Christmas at Mulberry Hall. Carole Mortimer

also be loosed upon me,’ the infuriating man taunted mockingly. ‘Be assured I am quaking in my boots, madam!’

      The devil sounded more amused than chastened, as Amelia had intended that he should. ‘You are insolent, sir!’

      ‘And you, madam—amongst other things—are a liar!’ he assured her grimly.

      Amelia’s hands bunched into fists at her sides. ‘How dare you?’

      ‘Oh, I believe, if our acquaintance continues for any length of time—’

      ‘Which I sincerely hope it will not!’

      ‘—that you will find that I dare a lot of things, dear lady,’ he continued undaunted.

      ‘I am not your—’

      ‘But first—’ the man harshly overrode her protest ‘—I must dispute your claim of being mistress of this house. I have it on good authority that Lord Gideon Grayson is not, nor has he ever been, in possession of a wife!’

      ‘You have …? Then you have been sadly misinformed, sir,’ Amelia blustered as she faced him down defiantly.

      ‘I have?’

      He spoke mildly. Too mildly for Amelia’s comfort. ‘You have,’ she insisted firmly. ‘Lord Grayson and I were married in the church here in the village but six months ago,’ Amelia assured him haughtily. ‘A quiet ceremony, attended only by family and close friends,’ she added hastily—just on the off-chance this man did actually have ‘good authority’ with which to consult on the matter.

      Not just a liar but a bare-faced one at that, Gray allowed exasperatedly, as the lies continued to trip so smoothly off this woman’s little pink tongue.

      But, considering he was Lord Gideon Grayson—Gray to those close friends this woman talked of so knowledgeably, the same close friends, no doubt, with whom, when he was in Town he gambled and womanised—Gray knew exactly where he had been six months ago.

      And it had certainly not been anywhere near Bedfordshire or this village, and certainly not in a church marrying this impudent chit of a woman …!

       Chapter Two

      All of which posed an interesting question—who the devil was she?

      As far as Gray was aware, apart from his household servants—of which there had so far been neither sight nor sound—there were only two people currently in residence at the estate he had inherited on his brother’s death two and a half years ago: his young ward, Amelia, and her companion—a Miss Dorothy Little.

      Although that name aptly suited the petite young woman standing before him, Gray considered her behaviour in confronting a man with a pistol in the middle of the night, whilst wearing nothing more than her nightclothes, to be reckless. Considering that Gray had ‘taken liberties’, as she called it, it had been reckless in the extreme!

      As for this woman’s outrageous claim of being his wife …

      Gray’s mouth tightened grimly. ‘I propose, madam, that we see to the lighting of a candle and begin this conversation anew.’

      Amelia was completely nonplussed by the suggestion. This man should have turned tail and run the moment she’d confronted him with a loaded pistol. He certainly should not have mocked her or taken her in his arms, only to then remain completely undaunted by her warning concerning her husband’s prowess with a pistol and the threat of having the dogs loosed upon him.

      The way he had spoken to her just now, and his proposal of lighting a candle before they recommenced their conversation, did not give Amelia the impression that he had been, or indeed was, any of those things!

      She searched his face, her eyesight having adjusted slightly to the bathe of moonlight shining in through the windowed cupola high above them, and was able to see now that the man was possibly aged thirty, maybe a little younger, with dark hair that curled about a hard and roguishly handsome face. His light eyes were narrowed—the moonlight was still not sufficient for Amelia to see their exact colour—and glittering down at her.

      The covering of the many-caped greatcoat he wore—the reason, no doubt, why he’d given every appearance of being an avenging angel towering over Amelia a few minutes ago—revealed only that he wore snowy-white linen at his throat, a dark tailored superfine, and pale pantaloons above black Hessians.

      He looked, in fact, more like an arrogantly confident man of fashion than the burglar Amelia had initially assumed him to be. ‘Who are you, sir?’ She eyed him warily.

      ‘Should that not have been the first question you asked rather than the last?’ he said tautly.

      Amelia allowed that, in view of this man’s unmistakable air of confidence and wealth, perhaps it should. However …‘Before or after you had broken into Steadley Manor in the middle of the night?’

      ‘I arrived in the middle of the night, madam, because it has taken me all day, travelling in the cold and the snow, in which to get here,’ he informed her harshly.

      That dark and wondrously curling hair did look a trifle damp …

      ‘And I did not break in,’ the man continued disgustedly. ‘The lock on the front door was already broken, and for some inexplicable reason has not been mended!’

      The reason for that was not inexplicable at all; the lock on the front door had remained broken because there was no one left at Steadley Manor, nor the money, to see to its repair. ‘That is beside the point—’

      ‘No, madam, that is precisely the point.’ Gray was fast coming to the state of losing his temper. Something he rarely, if ever, did. As the eligible Lord Gideon Grayson, a man spoilt and fêted by the ton, both for his wealth and his unmarried status, he found there were very few occasions upon which his will was thwarted. Something that this reckless companion of his young ward must be made aware of. ‘I require a candle be lit immediately, if you please,’ he repeated grimly.

      ‘But—’

      ‘If you please, madam!’

      ‘I am sure there is no need to shout—’

      ‘And I assure you I have not even begun to shout.’ Gray glowered down at her darkly. ‘The candle, madam!’

      Deciding that it would perhaps be imprudent on her part to incite this man’s displeasure any further, Amelia turned obediently to where she kept an unlit candle in readiness on the table that fitted so neatly into the niche at the top of the stairs, her hand shaking slightly as she struck the tinder and lit the taper before holding it over the wick. She drew in a deep, steadying breath before lifting the candle in its holder and turning back to face the man whose forceful arrogance was rapidly giving her the impression that he might just have a perfect right to have entered Steadley Manor so confidently in the dead of night after all …

      One look at that handsome but harshly hewn face, dominated by piercing grey eyes, and Amelia knew he did indeed have that right. No one more so, in fact, when his likeness to Lord Peregrine Grayson, the previous owner of the Steadley estate and Amelia’s own deceased stepfather, was so blatantly obvious.

      ‘Lord Gideon Grayson …?’ Amelia prompted with a sinking heart, even as she made an elegant curtsey. Something not easily achieved in one’s nightgown and robe!

      ‘Ma’am,’ he confirmed with a terse bow.

      Oh, dear! Amelia inwardly cringed as she realised—acknowledged—that she had not, as she had assumed, fired her pistol at a burglar, but at the man who had inherited the title and Steadley Manor on his older brother’s death some two and a half years previously!

      Those grey eyes continued to glower down at her. ‘Not your husband, after all …?’

      Amelia felt the colour burn her cheeks.