Staid and stuffy, meet redheaded hellion.
“I’ve already had a clash of wills with Miss Crewe, McArdle.” And he hadn’t emerged unscathed. “Never fear, I shall win this round.”
He stalked upstairs and down the hall. He was willing to be lenient about fraternizing with serving girls, but breaking into locked rooms that were kept locked for good reason was going too far.
The door was cracked open. He flung it wide.
The scene that greeted him was chaos personified, to McArdle’s credit as descriptor. A footman, holding steady a brocade-backed chair. A chair definitely not designed for the task at hand, which was acting as step ladder for a young lady to climb. The lady in question was wearing a heavy black silk garment that swallowed her up, the sleeves hanging loosely about her raised arms, the belt wrapped twice around her waist, the bottom hem skimming the seat of the chair, except for the part caught on the mahogany chair back, exposing a length of creamy leg that the footman was valiantly trying to ignore.
She was busily trying to remove the voluminous dustcovers housing a gilt mirror that lined most of the wall. Curtains that had long been closed to the day had been thrown wide, and a column of sunlight was making the dust motes dance, lending a celestial glow to her ruddy curls.
Why in God’s name was she wearing his dressing gown?
The footman caught sight of him and his face blanched. He let go of the chair and backed away. The young scullery maid took one look at Dex standing in the doorway, let out a high-pitched squeak, and scurried around him and out of the room. The footman hastily followed.
“I’ve got it!” Miss Crewe shouted merrily, wrapping the dustcover first around her hands and then around her torso, end over end. She wobbled on the chair, wrapped in the dustcover.
“Miss Crewe,” he said coldly. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
There was a muffled reply from inside the dust covering. She wriggled around to face him, the chair wobbling, and then she lost her balance.
Chapter Seven
“Help me,” pleaded Amsonia, as she did every night. “Help me or let me loose to find my family.” And as he did every night, Qavox cocked his horrible head above her in the shadows, and said absolutely nothing at all...
—The Dragon and the Blue Starby Analise Crewe
“Oof,” Ana exclaimed as her body connected with something rock solid. Not the floor.
The duke.
Once again he held her tight against his enormous, muscular body. She wriggled one hand free and peeked out of the dust covering, giving him a cheery smile. “Why, good morning, Your Grace. And how are you this fine day?”
His eyebrows met, giving him the glowering look of a minotaur she’d once seen, painted on the side of an ancient Greek vase in Lady Claridge’s library.
He set her feet down on the carpet and began unwrapping her. She tumbled out, breathless, laughing heartily. “Thank you for catching me. I’m afraid I became rather tangled.” Where were Tessie and the footmen? It appeared she was all alone with theduke. And he didn’t look happy to see her. He helped her to her feet, still silent, though his eyes spoke volumes. His gaze swept from her unruly hair to her bare feet. She snatched up the dust covering and wrapped it around her torso.
His eyes narrowed. “Why are you wearing my dressing gown?”
“I didn’t have anything else to wear, did I? My things haven’t arrived yet from the boarding house, and I wanted to get started on airing out my new chamber. I love this room. It’s perfect for my—”
“You may choose any room but this one.” His face was immobile and determined, the face of a statue carved from Pentelic marble.
“But why? I love this rosy wall covering, and this mirror.” She twirled in front of it. “Whoever saw such a large looking glass? I’ll have the footmen move the desk closer to the windows so that I might gaze out while I write.”
“Did you not hear me?”
“I heard you, but you didn’t answer my question. Why can’t I choose this room?”
“You can’t. And that’s final.”
“But why? I don’t understand. Did—did someone die here?” She clapped her hands, the thought rather delighting her. “Is there a ghost? Maybe it hides by day in these patterned wall coverings! Ooh, I read about such a thing once, a spirit that materialized at night from a painted design featuring great boughs of cherry blossoms and an ornamental urn. Popped right out of the urn and scared the bedroom’s occupant straight to death, so that there were then two ghosts in the room, and so on until the room’s spirits outnumbered the cherry blossoms!”
He was still as stone, waiting for a chink in the wall of chatter she was erecting.
“Or perhaps...” She glanced around the room, her gaze alighting on the large wardrobe she hadn’t explored yet. She was in a fanciful mood that set her eyes sparkling. “Or... are you hiding something in here?” She danced toward the wardrobe.
“Do not open that.”