Page 9 of The Dangerous Lord

Still, it wouldn’t do for him to discover the truth. Quickly, she shoved her article under some papers behind her, then pasted a smile to her face. “Good day, Lord St. Clair. You must excuse my surprise. I didn’t think we’d ever been introduced.”

“We haven’t, madam.” Reaching behind him, he closed the door, an action that substantially increased her unease. Then his gaze narrowed on her. “But I know who you are.” He said it as if surprised to discover it. “I’ve seen you at some of the balls. You’re Miss Felicity Taylor. Your father was Algernon Taylor, the architect.”

“Quite so.” Good Lord, this was strange. He’d come to visit her, yet he’d only now realized who she was?

“I was sorry to hear of your father’s death last year.” His words were suitably sympathetic, but his expression still impossible to read. “I saw his work at Worthing Manor and Somerset House. He was quite talented.”

A lump choked her throat. “Yes, he was.” Talented and foolish. His talent had led him into the company of men of rank; his foolishness and open temper had prevented him from recognizing the dangers of living beyond one’s means. He’d died as he’d lived—recklessly. She had no illusions about the father she’d adored and despaired over. Or the men of rank he’d cultivated.

Her voice hardened. “Thank you for your condolences, Lord St. Clair, but if you’ll excuse me, I’m rather busy and⁠—”

“I see he isn’t the only talented member of the family,” the viscount went on, as if she’d spoken to the wall. He gestured to her cluttered desk. “Apparently, you’re equally talented with the pen ... Lord X.”

The blood drained from her face. He knew!

Or perhaps he only thought he did. She must tread cautiously. “You mean that dreadful man who writes articles in the newspaper? Surely you don’t think I have anything to do with him.”

He advanced on her like a threatening army. “Miss Taylor, don’t assume I’m a fool merely because you think you know my secrets.”

The agitation in her chest increased. She backed up, only to be halted by the unwelcome presence of her very solid desk. “Only a fool would believe me to be Lord X. Whoever gave you your information was grossly misinformed.”

He halted within inches of her, much too close for propriety, and she cast him an outraged glance. She wished she could put him in his place and wipe that smug smile from his insolent mouth, but the top of her head barely cleared his chin, which made it impossible to look down her nose at him without seeming like a complete ninny.

“No one gave me any information,” he said. “I did my own research. I unearthed Pilkington’s minion, Winston. Then I followed him here, dispatched him elsewhere, and took his place.” Angling his large frame around her small one, he rummaged among the papers on her desk. Bay rum spiked his heat with scent. “Your housekeeper was gracious enough to send me up to fetch your article.” He suddenly stopped rummaging, a wicked smile touching his lips. Holding a sheet of foolscap up, he said, “This one.”

No point in dissembling any longer, was there? She tilted her head up—way up—to stare at him. “Very well. You’ve discovered my secret.”

“Yes, I have.”

His eyes met hers, even more unreadable at close range. They were as mysterious as midnight ... and just as seductive.

Jerking her gaze away, she fixed her eyes on a point somewhere beyond his broad left shoulder. “I can’t imagine why you’ve gone to all this trouble to find me.”

He tossed the paper onto the desk, but didn’t move away. “Because you wrote lies about me in your column last week, and I dislike being the subject of false speculation.”

Her gaze shot back to his. Had she written something other than those comments about his mistress? “Those are harsh words indeed, Lord St. Clair. I’ll have to call you out for impugning my honor.”

One jet-black eyebrow arched upward. “I warn you, Miss Taylor—you would lose any duel with me.” His gaze drifted down her nose and cheeks to fasten on her mouth. “Although it would make for interesting sport until you did.”

The devil. He was as much a philanderer as she’d suspected. Now she understood why some women found him fascinating. And why her timid friend, Katherine Hastings, found him terrifying.

“You said you came here to discuss my column,” she remarked, annoyed by the rapid thudding of her heart. “I confess to being confused about which one offended you.”

“Don’t play games with me—you know which one I mean. The one about my supposed mistress on Waltham Street.”

“That is the source of your objection? Please humor my stupidity a bit longer—precisely what in my comments gave you offense?”

“The fact that they are untrue,” he said, enunciating every word with growing impatience, as if speaking to a child. “I already explained that.”

He hovered so near she could see each neatly cropped strand of his hair, glossy as fine velvet. His close proximity, coupled with an annoying glint of determination in his eyes, began to worry her. In times like these she would give a fortune to be taller. And possessed of a gift for fisticuffs.

Something about the man disturbed her ... a dark purpose beneath the civilized appearance, like a falcon’s hooded head. She suddenly had a profound desire to be near an exit before the hood came off and the bird of prey struck. Easing from between him and the desk, she edged toward the door.

“Don’t even think of leaving before we’re finished,” he commanded in a steely voice, turning to follow her movements.

She halted in her tracks. “I-I wasn’t.”

Though she wanted to. She had dealt with stupid men. She had even handled furious men, who were merely larger versions of her petulant brothers. But this man, with his intelligence and eerie calm, was outside the realm of her experience. This man compelled obedience by his very manner. She didn’t want to discover what would happen if obedience wasn’t immediately forthcoming.