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Granby snorted in disbelief. “He wouldn’t have liked you at all. Much too forthright for his taste.”
“Yes. I’m inappropriate. I believe you’ve told me at least a half-dozen times.”
He took a sip of his drink, pointing to the portrait of Emelia. “She ran off. Caused a terrible scandal. She couldn’t even find an officer to run off with, just a soldier. Kinkaid is his name. Or was. I believe he died.” His massive shoulders rolled. “I never saw her again. Nor have I wished to.”
There was a great deal of sadness in the painting of Emelia and Granby. The artist had perfectly captured his subject’s melancholy. “I’m sure it wasn’t easy to leave, Your Grace.”
“How the bloody hell would you know? Shrub.”
Romy ignored the immediate flare of her temper at his dismissive tone because he wasn’t really angry at her. He was angry at Emelia. She knew the law as well as anyone. Granby was his father’s heir. His mother would never have been able to leave the estate with him to be raised by her and her lover. Surely, Granby realized that.
“Is your mother still alive?”
His mouth thinned into a tight line. “Yes.”
She studied the portrait of Horace, noting the maliciousness hovering about his patrician features. There was little of Horace in Granby, at least physically. Granby more closely resembled his mother. But Horace had the same air of cold detachment about his shoulders, the ice lurking in his gaze identical to Granby’s. Now, seeing the previous Duke of Granby, Romy couldn’t imagine that being raised by such a man had been remotely pleasant.
One only has to look at Granby’s face to see the truth.
“You findmeexacting? Intolerant? Arrogant? Superior? Rigid in my beliefs? You, Andromeda, are fortunate not to have made the acquaintance of Horace. Poor Estwood did. Took him years to forgive me.” There was a glint of amusement in Granby’s words.
“You brought Estwood here to anger your father.”
“A brief rebellion.” He took a swallow of the scotch. “I had many.”
Granby’s free hand was very near hers, the long fingers pressed against his thigh. She closed her eyes for a moment and then gently laid her hand atop his.
His big body grew taut, likely enraged she would dare show him any hint of sympathy. Romy expected him to shake her off and dismiss her, demanding she leave him in peace.
Instead, he turned his hand so her fingers could slide between his.
“Did you know I have a brother?” A thick, horrible sound came from his chest as if admitting such a thing caused him great pain.
A brother had never been mentioned. Not by anyone. Not even Cousin Winnie. She guessed at Granby’s secret, the irony not lost on her. “I wonder he’s not attending the house party.”
“He’s not welcome.” He glared at the portrait of his mother.
Ah.Granby’s brother was a bastard, as her brother Leo was. He had to be.
“Do not ask me.” His voice had gone icy and clipped. “Or make judgements about that which you don’t understand. Shrub.”
“Don’t call me that in such a disdainful way.” She tried to pull her hand from his, and Granby’s fingers tightened.
“I’ve tried my best to frighten you away.” His tone softened, almost pleading. “You’ve no idea what you’ve done, Andromeda.”
“To you?”
“To both of us. If you had anyinklingof the liberties I wished to take with you,Romy, you might never have wandered down this particular hall tonight. But now it is far too late. And I’m done speaking of my horrible father. And her.” He shot another glance at his mother’s portrait before looking down at Romy.
The light glanced off his cheekbones, giving Granby a slightly predatory look, his eyes such a deep brown she couldn’t make out the pupils. He raised her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips over her knuckles before placing a kiss on her palm. Releasing her hand, Granby raised one long forefinger to trace her bottom lip.
The pleasure of his touch nearly stole the breath from her lungs.
“I plan to take a variety of liberties with you, Lady Andromeda Barrington.” The finger moved to trail along her jawline then down her neck, his hand large and warm. Cupping one breast, Granby gently rubbed her nipple through the fabric of her gown until it peaked.
“And if I object?” She wouldn’t resist his advances, even knowing how incredibly unwise it would be. He’d made her no promises. Still found her unsuitable. But her entire body burned as if a fire were licking at her skin.
“I bought a fucking painting because it reminded me of your eyes,” he said. “I never told you. It hangs in my study. I look at it every day and think of you.” His finger drew a lazy pattern over the exposed skin of her shoulder, running over the edge of her bodice before dipping below the neck of her gown. “Every damned day.”
