The Heiress In His Bed. Tamara Lejeune

he was not dirt under her feet. “Don’t you walk away from me, girl,” he said sharply. “I’m talking to you.”

      She turned to look at him incredulously, and he got between her and the door.

      “That’s better,” he said, pleased to have her attention. For a moment, she looked as if she wanted to strike him, but then she decided to proceed as if he wasn’t there. She walked straight at him, expecting him to stand aside. When he did not, she was obliged to stop inches from him. In her high-heeled slippers, she was tall enough to look him in the eye as they stood nose to nose. At this proximity, he could tell that, incredible as it seemed, neither her soft, olive skin nor her red lips bore any trace of cosmetic enhancement. Her eyes, which looked black from a distance, were actually a very dark blue. Every instinct he possessed told him that she was much too good for her surroundings, and his curiosity and desire were aroused equally.

      “Now, then,” he said softly as she glared at him. “Let us begin again.”

      “Sir!” she said, frowning severely. “I took you for a gentleman. Was I mistaken?”

      “I apologize,” Julian said instantly, standing aside to allow her to pass. “I did not realize you had mistaken me for a gentleman,” he went on as she opened the door to walk out. “You seemed to have mistaken me for a speck of dirt, unworthy of even the most commonplace civility!”

      It was her turn to flinch. “I do not mean to be uncivil,” she said, her color rising. “I daresay, you must think me very rude—”

      “I do, miss! I only wanted to return this to you,” he said, producing the lavender glove he had rescued from the puppy. “It is yours, I believe?”

      The trap was sprung. She could not avoid conversing with him now.

      “Yes,” she admitted, reaching for the glove. “It is mine.”

      He would not let her have it. “You must kiss me first,” he said huskily.

      She frowned, not exactly the response he was hoping for. “You must excuse me, sir,” she said haughtily.

      Julian stopped smiling. “Why must I excuse you?”

      “Because, sir, I am new to London. I am not accustomed to London manners!”

      He smiled slowly. “Are manners so different in your own part of the country?”

      “Indeed they are, sir,” she answered. “In Yorkshire, people do not go on in this ramshackle way. I would never be prevailed upon to speak to a young man without a formal introduction. And, in Yorkshire, a gentleman does not prevent a lady from leaving a room. Nor does he demand kisses. Such behavior is inexcusable.”

      Julian stared at her, astonished. Lady? Either she was in the wrong place, or he was. “I must be in the wrong house,” he said, mortified. “I beg your pardon, Miss…er…Miss…?”

      “I certainly have no intention of introducing myself!” she informed him.

      “Of course not,” he murmured. “I’m very sorry to have offended you. Is this Mrs Dean’s…er…establishment?”

      “It is, sir,” she admitted, petting the dog in her arms to cover her embarrassment. “But I have nothing to do with the running of this house, and I have less than nothing to say to the lodgers! Am I obliged, in London, to talk to a man just because he happens to be standing in a room when I walk in?” she demanded, her color rising. “To kiss him, just because he has taken my glove?”

      “Certainly not,” he answered. “I have apologized. What more can I do?”

      “Well, at least you do not wink at me,” she said, somewhat mollified. “That insolence I cannot bear. I have begun to call it the London squint! The lodgers all have it.”

      Julian was more at a loss than ever. “May I ask you a question?”

      Her eyes flashed. “No, I will not sit on your knee,” she said. “No, you may not see my ankles. And no, I most certainly do not want to know what you have in your pocket.”

      “It’s nothing like that,” he hastened to assure her. “It’s just…Did you say…lodgers?”

      “Yes.” She paused, taken aback. “Are you…? Aren’t one of the lodgers?”

      “No. I’ve never been here before in my life. I’m just looking for my brother.”

      “I should not be talking to you at all,” she murmured in dismay. “This is most irregular. Mrs Dean should show more care for her niece. I don’t like it.”

      “Neither do I,” he said stoutly. “However, it’s very important that I speak to my brother at once. The name is Alexander Pope. My mother told me I could find him here.”

      “Well, I’m sorry, Mr Pope,” she said, shaking her head. “I cannot help you. You will have to wait for Mrs Dean, the proprietress.”

      Momentarily startled to be called by a name other than his own, Julian was tempted to correct her. But how could he explain to her that “Pope” was his brother’s alias? She already thought him rude; he did not want her to think him sinister.

      “But I must see him now,” he said, letting the assumption stand. “The matter is urgent. Will you help me, please? If you were looking for your brother, I would certainly help you.”

      “I suppose I could ask which is his room,” she said reluctantly. “I will have to wake Mrs Dean. She keeps London hours, I’m afraid. Will you please wait here, Mr Pope?” she requested, stopping him in the hall. “In Yorkshire, a gentleman does not follow a lady up the stairs unless she asks him to. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

      “Thank you,” he said, but she was already running lightly up the steps, the little white dog tucked under one arm. He tried not to look at her slim ankles, but he could not help himself.

      Chapter Five

      To Julian’s disappointment, the black-haired girl did not return. Instead, it was the big, ugly manservant who led him upstairs to his brother’s room. Although exceedingly untidy, the room was comfortable, with plenty of coals glowing in the fireplace and a window that overlooked the street. Unconscious and unshaven, the Honorable Mr Alexander Devize lay supine on the bed, naked but for a bunched-up sheet. One arm hung over the side of the bed.

      Going over to the bed, Julian struck the sleeper with his hat none too gently. When there was no response, he picked up the pitcher of water next to the bed and poured its contents onto his brother’s face.

      Alexander Devize sputtered to life. “Bloody hell!” he roared, sitting up and blinking as water ran into his bloodshot brown eyes. His thick, dark hair was standing on end in pomaded clumps, surely not what his valet had intended. He reeked of brandy. Stubble rasped against his palm as he wiped the water from his face. He looked around him blearily. He was only thirty-four, but, at the moment, he looked almost fifty.

      “Julian,” he croaked. “What the devil?”

      Julian was brief. “Get dressed. It’s the governor. He wants to see you.”

      “Well, I don’t want to see him,” Alex said sullenly. “He keeps trying to arrange marriages for me. He threatens to cut off my allowance.”

      “He’s very seriously ill, Alex,” Julian said quietly.

      “No, he isn’t,” Alex said bitterly. “He’s never ill. It’s only a ploy to get me to marry Miss Molly Peacock.”

      “You could be right, of course,” said Julian. “I hope you are. But our mother is waiting for you at the top of Portland Place. Perdita’s with her. Now, where are your clothes?”

      Groaning, Alex swung his legs out of the bed and began fumbling for his shirt.

      Julian walked over to the window and looked out on the street as his brother dressed.