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No other reason. Most certainly not because his deep brown gaze made her stomach do a strange dance and especially not because she wanted to run her gaze over the open neckline of his shirt and study the width of his shoulders. Why was he dressed so?
She gave herself a mental shake. It had to be her investigative mind driving her. She could not name one man of the ton who would happily sprout a beard and walk around cravat-less in London. He aroused her curiosity, that was all.
“This is the new maid Chastity, my lord,” Mrs. Cooke said.
“Good,” he replied, then strode past them as though she scarcely existed.
She glanced at Mrs. Cooke, who scowled at her. Chastity forced a bland expression.
“He is a man of few words,” Mrs. Cooke murmured.
Well, if that was true, why had he uttered so many scolding words to her? She tried not to eye the door he’d just slammed shut and failed. The man was a mystery and so much of her wanted to know more.
∞∞∞
Lane waved the neckcloth in Valentine’s direction and for one second, like a brainless fish, he nearly bit. He never wore a cravat in the privacy of his own home. Never. He loathed being all trussed up and ready to be put on display. Poor Lane still tried almost every day, though.
If Valentine hadn’t caught himself, his valet might well have succeeded today. The faintest whisper needled at him—Chastity Whitaker saw you cravat-less. But why should he care? She was no more than help technically and by her own choice. If it scandalized her that he might spend time avoiding formalwear than that was her problem.
“Shall I start packing today, my lord?”
Valentine shoved a hand through his wild hair and scowled at his reflection in the cloudy mirror. Steam lingered in the air from his early morning bath, leaving his room faintly damp, and his hair too. It would dry into a slightly wild mess if he did not tame it with pomade, but he could add that stuff to the list of things he loathed too. Washing the wretched stuff out was more effort than it was worth.
“Pack?”
“To return to the estate, my lord?” Lane eyed him as though he was incredibly stupid.
Which perhaps he was. Having Mrs. Whitaker around had turned him into a brainless dolt and she had only been under his roof for two days. Still, who could blame him for being distracted? He had a high-ranking woman pretending to be a maid. It was not exactly a normal scenario.
“We aren’t returning yet.”
“Oh?” Lane’s auburn brows lifted.
Valentine ignored the surprised look. Lane had served him as valet since he had taken on the title and though the lingering red in his hair said otherwise, the man was close to retirement. He did not suffer fools lightly and Valentine would miss the man once he moved into a modest cottage on the estate with his rather commanding wife. His valet was, he supposed, the closest thing he had to a friend, and he would never tell Lane as much but he was not looking forward to that day.
“I have decided to stay in London for a while. A month at most.” After all, that was what he had given Mrs. Whitaker and he was not going to let her prance around his house like some private investigator unmanaged.
He shook his head. Why on earth had he agreed to such a thing? Was he desperate? Addled? Getting old and senile? Or had he let himself be manipulated by a woman who no doubt was well used to men bowing to her will?
Desperation certainly played a role—he wanted answers and they were not forthcoming. He’d debated hiring his own private investigator, but it was far too likely word would get out and questions would be raised. At least with the duke’s daughter, she had a reason to keep secrets. She could not have her role in all of this revealed or else the rumors surrounding her sister would be the least of her worries.
Gads, he hated the hypocrisy of Society. No one would think to blame him for allowing her into his household. Whatever conclusion would be drawn, it would all land upon her. Her widowhood was the only slight blessing. Had she been a debutante he would have sent her away within moments.
He hoped, anyway. Chastity Whitaker was remarkably persuasive.
Valentine shoved his arms in the offered jacket with more aggression than warranted, nearly taking Lane with him.
“There will be gossip, my lord.”
Valentine twisted to view the valet. “If I cared about gossip, Lane, I would let you do my cravat.”
Lane ducked his head briefly but not before Valentine saw some spark of knowing in his gaze. Lane was one of the few who knew of Julian and he’d likely concluded it was some sort of mourning period.
“It would look a little heartless if I went straight to Devon after the death of a servant.”
“Since when do you worry about looking heartless?”
“Am I really such a cold-hearted bastard?” Valentine demanded.
