Free A Wicked Gentleman by Jane Feather Page B

unmistakable, as unmistakable as the quiet, well-modulated voice he had heard the previous day.
    Harry drew off his gloves one finger at a time. “It would appear so, ma’am. I confess myself amazed at the transformation. You must forgive me for my error yesterday, but I’m sure you’ll agree it was an understandable one?” An eyebrow flickered in a faint question mark. “Had you done me the courtesy of correcting the error, matters might have gone rather more agreeably between us.”
    Cornelia had been intending to bring the charade to a close immediately after the initial discomfort that she had been certain the man would feel. But now he was putting the blame upon her, looking not in the least discomfited. Indeed, there was a glint in his green eyes that seemed to be issuing a challenge to match her own. To her astonishment, she felt a stir of interest, a flutter of anticipation at the prospect.
    â€œYour manner, sir, did not encourage such an introduction,” she declared, drawing the cashmere shawl around her as she instinctively folded her arms and regarded him steadily. “I have no desire to prolong this interview, so perhaps you will state your business.”
    Harry tossed his hat and gloves onto the gateleg table. In the absence of an invitation to sit down, or even to remove his driving coat, he was obliged to stand dripping on the faded carpet. The magnitude of his mistaken assumption astonished him, and for an inconvenient moment he was hard-pressed not to laugh at the contrast between his preconception of an elderly lady wrapped in shawls with her feet in a mustard bath and the reality of this poised woman very far removed from her dotage.
    Without volition he found himself taking inventory. She was tall, something he had failed to notice the previous day, and held herself erect. Her gown was hardly in the first style of fashion, but the bronze color suited her hair, which was, he thought absently, a combination of dark honey and golden butter. Her eyes, an intense and penetrating blue, were set beneath straight brown eyebrows, and her complexion, slightly flushed at present, was of the creamy variety.
    Cornelia wasn’t at all sure what to make of this silent and close examination. For some reason, it made her skin prickle. “Well, sir?” she prompted.
    â€œAh, yes,” he said coolly, deciding it was time to take charge of this interview. He unbuttoned his coat but made no attempt to take it off. “I believe, ma’am, you are aware of my business. I am interested in purchasing this house. The lawyer who is handling Lady Sophia Lacey’s estate has already made my offer known to you. I thought to make it in person.”
    â€œMr. Masters has already been instructed to give you a response to your offer,” Cornelia stated, choosing her words carefully. She was not going to lay verbal claim to Livia’s identity. He was to labor under a misapprehension, not a direct lie. “That settled the matter, I believe.”
    He pinched his chin between finger and thumb, regarding her thoughtfully for a minute. In certain circumstances he could imagine enjoying a sparring match with the lady, but these were not they. The matter was too urgent for dalliance of any kind. “I would ask you to reconsider your response,” he stated carefully. “I am willing to increase my offer.”
    â€œDo you generally misunderstand clear statements, viscount?” Cornelia inquired. “I had believed that the response to your offer was an unequivocal rejection. Could I have been mistaken?” She regarded him, her head tilted slightly to one side, with an expression of polite disbelief.
    Harry frowned, considering his next move in this pas de deux. Nothing she had said could be considered discourteous—unhelpful certainly—but the words contained no insult. But everything about this woman, her posture, her expression, most particularly those