Page 16 of Cocky August Rake

Nell and Huxley both stilled. For a heartbeat, no one moved.

“Leave us.” His tone did not invite argument.

Nell’s brows rose nearly to her hairline. Mr. Huxley’s heavy gaze shifted from Lord Reginald to Rose, his expression giving away nothing at all.

Perhaps they were relieved.

Or trying to be.

The Domus was a fine house, with polished floors, velvet curtains, and enough silver to make a duchess blink.

It was still a brothel.

A private audience might mean the new owner had taken an interest in one woman rather than the whole house. It might mean Rose could soften him where accounts and arguments could not.

But Rose knew it could also mean trouble.

And for a moment, an icy line of fear shot down her spine.

He wouldn’t sack her, surely?

Nell gave Rose one quick, questioning look before she inclined her head. “Of course, my lord.”

Then she and Mr. Huxley left, the door closing softly behind them.

Rose remained standing.

When the door closed behind them, silence settled over the room, and for the first few moments, Lord Reginald only stared down at the papers spread across his desk as though they had personally offended him.

His jaw was tight. One hand rested flat against the blotter, the other curled near the edge of the desk.

Angry, then.

Or embarrassed.

Neither option was promising.

Rose took matters into her own hands.

“I thought I might have imagined you,” she said.

At that, his gaze lifted.

For a moment, he was not the hard-eyed lord behind the desk. He was the man from the garden again, startled and bare, looking at her as though he had carried the memory of her somewhere private and did not know what to do with finding her here.

Then the shutters came down.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You work here?”

Rose straightened. “Yes.”

A pause.

“Not in the kitchens, I presume.”

“No.” Her chin lifted another fraction. “Upstairs.”

He took in a deep breath. Let it out. “What were you doing at the masquerade?”