Lord Randall set out two snifters, splashed a portion in each, then sauntered back to her. After handing her one of the glasses, he took a seat in an adjacent armchair, stretching out his long legs before him and crossing his ankles.
She held the glass to her nose and sniffed. The spirit’s strong fumes burned her nostrils.
He sipped, eyeing her with disdain. “You think they didn’t know who you were? I’ve no doubt news of your arrival preceded you; else why would they have been lying in wait? Someone tipped them off.”
She sent him a coy smile and gave herself a silent, self-congratulatory pat on the back. “Even so, you may rest assured they had no clue whatsoever as to my identity. I registered at the inn under an alias.”
He did not look impressed.
She lifted the glass, hesitating before she touched the crystal to her lips. “We’ve strayed from the point.”
“Which is?” came his almost bored query.
She sipped. Fire blazed down her throat, burning its way to her belly. Her eyes teared, but she somehow managed not to choke. It took a moment for her to regain her composure, but when she spoke, she sounded almost normal.
“Lord Randall, you are wanted for questioning by Scotland Yard in regard to the suspicious death of my brother, Gaston Montrose, who was last seen in your company.” She studied him with narrowed eyes, watching for a reaction.
He did not appear rattled. If anything, humor lurked in his dark eyes. “Brandy not to your liking? I can rustle up a glass of sherry if you prefer.”
His condescension was maddening. “Did you hear what I said?” she asked through clenched teeth.
“Of course. My hearing is excellent. I’m merely waiting for you to come to some sort of point.”
She surged to her feet, her patience at its end. “My point is obvious. Tomorrow, you will escort me back to London and deliver yourself to the Yard for interrogation.”
He paused in the midst of lifting his snifter to his lips, then erupted with laughter.
Chapter 3
“Are you quite finished?” Lady Montrose asked, eyeing the manicure of one pale, elegant hand.
Staunching his laughter, he pretended to consider. “Yes, I think so.”
A muscle ticked in her jaw at that. He rather enjoyed the sight. Rather enjoyed taking her down a peg or two.
The audacity of the woman. Haughty as a queen. Sure the world should and would dance to her tune. And-stunningly, breathtakingly, unbearably beautiful. Exactly as he remembered her.
No. Even more so than he recalled.
A face carved by the angels. Wide, liquid blue eyes, in one light a calm, azure sky, in another, the color of the ocean in a tempest, tipped up at the corners and fringed with lush, sable lashes. Ruby-colored lips, the perfect size and shape for kissing and…other things. And he mustn’t forget her mane of lustrous gold silk.
And her body. Try his best he could not fail to notice the supple curves her expertly tailored travel gown made no attempt to conceal.
Of course the heavens had found a way to balance her unfair advantage in regard to her outward appearance—by making her personality as caustic as acid. Five minutes—nay, fivesecondsin her company some sixteen months ago at a party celebrating his sister’s betrothal to the lady’s brother, Gaston Montrose, future Marquess of Solentmere, had told him that much.
There she’d been, flitting about her parents’ garden in that frothy blue concoction, greeting guests as if the betrothal party had been meant for her and not his own dear—if fatally naive—sister.
Then, like now, his body had reacted with an instant fierce attraction that defied logic.
He took a long draw of brandy while eyeing her over the crystal rim. Then he set the glass down with a click. “To be clear, I have no intention of going anywhere with you, Lady Annabelle, much less returning to London before I’m good and ready. If you wish to question me before you depart, however, be my guest.”
Her blue eyes narrowed into a glare that did nothing to detract from her appeal. If anything, the air of menace she projected only added a certain…allure.
It was damned annoying. He could hardly stand the woman. He was no fool. No weak-willed gudgeon, easily led about by a pretty face with no substance beneath the wrapping. He’d learned long ago the folly of wasting a moment’s thought on women of her ilk.
Not to mention young ladies of thetonwere not for bedding, but for wedding. And he could hardly imagine a worse fate than to be leg-shackled to her and her insipid family for eternity.
She took her time, gracefully as a swan lowering herself to perch on the armchair she’d vacated, never once taking her eyesoff him. Then, without so much as glancing toward the snifter she’d set aside, she swiped it up and took a healthy swallow.
