Gerald strode from the room, the clatter of sturdy hobnailed, leather-shod shoes following him. Outside, he took a moment to straighten his jacket and twitch his neckcloth into place. The damn woman had set him completely on edge. Her sheer presence had felled him, for no particular reason he could discern. Perhaps he’d been celibate too long, because his body had responded to her as if she was operating it like a puppet.
His study was at the back of the hall, behind the sunny front parlor. The shelves were lined with books he had not yet got around to disposing of—sermons and texts, not his kind of reading at all. The desk surface was covered with letters, notes and pieces of pasteboard—those infernal invitations. As fast as he cleared them up, they appeared again. Light streamed through from the garden into the room, highlighting the occupant as she stood, her hands folded neatly before her. He contemplated her, fascinated, wondering what had caused her fury and enjoying the hell out of it. Mrs. Cathcart was a woman with spirit, unlike the society beauties who maddened him by their lack of honest responses and attempts at sensible conversation.
She’d aroused him with that fiery response. A woman dressed as she was should be deferential, surely.
At least, until she lifted her head and met his eyes. Then Gerald caught his breath, ensnared all over again.
She was shockingly lovely. She had the kind of skin a man had to touch, and dark eyes that saw through to his soul. Her lips were plump, inviting his kiss, and her eyes sparkled.
She seemed equally taken, staring at him, her eyes rounding, and her mouth dropping open. Her gaze passed up his body and down, lingering at his thighs—or his crotch. Oho, so she was interested too.
With a start, she dropped a short, perfunctory curtsey. Gerald bowed.
Could he rile her some more and see more of that entrancing spirit? “May I be of assistance, madam?” he asked smoothly.
She hurled a piece of paper on top of the teetering pile of correspondence waiting for his attention. “Look at this! Do you not realize, my lord, that sometimes people’s livelihoods depend on your say? You ask me to wait? Why in God’s name would you do that?” She took a few agitated steps away from him, turned around and strode back. Her heavy shoes clunked on the floorboards until she hit the soft carpet in front of his desk. She glared at him. “Well, sir? I don’t ask you for compensation or an answer, but a courteous response would have helped!”
He stood in the middle of his mundane study, his world transformed by the woman before him. He stared. “Madam,” he managed, though he couldn’t think of anything more useful to say. But every pore, every bit of him itched with need. He wanted her.
“Do you have an answer, sir?” She stared at him, then frowned. “I dislike being impolite, but are you the earl?”
He executed his best bow, smiling. “The Earl of Carbrooke at your service, madam. Who were you expecting?”
Annie blinked at this stunningly handsome man. “I thought the earl was—someone else.” She’d expected a man in late middle age who was full of his own importance. Not a tall man nearer her own age with laughing blue eyes. Was he laughing at her?
She had visited this house to call a pompous earl to account, and she’d found this—him—instead. Her body, which she had ignored except to maintain it, blossomed into life, her nipples hard against the crisp linen of her shift.
“Read the letter.” Unable to look at him any longer, she turned her back, only belatedly recalling that she’d probably committed some kind of offense. Why should she care? She felt hemmed in on all sides. She could hardly make matters worse by an omission of etiquette. Besides, she needed the time to compose herself.
Paper rustled, so presumably he took her advice. “You’ll have to tell me what this is about,” he said. “I cannot recall seeing anything about Bunhill Street before.”
“I’m surprised you’ve heard of it. It is somewhat below your concern. You made that clear in your letter.” Her voice shook but she turned around again to face him.
He rocked her. She would not admit it to anyone, but he called to her at a level she didn’t allow. He spoke to her, as if it was soul to soul, taking the direct route through privilege and protocol. This man was dangerous in a way she didn’t understand.
Casting her gaze down at her gloved hands, she concentrated on stopping their trembling.
“I know Bunhill Street very well,” he said. “Until recently my sisters and I lived there.”
So far away from fashionable society? He must be joking. She’d missed something, a vital piece of information. The notion sent her into consternation, or perhaps that was his presence. She forced her mind into complying.
This man probably knew to a precise T how to manage the people around him. She would not succumb to his will. She would have an answer.
His remark about staying in Bunhill Street was probably a hum. “Then have you visited the coffee house on the corner, sir?”