Sleep. Perhaps if he could finally get some, he could finally succeed. Finally get something right. Seize the opportunity that had been given to him from Teres and—
Roger stared at the small form in the center of his bed, rump in the air, cheek on the coverlet, thumb in his mouth. There was his son. Fast asleep.
Sighing, Roger trudged over to the bed and, as gently as he could, scooped Michael into his arms and returned, yet again, to the hall.
“Lopez?” he whispered as loudly as he could.
“What is it?” the man returned, with no small amount of annoyance, his footfalls repeating down the stairs halting before Roger.
“A package for you to deliver while you’re speaking with our esteemed governess,” he told him, pressing Michael into the other man’s arms.
“Yes, sir,” Lopez said with a small bow. “Good night.”
“Unlikely.” Roger sniffed, turning back toward his room. “But I shall endeavor to make the most of what’s left of it,” he called over his shoulder.
“I wish you all the success, sir,” Lopez said with a salute, leaving Roger alone at last.
Shutting the door behind him, he closed his eyes for a moment, before unbuttoning his shirt, shrugging it off, and sinking onto the bed. Forcing off his boots, he shed his trousers and climbed into bed, settling against his pillow.
What a day. Between Miss Adler’s temper and Teres’s offer, and his staff’s incompetence… Roger tutted to himself.
Not what he wanted, but nothing he couldn’t handle.
He’d had worse after all.
His first roommates at school were all third sons of dukes. Three boys longing for a chance to, for once in their lives, dominate. He should’ve been the perfect sacrifice.
Yet not only had they failed to murder him or have him expelled, but they’d all become fond enough to use his business as adults and occasionally invite him to their larger events. Better, he’d managed to learn an entire new language that year—Greek. Quite useful, actually.
Thus, he could certainly succeed with the Teres family, maintain his position despite their requirements, and be a proper host to Miss Adler.
And, naturally, an unbidden image of the woman in the hothouse, the neck of the gown slipping again and exposing her, truly delicious…
No.
No.
He needed less of that.
More… Roger frowned.
Perhaps gifts.
Women liked those.
Not that he knew Miss Adler’s taste per se. He’d have to speak to Marguarite to see what she could glean. As while he was her host, it was clear that nothing good could come from them interacting more than they should.
Or at all.
Though she’d probably notice that.
Unless she was distracted.
By what, though? He tapped his chin. What would distract her?
Books, obviously.
Though who knew this woman’s preferences?
