“I didn’t realize you were the mistress of the house already,” Rosemary said. The servants had divested her of her outer clothing and were ushering them up the stairs.
“You know our Saffron.” Angelica laughed. “If she weren’t constantly helping someone, she might actually learn how to relax.”
Chapter Ten
Leo leaned backin his chair in his office and stared up at the ceiling. Exhaustion burned in every muscle, but at the thought of Saffron, his body came alive.
He reached beneath his desk to where his cock stood at attention, freed from the fall of his trousers, and imagined her in his arms. The light-pink flush of her skin over her bosom drawing his mouth closer. He would love to kiss that pert nose, see her smile.
She would bend over his desk, and he would flip her skirts back and dive into the sweet heat of her entrance, riding her until she came apart. He would stay anchored inside her and wait the few moments she needed to recover, holding on to his passion with iron control. When she stopped shuddering, he would plunge into her again and empty his seed inside her.
Other men have mistresses for such a task, Leo thought, panting hard. He finished into his neckcloth and threw it into a corner for some maid to find in the morning and giggle.
With some tension drained, he tucked himself away and pulled open the middle drawer of his desk to reveal a collection of dusty glass bottles that wobbled and clinked together. He selected one at random, pulled out the cork with his teeth, then took a long swig. When it was empty, he replaced it in the drawer, then knocked the drawer closed with his knee.
He thought about returning to his newly relocated studio and working on his latest piece, but a distant thud and murmuring of voices reminded him that his time was no longer his own. As host to the event, it would be rude if he was not present to greet his guests as they arrived.
He straightened his waistcoat, then strolled out of his office and down the hallway to stand at the top of the stairs and observe the chaos erupting in his entryway. When he realized it was Saffron’s aunt and sister arriving, he turned around and took a longer route to the front door. It took an extra few minutes, but he did not want to interrupt their reunion.
By the time he’d navigated the creaking stairs and cold halls to return to the foyer, Saffron and her family were no longer present. He waited for a moment, unsure of what to do next, when the front doors creaked open and two men entered, engaged in conversation. The first was Simon, dressed in a dark-blue waistcoat and trousers. In one hand he carried an enormous umbrella, and with the other, he gestured to his companion, a man in his late forties with streaks of silver shot through his black hair and a matching salt-and-pepper mustache. The man wore a tall, domed hat and an ankle-length, dark-blue, wool coat. He kept his hands on a black, leather belt high on his waist.
Leo had almost forgotten that he had sent for the constable.
Simon spotted him and raised a hand in greeting, then turned to his companion. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard of mischief around these parts before.”
“A nuisance, I’m sure,” the constable said. “I’ll get this sorted out as soon as I can.” The man caught Leo’s eye and straightened. “You would be the Viscount Briarwood, Lord Leopold Mayweather?”
The use of his title sent gooseflesh pricking up his arm. “The viscount” was his father, then later his brother. But both were dead, and the title was his responsibility.
“Indeed,” he said, his voice echoing as he descended the stairs.
Simon removed his hat and handed it off to a servant. “I met Detective Jansen on the ferry. He told me of the nasty business of the break-in.”
“I am surprised you arrived so soon,” Leo said. “Did the storm not wash out the bridge?”
The detective removed his hat. “It was in working order by the time I passed over, but I’d rather not tally long. The surging waters can wipe out logs in a moment, and my wife would not be happy if I did not return for supper.”
“Of course,” Leo said. “Follow me and I will show you to the scene.”
As he guided the detective to the room that had once held his studio, Saffron appeared at his side.
He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, then turned to his cousin. “Simon, I believe you’ve met Miss Summersby. She came to some trouble along the road.”
His cousin removed his hat and bowed. “I am sorry to hear that, Miss Summersby. Is your sister—”
“Angelica is well,” Saffron said, interrupting. “She accompanied me, along with my aunt.”
Simon tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat. “Excellent. Well, cousin, we should not keep the detective waiting.”
Leo guided the group to the sitting room. He had relocated all the implements and products of his craft, leaving a cavernous room that was occupied by a single, horsehair sofa, an oval, walnut table, and a gilded-bronze lamp. It was so different from the sanctuary he had established that he hesitated on thethreshold, horrified by the transformation. The very soul of the room had been sucked out, leaving behind a hollow shell.
That’s what society does, forcing out all uniqueness to emphasize only what is acceptable.
Simon and the detective crossed the bare floor to inspect the boarded-up window. Saffron, however, split from the group and conversed quietly with a maid, who then rushed away.
“I asked them to move in some additional seating and a few paintings from other areas of the house,” she said when she rejoined him. “This room is near the entrance, and you want to ensure that it gives the right first impression to your guests.”
He could’ve kissed her, but she flitted out of his grasp.
