“Oy! You can shov–”
“Flora!” chastened Evelyn. “Perhaps you could take tea in the kitchens whilst His Grace and I conduct business?”
She sensed, rather than saw, all those male eyebrows levitate.
The butler took no heed, however, and peered to the duke for guidance.
Turning, she noticed Rothwell’s stare upon her…backside?
But his eyelashes instantly flickered up and she told herself it had merely been in the way. Although leaner than it once was after a diet of potatoes and…potatoes, her frame was not of a sylph – it had forever been robust and durable, her hips naturally rounded, a bosom that required a decent corset.
“Best leave the door ajar, Copperhouse, and take the maid away.”
Bemoaning – or was it admiring – the butler’s fearsome grasp, Flora was removed.
“Do sit, Mrs Swift, and state your business. My man of affairs left a note citing it was art related.” The Duke of Rothwell took to his own leather chair in a fluid motion and stilled, not a crease to his forehead or quirk to his lip.
Blank – a canvas waiting to be painted.
Any proper lady would act deferentially to such a stern and composed figure of a man, but too many years living amongst the hoi polloi had blunted such considerations, and all Evelyn craved to do was…muss his hair, create havoc upon his impassive features and tug that cravat loose.
Most men in the area she lived had toned bodies – they may have no teeth, but hard labour gave them muscle and broad thighs. The duke appeared similar but he also incorporated a lithe grace, and his fingers as they clasped on the desk were slender and outstretched, an impressive signet ring adorning the smallest.
Despite his aloof expression and utterly motionless demeanour, he radiated sultriness and strength.
A solitary animal. The most dangerous kind.
And here they were.
Alone.
The scent of books, beeswax polish and smouldering coal stirred an intimate ambiance, despite the grandeur of the room. Paintings held pride of place on the wall behind the duke – a Reynolds, Rubens, and an elegant Gainsborough, if she wasn’t much mistaken.
Surrounded by such art, her tension eased.
Evelyn focused on his striking yet cold face and a desire she’d not experienced for years came to the fore. A desire she’d not had time for.
As a young girl, she’d flirted with handsome artists who’d littered her father’s home and enjoyed the pleasure of witty repartee and teasing gazes.
That young girl had declared her attitude.
Reckless. Playful. Unabashed.
Evelyn considered her looks passable at best, neither plain nor a great beauty, but she’d observed the coquettish glances from the models her father had painted, noticed how the women of Covent Garden enticed.
Surely she could rattle that impassive expression of the duke’s.
Unstiffen him a little.
And she wondered. She wondered if a light flirtation might be her best approach.
So, Evelyn refused to sit.
Instead, she trailed a single gloved finger along his rather magnificent desk.
The impertinent jade.
How dare this woman take such a liberty.
