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She’d stepped onto the top step and he noticed a slender implement in her hand, half hidden behind her and by the folds of her skirt. A stake? Did she mean to protect him? A wave of annoyance and fury battled with some other emotion that he dared not define. Addled woman.
“Mrs. Throckmullins,” Miss Woodmore said as easily as if she’d just arrived for tea. “I should not have expected a social call from you, after our last meeting.”
“Get back into the house, Miss Woodmore,” Dimitri told her, glancing at Lerina. To his dismay, her face was rapt with attention.
“I was just leaving,” Lerina said to the new arrival. Her eyes narrowed and her smile seemed forced. It was a cunning expression that didn’t bode well, along with a spark of something dark. “I have everything that I came for.”
Dimitri turned back toward Miss Woodmore, turning his furious glare on her. She ignored him and he stepped onto the lower stair in an effort to draw her attention to him, and away from Lerina. If the chit would see how angry he was, she’d listen and go back inside. “Miss Woodmore, you will catch your death of cold out here. Dressed in that,” he added flatly, studiously ignoring the way one side of her bodice had slipped, revealing the curve of a delicious collarbone.
“There’s not the least bit of a chill out here,” she replied. The fact that her ni**les were outlined by the light fabric put her statement into question.
“Miss Woodmore,” he said in a low voice, his teeth clenched. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing with that, but your interference is unnecessary. And—”
He heard rustling behind him, then a faint creak. When he turned, it was to see Lerina’s carriage door closing behind her. The vehicle lurched into motion and he watched it drive away, an unpleasant prickle running down his spine mingling with the throb from his Mark.
“In the house,” he said, brushing past Miss Woodmore to open the door, wondering where in the damned bloody hell Crewston was, and what he was thinking, allowing her to come out dressed as she was.
He was only slightly mollified when his ward stepped into the house without further argument. Just then Iliana came rushing around the corner, long braid flying, stake in hand. Her bare feet slapped to a halt and she looked at Dimitri.
At once he realized what had happened and it was all he could do to keep from shouting at Miss Woodmore that he didn’t need to be bloody damn protected. Lucifer’s black soul, what had possessed her to think so?
Iliana took one look at his face and pivoted away, prudently heading back from whence she’d come.
This left Dimitri alone with his ward, for apparently, Crewston had other things to do. Or, more likely, he was lurking somewhere, had seen the fury on his master’s face and decided to remain out of eyesight.
“I need to speak with you, Corvindale,” Miss Woodmore said coolly. She was still holding the stake.
Here, inside the house, he wasn’t quite as fortunate. For the lamps lighting the front hall and the small sconce on the corridor provided a spill of soft, warm illumination around, and through, her night rail.
Before he could respond, she turned and flounced down the corridor to his sanctuary. His study. Dimitri looked away, grinding his teeth as he followed her—he followed her—into his den. He had a few things he should say to her, as well.
But when he came into the chamber and closed the door behind him, Dimitri had a sudden attack of wariness. His palms actually began to dampen. For the bloody Fates, he hadn’t had sweaty palms since he was standing for his first Latin exam at Cambridge.
What was it about this woman who needled him to no end?
“Incidentally, you were wrong, Corvindale,” she was saying. She’d positioned herself at the far end of the room, where two chairs faced the center with a small table between them. The window whose curtains she had the temerity to open every bloody time she came in was next to one of the seats. The chamber was suffused with her scent, that of slumber and spice and fresh cotton and whatever she used to clean her hair.
He forced himself to wander casually to the cabinet where he kept his French brandy and Scotch whiskey. Since the night last week when he’d downed two full bottles of blood whiskey, he hadn’t indulged. But tonight he thought he might be able to justify at least a finger or two of the best vintage, especially since he’d made certain he hadn’t been face-to-face with her since the events at Rubey’s. He hadn’t seen more than the flutter of her hem around a corner since he’d tucked her into the carriage for the ride home.
“I? Wrong?” He sipped the golden liquid and realized his heart was slamming in his chest. His insides were tight. What in the bloody damned hell was wrong with him?
“You said she’d tried to abduct you and failed. That isn’t precisely true, is it? Mrs. Throckmullins—Lerina—did succeed in abducting you. And if I hadn’t shown up, who knows what would have happened?”
His fingers tightened over the glass. What did she want, honors and an audience at court in appreciation? “As I understand it, you didn’t exactly show up. You were abducted, as well.”
“That is quite true,” she replied. “But I managed to free myself. Although I do understand there were extenuating circumstances on your part.”
Dimitri struggled to keep his voice steady. “Indeed. I sup pose I have been remiss in expressing my gratitude for your…assistance.”
Surprisingly, forcing those words out didn’t have the debilitating affect he’d expected for himself. Instead, when he saw the flash of surprise and the hint of rose flushing her cheeks, he felt rather…pleased. He took another generous taste of whiskey.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice soft and without that edge so often there. “We were…we worked together.”
He looked aside, trying to regain the annoyance and frustration that had begun to slip away. “What did you think you were doing tonight, Miss Woodmore? Did you really believe you and that little stake would have had a chance against Lerina if she had been a threat?”
She’d begun to straighten a pile of books on one of the tables. “In my mind,” she said, pulling out a French translation of The Iliad and placing it atop its counterpart, The Odyssey, “it never hurts to be prepared. One never knows when one might be caught unawares.”
“I’m never—” He stopped abruptly.
She looked up at him and their eyes met. And held. Something hurt, in his chest, something sharp and hot as if he’d been stabbed. Or staked. Yet, while unexpected, it wasn’t wholly unpleasant.
