The Lady Travelers Guide To Scoundrels And Other Gentlemen. Victoria Alexander
“Yes, yes, it was quite comfortable. Now if you would be so good as to remove yourself from my bed, I would be most appreciative.”
“But this is convenient as well as comfortable.” He pinned her with a firm look. “You didn’t expect me to keep talking to you from the other side of the room.”
“You were closer to the foot of the bed than the other side of the room.”
“And now I am closer still.” He grinned. Again. This was completely absurd. There was a man—a stranger—sitting on her bed! And as much as she tried to maintain her indignation, he was rather disarming. Which was every bit as annoying as the man himself. “I can tell you all sorts of stories.”
“I don’t care!”
He ignored her. “Some of them are even true, but most are simply the stuff of gossip. As you haven’t heard any of the stories about me it compels me, as your host and a man with an unsavory reputation—”
“Well earned I suspect.” She glared at him.
“I would say the tales of my misadventures are somewhere between well earned and a complete exaggeration.” He paused. “Perhaps not a complete exaggeration.”
She raised a brow.
“Possibly embellished more than exaggerated, although one or two might be fairly accurate.” He waggled his brows at her in a most disconcerting way. If she wasn’t so irritated, she might have laughed. “I would imagine it all depends on who is telling the story. You know how these things are.”
“I don’t know how these things are nor do I wish to. Now.” She aimed a pointed finger at the door. “If you would be so good as to get out of my room, my lord, I—”
“Percy. Or Val. Your choice.” He reached over and selected a piece of her pastry.
“Lord Brookings,” she forced a hard note to her voice, “if you don’t leave at once, I shall...I shall scream. That’s what I’ll do, I’ll scream. And quite loudly.”
“Because you fear for your virtue?” He considered her curiously and took a bite of the pastry.
“Not as much as I fear for my croissants!”
“I doubt that you have ever in your entire life screamed, quite loudly or otherwise,” he said mildly. “Unless of course it was at the unexpected appearance of a rat, but certainly not out of fear or rage or frustration. You don’t strike me as that type of woman.”
For a moment she considered lying, but what was the point? “I have never felt the need before as I usually have my emotions well in hand.”
“But not today.” He smirked, and she had the immediate impulse to smack his face.
“On the contrary, my lord, I am in complete control of my emotions as well as being both rational and logical.” She summoned a measure of calm. “As you will not depart willingly, it seems to me, if I were to scream as loudly as possible, you would then do exactly as I ask and leave my room.”
“You expect me to scamper away like a frightened bunny?” He tossed the rest of the croissant in his mouth.
“I’m not sure I would have used the term frightened bunny but...” She met his gaze firmly. “Yes, I do. Regardless of whatever reputation you claim to have, no man in his right mind wishes to have a woman’s scream echoing through his home. It tends to frighten servants, who will then seek other positions. And I imagine finding good servants in Paris is every bit as difficult as it is in London.”
“You have no idea,” he murmured and reached for another pastry.
“I would further suspect, even in Paris, neighbors who hear a woman’s scream—” she nodded at the open window “—might well be inclined to summon the police. Particularly if they lived next door to a foreign scoundrel with a scandalous reputation.”
He stared at her for a moment, then laughed. “Touché, India—”
“Miss Prendergast.”
“Derek calls you India.”
She rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. “Mr. Saunders and I will be spending a great deal of time together, accompanied by Professor and Mrs. Greer. In the interest of expediency, it was decided we would call one another by our given names. There is absolutely no reason why you and I should be so personal.”
“Except that I am your gracious host.”
“And while you do have my gratitude, I am still not inclined to call you Percival, Percy, Val or anything other than Lord Brookings.”
“I see.” He took a bite of her croissant and chewed thoughtfully, studying her the entire time.
She picked up a raspberry and tossed it in her mouth. If the man was trying to make her uncomfortable, he was failing. Admittedly, she might have been a bit nonplussed when he had first appeared in her room. Who wouldn’t be given she was in a strange bed dressed like a harlot? Perhaps their absurd sparring was to blame, or possibly the chocolate, but she had regained her normal disposition. She had no intention of letting this arrogant, presumptuous relation of Derek’s get the better of her. Why, it would be almost as bad as if Derek was doing it himself.
“I shall make a bargain with you, India,” he said at last.
“Miss Prendergast.” She smiled pleasantly.
“Believe it or not, it is remarkably difficult to scream.”
“I can’t imagine that.”
“But you have never before screamed. One must let go of all one’s reservations. Put one’s heart and soul into it, if you will. I doubt that a woman like you can do it.”
“What exactly do you mean?” She drew her brows together. “A woman like me?”
“Derek says you’re cool and collected. Not the least bit emotional.” He lowered his voice in a confidential manner. “Even somewhat cold.”
“Does he?” India wasn’t sure why something she’d always prided herself on now bothered her just the tiniest bit.
“He does.” Lord Brookings nodded, a challenge in his eye.
She met his gaze directly. “Good.”
He laughed. “I shall make you a wager, India.”
“Miss Prendergast. And I never wager.”
“You see, I don’t believe you can overcome your reserve, your unyielding conviction as to what is proper and what is not. Therefore, if you can toss your inhibitions aside and truly release a bloodcurdling yell, I shall, from then on, quite properly call you Miss Prendergast.”
“Good Lord.” For a moment, she could have sworn she was governess again. “How old are you?”
He grinned.
“And are you really a marquess?”
“I am.”
“And that is an English title? Not some frivolous foreign designation?”
“I am the eighth Marquess of Brookings. My father was the seventh, my grandfather the sixth and so on. I have the papers to prove it if you wish to see them.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“So what’s it to be, India? Although I must say I like the sound of India and Percy. It fairly reeks of England, and yet I think it has a certain flair to it.” He reached for her last croissant. “Although, perhaps India and Val are even more—”
Before she could think better of it, India opened her mouth and screamed.
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