“No’ a strumpet,” he quickly interrupted her as he attempted to retie his neckcloth, which had mysteriously come quite undone. “Ye are a woman filled with passion—”
“Yes! I won’t deny it! I am filled with passion—but not for you!” she cried over her shoulder.
“Indeed?” he snapped irritably. “Yer actions would suggest otherwise!”
She whirled around at that, opened her mouth to speak, but saw his struggle with his neckcloth and quickly closed the distance between them and pushed his hands away to tie it for him. “My actions were ill-advised and born in a heated moment of…of anger!” she insisted as she quickly and expertly tied his neckcloth. “And you must take your share of responsibility, sir, for you held me against my will—”
“Only because ye moved to strike me!” he sharply reminded her as she smoothed the ends of his neckcloth so that they hung properly. “Mi Diah, but ye are the most vexing lass!” he said gruffly, pushing a strand of hair from her temple and behind her ear before trying to soothe the rest of it. “Ye donna listen!”
“On the contrary, I do listen, but frankly one can make very little sense out of the things you say!”
“Why make sense of it at all, leannan?” he demanded, trying to comb his fingers through her hair. “My life is no’ yer concern, is it, then?”
Anna frowned more deeply, folded her arms tightly across her middle, and stared up at him, studying him closely, as if trying to read something in his expression or his eyes.
He dropped his hand, stared right back, letting her see whatever she thought to see.
“No,” she said at last, shaking her head resolutely. “It is no concern of mine—you are quite right. My only desire is to learn how to gain Mr. Lockhart’s complete affection—nothing more,” she said pertly, and turned away from him, walking to the middle of the room where she’d left her things.
What? She would just up and leave, pretty as you please? “I beg yer pardon, but where do ye think to go?” he demanded.
She looked up in surprise. “Home, of course! We’ve completed our lesson, have we not?”
Grif couldn’t help himself. He grinned lopsidedly at the woman’s unabashed cheek. “And what lesson have ye learned, may I ask?”
She snorted at that. “To make witty and engaging conversation, and to… oh! To not believe anything a man says. I believe that was the sum of it.” She flounced to the other end of the room, intending to leave. “I really must be on my way,” she said primly as she pretended to casually study a few of the porcelain figurines on the mantel. “Given that Mr. Lockhart and I enjoyed quite a lovely exchange yesterday—”
“Did ye?” Grif asked, suddenly feeling perturbed.
“Yes!” she said brightly, and smiled happily at him. “He was quite felicitous in my company and expressed a desire to call on me this afternoon.”
“Oh?” How odd that his perturbation was, inexplicably, growing at the mere thought of that scoundrel actually calling on Anna.
“Yes! There, you see? The lessons are working just as I hoped! You’ve done me an invaluable service, sir!”
Bloody well, he had, and with hands on hips, he gave her a stern look. “If that is so, then where is me bloody beastie, may I ask?”
“Oh, the gargoyle,” she said indifferently, flicking her hand dismissively at him.
“No’ a gargoyle, a beastie! Where is it, Anna?”
“In my room, in a secret place for safekeeping,” she said as she examined her fingernails.
“And when shall I be presented with it, then?”
“Why, when the lessons are complete!”
“But they are complete. Ye just said so yerself, did ye no’?”
“No, I did not,” she said, as if that was the most preposterous thing she’d ever heard. “I said you’ve done me an invaluable service. But I have not yet received an offer from Mr. Lockhart, have I?”
“Ye said naugh’ of an offer!” he blustered heatedly. “Ye said, seduce—it was yer very word, it was!”
With a sweet smile, she glided to the door, put her hand on the porcelain knob. “I may very well have said seduce, but I certainly meant offer, for I will not lose possession of the beastie before the fate of my virtue has been clearly sealed! Good day, Griffin Finnius Lockhart! I shall send a tincture round for poor Mr. Dudley on the morrow!” And with that, she blithely sailed out the door.
Twenty
T he morning of the highly anticipated Garthorpe soirée, Grif woke in a loathsome humor. He’d grown very weary of London, and even wearier of the ton.
It did not help matters that he lunched with Hugh, who was restlessly pacing about Dalkeith House (or, as he had recently dubbed it, London Tower) like a caged animal, ruthlessly teasing Grif about the lessons as he went from window to window, staring out at the street.