Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

“Get on with it.”


After that display of impatience and having to endure the arrangement of the rest of his clothes, he fussed more than usual with his appearance. He wanted to strike just the right note of lordly perfection before he went downstairs to face the wife of his closest friend. He was prepared to answer any and all charges laid at his feet. He would not give honor short shrift. Not ten years ago, and not now. He studied his reflection and decided, just this once, that his resemblance to his father was acceptable. His father had been a ruthless, heartless specimen of manhood.

He went downstairs to the parlor, reminding himself that he could not blame the woman for being concerned about Portia. The truth was, he had done precisely what one imagined happened when a man ended up alone with a woman. He half expected Magnus to be there waiting to accuse him, too, but he wasn’t.

Mrs. Temple was just lifting a dish of tea to her lips when he walked in. She raised her eyes and smiled, and there was no anger in that smile, not the least sign of disapproval. He lifted a hand when she rose. He remembered the expression on his father’s face when he had been called to account. His father had not smiled. “Please, don’t stand on my account.”

“Lord Northword. Thank you for coming downstairs so quickly.” Mrs. Temple stood and curtseyed, unnecessarily deep if you asked him. He wasn’t the damned Prince Regent. “Tea?”

“Yes, thank you.” There was a tray of chevron-shaped shortbread on the table and two plates. The one before her had one of the familiar chevrons on it. The shortbread at Northword House had always been shaped thus.

She poured for him without asking his preference and moments later handed him a cup of tea adulterated with more milk than tea, for God’s sake. She gazed at him with that guileless, ravishing smile of hers, and it did absolutely nothing for him.

He took the cup and set it down. He did not care for milk in his tea. Sugar only for him. “Thank you.”

“Tea is so much more healthful when one drinks it with milk.”

He helped himself to the sugar only to have her tap the table by his tea cup. “My father’s physician instructed him to take a cup every morning, prepared just so. Without sugar.”

“Indeed?” She meant well. She did. A wisp of steam curled from the surface of his tea cup. He dropped in three lumps and then, in a moment of childish rebellion that was far too satisfying, added two more just to watch her horror. “It’s not my habit to take milk with my tea.”

She blinked several times, and his immediate instinct was to backtrack. She was not the sort of woman to see nuance in word or deed. “You ought to, my lord. After your adventures in our weather today, extra consideration for your health is in order, don’t you agree?”

“I enjoy excellent health.”

“Who’s to say it will stay that way?” Her hand fluttered around her upper chest. “Why, just today you were caught in a storm and soaked to the skin. I shouldn’t be astonished at all if you took ill as a result.”

He blinked, took stock of his state and decided he was mildly offended and feeling decidedly manipulated by that wide-eyed look of incipient distress. “Thank you for considering my longevity.”

“You’re welcome, my lord.” She beamed at him, and such was his irritation over tea with milk, he had almost no regret for his ironic tone. Besides, she gave no sign whatever that she’d heard the edge in his reply. “It was no trouble at all. I think you’ll find you’ll quickly acquire a taste for milk with your tea.”

“I dare say you mean I will learn to like a bit of tea with my milk.” He laughed and smoothed out the emotion that had sparked his pointed response. He failed, for the bite remained. Was he not better than this? This was not a woman of subtlety, and it was not kind of him to behave so with her.

Her eyebrows drew together and she tipped her head to one side. Portia, he thought, would have laughed out loud. But then again, Portia would have known better then to put milk in his tea. He sipped the concoction, and her smile turned incandescent. “Well?”

Undrinkable swill. He forced a smile, because, after all, he would not hurt her feelings for the world.

“I’m glad you like it.” She drank some of her tea. “I don’t know what to make of this weather,” she said. “It’s March, nearly April, yet, goodness. As cold and wet as December.”

“Is it?”

“What plans have you for the remainder of the day, my lord?”

He put off the necessity of speech by taking a bite of shortbread. “This and that.”