He shoved hands through his hair.
Giggling.
Chains.
“Could you not be quiet!” he bawled. “Some of us have work.”
Silence.
Giggling.
Chains.
He slammed the ledgers shut, stormed to the door, threw it open and glared.
A chain dropped from a stilled hand to clang upon the floorboards and resonate through his skull.
“Sorry, Cousin Marcus,” whispered an un-sorry Dinah. He knew she was un-sorry as her lips quivered with suppressed mirth and her feet waggled about like her father’s always had when he’d been fibbing to the Eton housemaster.
“Sorry, Your Grace,” simpered an un-sorry Charlotte. He knew she was un-sorry as she never simpered. “Are we disturbing you?”
Yes, they damn well were. Charlotte’s auburn hair had partially fallen with whatever exertions were taking place, chest rising sharply in that hellishly unpleasant gown.
“What on earth are you doing?”
Charlotte straightened. “My portmanteau lock broke, so we had to bind it shut with a chain but it’s too heavy to carry so we are dragging it.”
“I employ footmen for that, no?”
“They are helping Mrs Mossop with the decorations.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Decorations?”
“Just a few, Cousin Marcus.” Dinah batted her lashes, hands in a clasp of prayer. “Pleeeaaaase.”
Devil take it, the girl would have London at her pink slippers in three years.
He strode forward; they stepped back.
Was he that much of an ogre?
Hefting the bloody portmanteau to his shoulder, he stifled a groan as it weighed more than his red-lacquered Chinoiserie desk, but refusing to show any unducal sign of discomfort, he stomped down the corridor with it, booted the schoolroom door open and dropped it to the bench.
“Er…” murmured Charlotte. “I actually wanted it in my bedchamber.”
He muttered, hefted it to the other shoulder, then stomped across the corridor with it, booted the bedchamber door open and dropped it to the floor.
Twisting, he noted Charlotte’s eyes were riveted to his neck. Hisbareneck as he’d cast his cravat aside earlier in the eve when ledger calculations had caused a certain excess of perspiration.
“Forgive my state of déshabillé. I was not expecting to be disturbed by chains and giggling.”
Dinah giggled.
Charlotte curtseyed. “You are forgiven, Your Grace.”
Inhaling deeply, he stabbed a finger out. “A word concerning the schoolroom, Miss Webster.” He strode out, back along the corridor to his room and shoved the door wide.
She shilly-shallied in the corridor outside.
