Tempted - By Pamela Britton Page 0,2

wasn’t tied as intricately as some of those she’d seen—those worn by the dandies who strolled up and down Bond Street with silver-tipped walking sticks that they jabbed into the ground like the very earth offended them. No, his lordship’s cravat was simply tied, seeming to cup the chin of what was a very handsome face. No sense in denying it. Nothing slug-faced about it, which was how most lords looked, to her mind at least. This cull had a chin that was almost square, his nose not at all large and aquiline, but rather narrow and—could it be—a bit crooked? Above the eyes that she’d noted before sprang midnight black hair with strands of gray that peppered the bulk of it, those strands pulled back in a queue, the whole combining to form a face that would make a bold woman stare and a shy woman blush.

“Did your daughter give you that?” she found herself asking, more because she wanted to look into his extraordinary face again, rather than down the edge of it.

And so once again he looked up. His quill stopped its annoying scratch, the black jacket he wore tightening as he straightened. Thick, very masculine brows lowered. “I beg your pardon?”

“The gray hair,” she said, pointing with a gloved hand at his hair, and then motioning to her own carrots in case he needed further clarification.

And now those black brows lifted. “As a matter of fact, no. ’Tis a genetic trait inherited from my father. All Drummond men have it.”

She pursed her lips, liking the way his voice sounded. Low and deep and perfectly controlled, as if each syllable was measured and weighed before let loose on the world. “Only the men? What would you do if a woman were born with it? Strangle the lass?”

His lips parted. His jaw dropped, but he was only struck all-a-mort for a moment. Too bad.

“No, Mrs… .” He looked down, his white cravat all but poking him in the chin as he pulled sheets of papers toward him. She recognized them as the ones John Lasker had forged. John had the best penmanship in Hollowbrook. “Mrs. Callahan. We do not shoot our children.”

Got his ballocks in a press, hadn’t she? Hah. She almost smiled.

“And,” he continued, “Since it would appear as if you’re determined to interrupt me, I suppose we should just begin the interview for the position. That way, you can be on your way, and I can return to my work.”

Mary perked up. At last. Two, maybe three minutes and she’d be out of his lordship’s home. For one thing Mary Callahan didn’t want, and that was to nurse his daughter. No, indeed. She’d sooner let those fancy gents what practiced with their pistols down by the Thames use her for target practice. She’d only come to appease her monkey-brained father, a man who’d gone a wee bit crackers with his plot of revenge against the marquis. (Although now that she’d met the man, she could well understand her father’s aversion to the cull.) No, indeed. She’d do everything in her power to thwart that sap-skulled fool, that she silently vowed. And then she’d return to her real job, which was a fair way from St. James Square.

“I see you’re from Wellburn, Mrs. Callahan.”

She leaned forward, placing an arm nonchalantly on his desk as she pretended to look at the papers. He smelled nice, almost like cinnamon, which made her wonder if he’d used the spice in that fancy coffee of his, the one whose smell she could still catch if she inhaled deeply enough, which she did, which he must have heard because his brows lifted again. Next he looked at her arm, up at her, then at the arm again. Pointedly.

“Is that wha’ it says?” she asked, not removing her elbow, and not trying to smooth her Cockney accent, something she could do, if she had a mind to. She tilted her head, and Lord knows why, but when their gazes met, she smiled. Mary Callahan had a bonny smile. Truth be told, she had a lot of bonny traits—or so she’d been told. Fine green eyes. Dimples. And an endearing way of looking at a man from beneath her thick lashes, not that there was any reason to look up at his lordship that way.

The marquis, however, didn’t appear fazed. “You’re not from Wellburn?” he asked, his face blank.

He had the composure of a corpse.

“If that’s what it says, then I suppose I am.”