Lord Sin. Catherine Archer

more quickly from her slightly parted lips.

      Victoria interrupted his contemplation, and though her tone was teasing, he could not but hear the chiding in it. “I hope, Ian, that you have not forgotten the promise you made to me.”

      He drew himself up, meeting her gaze directly. “I have not forgotten.”

      With a relaxed expression, which Ian knew belied the keen mind he possessed, Jedidiah asked, “What promise is that, my dear?”

      Victoria turned to her husband with a smile. Ian knew she would not risk hurting Mary’s feelings by making her reprimand of Ian known. “That answer you will not get from me, love. No more than you would tell me why Ian had come to visit before you had given me the mare. Torture would not have it from me.”

      For a moment Jedidiah said nothing, letting the heat of his gaze fall upon his now blushing wife. “I think we both know that you have your breaking point, my dear.”

      She flushed even more deeply and Ian looked away. What must it be like to be so close to another human being? Ian had never known.

      Ian’s gaze flicked to Mary. Though she flushed, she faced him squarely. He felt a wave of admiration.

      As a notion he had been trying to reject for days set itself even more firmly in his consciousness, Ian’s lips pressed to a line of determination. He would not seduce her.

      But there was another way to have her. Was he not a man, free to do as he pleased? The act he was contemplating might very well garner enough disapproval from his father to see Ian disinherited, but he would not be ruled by the older man.

      In the next breath Ian halted himself. What was he thinking? He could not marry this woman simply because he desired her, nor even because it would be the perfect act of rebellion toward his father. Had he not decided that he would no longer live up to his reputation as “Lord Sin"? Mary Fulton was a young woman who had shown that she took much pride in ordering her own life. How could he not understand this sentiment when it was a right he valued so highly himself?

      As a knock sounded on the front door, Mary looked up from the box of books she was packing. Still holding a volume in her hand, she went to answer it.

      Deliberately she avoided looking at the letters waiting on the hall table to be posted. She had crossed a bridge by writing them, as each was an offer of her services for the position of governess. She had every hope that at least one reply would be favorable. Her problem lay in the fact that she had been assaulted by doubts as to the wisdom of her decision as soon as the missives were sealed. The idea of facing the unknown future had become suddenly overwhelming, but she knew she must do so, must have the courage to leave behind the only life she knew and strike out on her own.

      She told herself they must be sent this very afternoon. Before she could change her mind. Why she was having such doubts she could not say, other than realizing that Ian Sinclair’s face kept intruding on her thoughts. But that, she knew, was completely ridiculous. Lord Sinclair had nothing to do with her future. Even if she had wished to accept Victoria’s generosity and live at Briarwood, she would not be seeing him. Sinclair was only visiting her friends and would soon be off to do…well…whatever a single man of his wealth and undeniable attractiveness did.

      And beyond that he was not in the least interested in her. He had hardly spoken to her last eve at Briarwood.

      It was true that Ian had kissed her the second time they’d met, but he had done nothing of the sort since. Oh, there had been times since when he looked at her…when she had thought…Obviously it was nothing more than her overactive imagination at work.

      Realizing this only seemed to bring her a discomfort that she somehow feared to examine too closely. With these dismaying thoughts in mind, it was with little enthusiasm that she opened the front door.

      To her utter amazement, Ian Sinclair himself stood on the stoop. A sudden nervous chill gripped her and she hesitated before speaking. Seeing him was especially unnerving considering her recent preoccupation with him. Telling herself she was being foolish, she opened the portal and said, with much more breathlessness than she would have hoped, “Good afternoon, Lord Sinclair. Is there something I can do for you?”

      To her surprise he seemed somewhat hesitant, even agitated himself, turning his black silk hat in his hands. He stopped, his dark gaze meeting hers as his brows arched upward. “I…may I come in?”

      She stepped back, realizing that she must seem somewhat foolish standing there gawking at him like some besotted schoolgirl. Determinedly Mary told herself she was not attracted to him, in spite of his undeniable good looks. She was simply overreacting to the fact that he had twice been there when she needed someone.

      She would remain calm. Yet her heartbeat quickened as he stepped across the threshold to stand so near that she could see the fine shadow of mustache above his mobile lips. Would it, she wondered, feel rough if he should kiss her?

      Mary’s eyes flew wide with horror at her own thoughts. She certainly did not want Ian Sinclair to kiss her.

      To her relief he did not appear to notice her agitation and continued to seem somewhat nervous as his gaze slid away from her to graze the tabletop. Then he appeared to frown with displeasure as his eyes alighted on the letters she had been thinking of only moments before. “Your requests for employment?”

      She nodded, too surprised by his reaction to resent the prying question. “Yes.”

      His frown deepened for a moment before he straightened his already wide shoulders and took a deep breath. For some reason she had the distinct impression that he had come to a decision about something. His next words served only to confuse her further. “I have come to ask you a question.”

      “Oh,” she replied, not at all certain as to what she should say. Studying him closely for a moment and judging him no less nervous, she began to think this was no ordinary question. What of import could Ian Sinclair have to say to her? Did he have some position in mind for her?

      Ian continued to look down at her in the long, narrow hallway, and Mary glanced away, knowing that the light from the window that sat high in the door illuminated her own face much more clearly than his. In spite of the dim lighting she was very much aware of his being too tall and imposing for such humble surroundings.

      Trying to still her sudden trembling, Mary reached out with her free hand. “May I take your hat?” She halted as she saw the traces of dust on her white fingers. With a selfconscious laugh, she wiped the hand on her apron, then indicated the book in her other hand. “I have been packing my father’s books. I will be taking some of my favorites with me.”

      He glanced at the volume. “You read Greek?”

      She looked down at the book. “Why…I…yes, father was a great scholar. He taught me everything he would have taught a son.” She held her head high, knowing how most men disapproved of the practice of educating females and referred to them as bluestockings.

      But Ian did not seem the least bit shocked or disapproving of her revelation as she reached out again and he gave her the silk hat. He said only, “I see.”

      How very nice for him, she thought with a trace of irony, for she certainly did not see. She hoped he came to the point soon, for she was growing more uncertain by the moment. With deliberate care Mary placed the hat on the rack along the wall and turned back to him.

      “Would you care for some refreshment? I could make some tea.”

      He shook his head, his intense onyx eyes meeting hers again. “No, thank you.” Once more she had the impression that this was no ordinary social call. She told herself she was imagining things.

      In spite of her self-assurances, it was with growing unease that Mary motioned toward the open door of the study. The chamber was in a state of upheaval because she had been packing the books, but it was one of the few rooms that did not have dust covers over the furnishings. “Won’t you come in and sit down?”

      The answer that accompanied his polite nod only served to make