her.
Pushing a clump of hair out of her eyes, she turned to search for her assailant. George lay curled in front of the fire on the Aubusson rug, none the worse for their encounter.
Spice and tobacco filled her senses and she shivered.
“Cold?” Alexander asked in that too -low voice again.
“No,” she snapped. “I’m fine.” Embarrassed by the intimacy of the moment, Francie bit her lip and forced herself to roll over and away from him. She landed on her stomach and pushed into a sitting position. Her gaze settled on Alexander , his neckcloth slightly askew, his hair ruffled with a stray lock dangling over his left eyebrow, harsh lines bracketing both sides of his mouth.
He studied her with the intensity of a hunter stalking his prey. His silver eyes were gray-black with tiny flecks of gold. Mesmerizing, entrancing eyes.
“James said you were displeased with George.”
“I was not displeased with George,” he said. “I was displeased with you.”
Her eyes narrowed a fraction. She would not let her control slip. If Mister “High and Mighty” Bishop could manage such calmness, then so could she. “I was unaware George escaped,” she paused, “again.”
Alexander shifted to a sitting position with a deftness belying his size. “One must be aware of one’s responsibilities at all times.”
So now he was implying she wasn’t responsible? Francie dug her nails into her palms. “I am responsible at all times, Mr. Bishop!”
He did no more than cock a black eyebrow, but it threw Francie to the edge of proper decorum, where she dangled a moment before pulling herself back up to respectable civility.
“I am responsible at all times,” she repeated in a more subdued manner.
“As is evidenced by your wardrobe ...or lack thereof.” His gaze traveled the length of her pale blue gown, stopping at her stocking ed feet, which she attempted to hide under the hem of her gown.
“I think shoes are vastly overrated,” she said, tucking the fabric under her toes.
The corner of Alexander’s mouth twitched. “You would.”
She gestured to his clothing. “As is much of your attire. I cannot imagine a neckcloth being comfortable, unless one is inclined to use it as a bandage or a napkin.” She tilted her head to one side and said, “Or both.”
He tapped a finger to his chin and murmured, “An interesting possibility.”
“Quite.”
A dim silence enveloped them, closing out the rest of the world save George’s gentle snoring.
Who would have thought Francie would find this sliver of peace and quiet harmony with Alexander Bishop on the floor of his study? A slight pang of guilt nested in the center of her stomach. Could he say the same about her? Since the day she’d arrived at Drakemoor, claiming the earl as her father, she’d thrown Alexander’s life into turmoil. He’d been the one delegated to escort Francie back to Amberden to fetch Aunt Eleanor, the one whose quiet nights were interrupted with Francie’s feeble attempts on the pianoforte. And he’d been the one who swore he’d deal with Lord Jared Crayton.
She met his gaze and said, “James said you were very angry.”
“Hmmm.” He reached for a fat curl resting just above her elbow.
“So angry, in fact, you threatened to turn George into a rug.”
“James talks too much.” He let her hair fall through his fingers, and then scooped it up again.
“So you’re not going to turn him into a rug?”
“Of course not.” There was that voice. Like a caress.
“I’ll be certain he doesn’t disturb you again.”
“George doesn’t disturb me half as much as you do, Francie.”
She swallowed hard. “Excuse me?” It was much too hot all of a sudden.
“I said , George doesn’t disturb me half as much as you do.”
Francie looked up to meet his gaze. “I haven’t seen you in days. Not since we returned from Amberden.” How could she have possibly bothered him when she hadn’t seen him?
“And that’s what’s disturbing
Pushing a clump of hair out of her eyes, she turned to search for her assailant. George lay curled in front of the fire on the Aubusson rug, none the worse for their encounter.
Spice and tobacco filled her senses and she shivered.
“Cold?” Alexander asked in that too -low voice again.
“No,” she snapped. “I’m fine.” Embarrassed by the intimacy of the moment, Francie bit her lip and forced herself to roll over and away from him. She landed on her stomach and pushed into a sitting position. Her gaze settled on Alexander , his neckcloth slightly askew, his hair ruffled with a stray lock dangling over his left eyebrow, harsh lines bracketing both sides of his mouth.
He studied her with the intensity of a hunter stalking his prey. His silver eyes were gray-black with tiny flecks of gold. Mesmerizing, entrancing eyes.
“James said you were displeased with George.”
“I was not displeased with George,” he said. “I was displeased with you.”
Her eyes narrowed a fraction. She would not let her control slip. If Mister “High and Mighty” Bishop could manage such calmness, then so could she. “I was unaware George escaped,” she paused, “again.”
Alexander shifted to a sitting position with a deftness belying his size. “One must be aware of one’s responsibilities at all times.”
So now he was implying she wasn’t responsible? Francie dug her nails into her palms. “I am responsible at all times, Mr. Bishop!”
He did no more than cock a black eyebrow, but it threw Francie to the edge of proper decorum, where she dangled a moment before pulling herself back up to respectable civility.
“I am responsible at all times,” she repeated in a more subdued manner.
“As is evidenced by your wardrobe ...or lack thereof.” His gaze traveled the length of her pale blue gown, stopping at her stocking ed feet, which she attempted to hide under the hem of her gown.
“I think shoes are vastly overrated,” she said, tucking the fabric under her toes.
The corner of Alexander’s mouth twitched. “You would.”
She gestured to his clothing. “As is much of your attire. I cannot imagine a neckcloth being comfortable, unless one is inclined to use it as a bandage or a napkin.” She tilted her head to one side and said, “Or both.”
He tapped a finger to his chin and murmured, “An interesting possibility.”
“Quite.”
A dim silence enveloped them, closing out the rest of the world save George’s gentle snoring.
Who would have thought Francie would find this sliver of peace and quiet harmony with Alexander Bishop on the floor of his study? A slight pang of guilt nested in the center of her stomach. Could he say the same about her? Since the day she’d arrived at Drakemoor, claiming the earl as her father, she’d thrown Alexander’s life into turmoil. He’d been the one delegated to escort Francie back to Amberden to fetch Aunt Eleanor, the one whose quiet nights were interrupted with Francie’s feeble attempts on the pianoforte. And he’d been the one who swore he’d deal with Lord Jared Crayton.
She met his gaze and said, “James said you were very angry.”
“Hmmm.” He reached for a fat curl resting just above her elbow.
“So angry, in fact, you threatened to turn George into a rug.”
“James talks too much.” He let her hair fall through his fingers, and then scooped it up again.
“So you’re not going to turn him into a rug?”
“Of course not.” There was that voice. Like a caress.
“I’ll be certain he doesn’t disturb you again.”
“George doesn’t disturb me half as much as you do, Francie.”
She swallowed hard. “Excuse me?” It was much too hot all of a sudden.
“I said , George doesn’t disturb me half as much as you do.”
Francie looked up to meet his gaze. “I haven’t seen you in days. Not since we returned from Amberden.” How could she have possibly bothered him when she hadn’t seen him?
“And that’s what’s disturbing
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