quite disgraced myself. My sisters admonish me regularly about the hazards of neglecting my nutrition. Perhaps if my kitchen were as skilled as yours, I might heed their guidance with more alacrity.”
    “If you’re no longer hungry, shall we take a turn in the garden?” She rose as she spoke, her tone pleasantly causal, though Hazlit acceded her point: It was time to be getting on with business.
    “I can walk off the last of those tea cakes.” He winged his arm at her. She did not lead him into the corridor, which would have necessitated a trip through her house. She instead took him out a pair of French doors leading directly to her back terrace.
    “A pretty afternoon,” he said as they moved away from the house. “I’m afraid we’re to have a rather unpretty discussion.”
    “You’re going to castigate me again for my coiffure last night.” Her tone was mild, teasing almost, and they were still within earshot of the house. His respect for her—a man could respect even his enemies—rose a notch.
    “It was daring.” He chose the word so as not to offend. Offended women were tedious and endlessly befuddling. “But quite attractive.”
    “Don’t flatter me, Mr. Hazlit. You compared me to a streetwalker.”
    She spoke very quietly, her expression utterly serene, and he felt… guilty. Guilty for being male and judgmental, and even a little guilty for finding her attractive. The notion was so foreign it took him half the length of the garden to identify it.
    “You must be desperate to find this reticule.”
    “Was your insult a test of my resolve?” She ran her hand up a sprig of lavender a long way from blossoming. “I’m to tolerate your opinion of me, your casual vituperation, in order to see my belongings restored to me?”
    “I apologize for calling you a… dollymop.” He meant the apologetic words, he just did not enjoy saying them, particularly when they effected not one iota of softening in her serene expression.
    “Shall we sit, Mr. Hazlit? We’re far enough from the house.”
    They were. Her back gardens, like those in most of the better neighborhoods’, were quite deep and surrounded by walls high enough to ensure privacy. The breeze was blowing toward the mews. If they kept their voices down, they could speak freely.
    He led her to a bench in the shade, waiting while she took a seat.
    “You can’t loom over me if we’re to have a proper conversation,” she said. “I accept your apology, though I need some assurances, as well.”
    He took his place beside her, feeling himself brace inside. He’d apologized; it was time to get on to business. “What assurances?”
    “You will treat me with the respect due the adopted daughter of a duke and duchess, or no matter how badly I need to find my reticule, I’ll seek the assistance of another. If I must, I will, Mr. Hazlit. I’ll do so without mention of your disappointing behavior, but I’ll do it.”
    She’d broken off a bit of lavender as they’d strolled along. She was crushing it in her fingers as she