Free Behind the Marquess's Mask (The Lords of Whitehall Book 1) by Kristen McLean Page A

Ainsley,” she replied, stepping into the room in a yellow gown and a matching ribbon wound in her loose chestnut curls. She sat cautiously in a chair on the other side of the tea table, as though he was a wild animal and she had to be on her guard lest he attack her. Everyone else would act the same way if they knew some of the things he had done.
    He could kill a man fifty different ways with items in this room alone. Twenty of them came to mind without much thought or imagination.
    “What a surprise to receive you here,” she said after she had settled. “We are delighted.”
    “ We? Is your mother in?” Grey asked hopefully. “Would she care to join us?” There was nothing like having a mother present to douse any inconvenient urges.
    “She just stepped out,” Kathryn replied, gesturing to the window overlooking the Grenville’s well-manicured garden. “Would you like me to call her back?”
    This should not be such a difficult decision. She was obviously in no condition to go traipsing around the garden, looking for her mother to chaperone, when a servant would do just as well. Still, he would feel better if half a dozen chaperones were present.
    “No,” he said resignedly, eyeing the footman stationed at the door. “That wouldn’t do. I suppose your footman is chaperone enough.”
    Kathryn raised her brows. “Of course, I understand your apprehension. I am grateful to you for taking such a risk as to come to my assistance at the Garson’s. I imagine it was quite a dilemma for you, what with trying to avoid all of those marriage-minded females. Why, I might have been trying to trap you with the old ravaged-in-a-garden-by-a-sodding-drunk trick.”
    Grey’s smile slipped. “As a gentleman, I could hardly allow you to be ravaged in a garden if I could stop it, but you would do well to remember a gentleman may not always be so conveniently nearby, and if someone else had happened along, that reputation of yours wouldn’t be worth a sixpence.”
    Kathryn’s face reddened. There was the cactus. Blast him, he had done it again.
    “From what I understand about you, Lord Ainsley,” she said, “being a gentleman is more of a birthright than a behavior.”
    Things were not progressing well. His pride screamed at him, but this was no way to gain her trust. The accusation was true enough, anyway.
    “My reputation precedes me,” he mused.
    “Quite.” She sat rigidly, glaring at him. “When you live the life of a libertine and boldly flaunt your dishonorable escapades, what do you expect?”
    “I expect people to mind their own bloody business,” he returned.
    “Common ground. How novel,” she said coolly.
    His lips turned up in a small, crooked smile. “Isn’t it? Though, I am sure you meant I should mind mine and stop plaguing you.”
    “Your interest in me isn’t half as comprehensible as everyone else’s interest in you,” she said.
    “I disagree, but people are naturally biased when it comes to themselves,” he said. “Try as you might, you couldn’t possibly be objective.”
    “It doesn’t want objectivity,” she said plainly, “only observation.”
    “Therein lies your problem. For instance, if you based everything solely on observation, you would never know my dishonorable escapades were desperately contrived to steer gossip away from other poor girls caught in a bad situation who would otherwise be subjected to the vicious jaws of the ton,” he said.
    Her brows knit. “Are they, indeed?”
    “No, but that’s irrelevant,” he replied. “The point is that you didn’t know, just as you can’t see why you caught my interest.” He propped his elbow on the arm of the settee and rested his face in his palm, smiling. “I may find you inexplicably fascinating.”
    Her lips twitched as she took a sip of her tea, the delicately painted cup bringing out the bright blue of her eyes. Siren eyes.
    “Unlike me, you keep the masses riveted from what I understand,” she said.
    “Ah,