How Not To Marry An Earl. Christine Merrill

assured her. ‘If you are comfortable, do not concern yourself.’ He tried not to glance down at the expanse of ivory skin on display above the neckline of her gown, or to look even lower, searching for her body’s reaction to the cold room. Perhaps English gentlemen did not have such thoughts, but the crass American that he was thanked God for the superior view afforded a lowly visitor who was placed opposite Miss Charity instead of at the head of the table.

      Her long neck had looked ridiculous in the high-collared dress she had worn this afternoon. But in a dinner gown, her exposed throat swept gracefully down to the swell of her fine, full breasts. Though there had been little light beneath her skirts when he had boosted her up the chimney, he had been holding a fine pair of ankles and felt delightfully rounded calves pressed on either side of his head.

      And though her hands moved with masculine efficiency as they sliced the lamb on her plate, the fingers were long and tapered to fine, almond-shaped nails.

      There was much to enjoy in the young lady that everyone had been insisting he marry, for duty’s sake and the good of the Empire. But there was also one thing he did not like at all. Dangling between those perfect breasts was what had to be the crowning glory of family jewels. The excessively large teardrop pendant would have dazzled him, had he not known it was a worthless copy. Now it merely depressed him.

      Did she know? he wondered. Of course she did. The truth was supposed to be a secret passed from Earl and Countess to Earl and Countess. The Dowager had blurted it out to him the first time they’d met, then sighed with relief as if she’d transferred a back-breaking burden on to his unsuspecting shoulders.

      As the youngest granddaughter, Miss Charity should know absolutely nothing about it. But she struck Miles as the sort of woman who was exceptionally good at ferreting out secrets. Which begged the question as to why she would flaunt it in front of him at the first available moment.

      Because she wanted to convince him that nothing was amiss. Despite himself, he smiled. It was a pleasure to be in the company of a female whose actions had purpose.

      She smiled back and the effect on her features was transformative. And for a moment, he forgot himself, grinning back, smitten.

      Then she looked at him with a gaze as sharp as an eagle’s and said, ‘So, Mr Potts, tell me about yourself.’

      He could feel the smile freezing on his face, as his brain struggled for an answer. At last, he replied, ‘There is not much to tell.’ It was true. He had not bothered to invent a past to go with his nom de guerre, so what could he possibly say?

      She set down her knife and steepled her fingers. ‘Tell me anyway. I am fascinated.’ She did not look totally sincere, but she did look persistent. ‘I have never met an American before.’

      He breathed a sigh of relief and a silent prayer of thanks for the topic. ‘I am from Philadelphia, in the state of Pennsylvania.’

      ‘Where the Earl is from,’ she said.

      ‘It was where we met.’ That was metaphorically true, at least.

      ‘And what did you do, in Philadelphia?’

      ‘A bit of this and that,’ he said, for it was near to the truth.

      ‘Auditing?’

      ‘Never before. But I have a decent hand and feel qualified to take accurate notes on what is right before my eyes,’ he said, deliberately staring down at the counterfeit diamond.

      His suspicions on her knowledge of the false diamonds was confirmed. As if she feared the topic of conversation was about to turn to the necklace, she lost interest in talking and concentrated on the strawberry compote that had arrived for dessert.

      Which meant it was his turn to question her. He speared a berry on the end of his fork and bit into it with relish before asking, ‘Have you had a chance to open the puzzle box we discovered this afternoon?’

      ‘It is not your business whether I have or not, Potts,’ she said, not bothering with an honorific as if she sought to put him in his place.

      ‘On the contrary. The box and whatever is inside it are likely to be valuable, or else why would they be hidden? If they are part of the entailed property, I must record them.’

      ‘I doubt they are,’ she said, smiling sweetly and trying to put him off his guard, again.

      It was badly done. She could not expect to command him one moment and play the fool the next. In response, he gave her a firm smile and a sceptical stare. ‘I think you had best let me be the judge, Miss Strickland. It is my job, after all.’

      ‘If there is anything of interest inside, you shall be the first to know,’ she said, not even bothering to look sincere.

      ‘So you have not opened it, yet,’ he pressed.

      ‘There has been little time to do so,’ she snapped, touching her hair. ‘These dratted curls take hours.’ Then, as if realising that ladies were not supposed to consider it a waste of time to beautify themselves, she shut her mouth in another forced smile.

      ‘They were well worth it,’ he assured her. ‘The effect is quite charming.’ He paused to see if the compliment had registered.

      It had not.

      He continued. ‘Puzzle boxes can be devilishly tricky things. Some have more than forty steps and secret compartments beyond that. I have done several of them. If you should need help…’

      ‘You think I should come to you?’ she said, narrowing her eyes in suspicion.

      ‘Who else is there?’ He gave an innocent shrug, then held out his hands to show he meant no harm.

      ‘You are shamelessly angling for an invitation,’ she said, both exasperated and surprised.

      ‘I love a mystery,’ he said.

      ‘Well, I have no intention of involving you with it, no matter how curious you are,’ she said with a sigh, tossing her napkin aside and rising from her seat. ‘There are some things that are just too private to share with people outside the family. And as I said before, if it involves the entail…’

      ‘You promise to tell me,’ he finished her sentence.

      ‘You have my word.’

      Since she had lied to him several times already, he held little hope that she would turn over any valuables she found, no matter how much he might need them. He gave her another disarming smile. ‘If not cracking open your mysterious box, how are we to pass the evening?’

      ‘We?’ Apparently, she had not planned to entertain him after the meal. She had probably hoped to abandon him and work on the puzzle box. If she did, it would leave him free to stuff his pockets with knick-knacks and take to the road.

      And it might leave her with a box holding thousands of dollars of loose stones, any one of which might set him up for life.

      ‘We, Miss Strickland,’ he repeated. ‘Surely you do not mean to leave me all alone on my first night here? What do you normally do for fun in this mausoleum, after the sun has set?’

      ‘I enjoy a good game of chess,’ she admitted, through gritted teeth.

      ‘An excellent suggestion.’ In fact, it was almost too good to be true. ‘I like nothing better. I will spot you three pieces of your choice.’

      ‘You will what?’ she said, narrowing her eyes.

      ‘It is called a handicap,’ he said, with excessive patience. ‘It gives a weaker player a chance to win.’

      Apparently, she did not think she needed one for he could see fury rising in her like water about to boil over a kettle.

      ‘I know what a handicap is, Potts. I have never needed one before and I do not mean to start tonight.’

      ‘Are you sure?’ he said, giving her a chance to change her mind.

      ‘I