Inevitably there were animals in the room—two cats on the hearth and Hector under the desk. Percy ignored them.
He was pouring himself some port at the sideboard when the door opened and Lady Barclay stepped inside. She had shed her cloak and bonnet and donned a woolen shawl over that fetching blue evening dress of hers. It was not elaborately styled. None of her dresses was that he had seen. They did not need to be, though. She had the most perfect figure he had ever seen. Not that anything could be most perfect or even more perfect, since perfect was an absolute in itself. He could hear that explanation in the voice of one of his tutors.
“Wine?” he asked her.
“Why was Mr. Tidmouth at my house this afternoon?” she asked him. “And why were there six workmen with him? Why has the cost of the new roof dropped in half?”
Ah.
“Wine?” he asked again.
She took a few steps in his direction. She had come to do battle, he could see. She did not answer his question.
“My house?” he said. “As in yours? I still maintain that it is mine, Lady Barclay, though you may live in it with my blessing until your eightieth year if you so choose, or your ninetieth should you live so long. After that we will renegotiate.”
“You went to see him.” She took another step closer. “You ranted at him. You threatened him.”
He raised his eyebrows. She looked rather magnificent when she was angry. Anger put some color in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes.
“Ranted?” he said faintly, closing one hand about the handle of his quizzing glass—not the jeweled one—and raising it halfway to his eye. “Threatened? You wrong me, ma’am, I do assure you.”
“Oh.” Her eyes narrowed. “I suppose you just played haughty aristocrat.”
“Played?” Briefly he raised the glass all the way to his eye. “But what is the point of being an aristocrat, ma’am, if one cannot also play at being what one is? I do assure you, it renders rants and threats quite unnecessary. Underlings, in which category I number roofers, quite wilt in the presence of hauteur and a jeweled quizzing glass and a lace-edged handkerchief.”
“You had no right.” She had taken yet more steps closer.
“On the contrary, ma’am,” he said, “I had every right.”
He was rather enjoying himself, he realized. This was better than reading his book, which was the poetry of Alexander Pope of all things.
“It was my battle to fight,” she told him. “I resent your interference.”
“Despite your title, ma’am,” he said, “and the impressive fact that you are the third cousin-in-law once removed of the Earl of Hardford, you seem not to have overcome what must be Tidmouth’s total disregard for women. He undoubtedly belongs to an inferior subspecies of the human race, and one must pity his wife and daughters, if there are such persons. But the fact remains that you need his services, since he appears to have no competition for at least fifty miles around. I need his services too. Without them I might be doomed to having to offer you my continued hospitality here at Hardford Hall for another year or more.”
That took the wind out of her sails. His too, actually. He was never rude to women. Well, almost never. Only to this one woman, it seemed.
“You are no gentleman, Lord Hardford,” she said.
He might not have proved her right if she had not been close—entirely her own doing, since he had not moved an inch away from the sideboard. But she was close, and he did not even have to stretch his arm to the full in order to curl his hand about the nape of her neck. He did not have to bend very far forward in order to set his mouth to hers.
He kissed her.
And he did not need even the fraction of one second to know that he had made a big mistake.
From her point of view it was certainly that. She broke off the kiss after perhaps two seconds and cracked him across one cheek with an open palm.
And from his point of view—he wanted her. But she was the most inappropriate woman to want he could possibly have chosen—except that he had not chosen. That would be preposterous. She was the marble lady.
His cheek stung and his eye watered. It was a new experience. He had never before been slapped across the face.
“How dare you.”
He owed her a groveling apology—at the very least.
“It was only a kiss,” he said instead.
“Only—” Her eyes widened. “That was no kiss, Lord Hardford. That was an insult. It was insufferable. You are insufferable. And I suppose you paid Mr. Tidmouth for half of my roof?”
“In my experience,” he said, “half a roof is more or less useless.”
“I can well afford the whole thing,” she told him.
“So can I,” he assured her. “You will note, ma’am, that I pandered to your pride sufficiently to leave half the bill unpaid.”
She stared at him. She was probably admiring her handiwork. He did not doubt that his cheek bore the scarlet imprint of her palm and all five fingers. It was still stinging like the devil. He would be wise not to provoke her in the future.