The Bluestocking Excerpt
Who was this . . . daughter of Diggory? The one few spoke of and about whom little was known.
Edwin
pushed himself away from the door, and folding his arms at his chest,
he took slow, predatory steps closer, walking a path around her. His
earlier assessment in the darkened foyer of the woman had proven
correct. Drab brown hair. Nondescript brown eyes. Of medium height, and
in possession of a slender frame that left her cloak hanging
unflatteringly upon her, there was nothing extraordinary about the last
unwed Killoran. Which was no doubt why she’d not snagged herself a
wealthy or powerful husband as her sisters had already done. At his
lengthy scrutiny, she dared him with her eyes. And yet for her . . .
ordinariness, there was a strength of spirit that radiated, casting a
soft blush upon cream-white cheeks, that marked her as . . .
interesting. She was interesting. He stopped abruptly. Seeing
this woman in any light except the darkened one was a betrayal to his
late wife and his children, both living and dead . . . and himself.
“I was clear with my demands. Get out now, Miss Diggory.”
The
stubborn chit pursed her slightly too-full lips. “As I said earlier,
you were less clear than you give yourself credit for,” she challenged,
ignoring the latter part of his directive. My God, she is an insolent bit of baggage. “And my name is Killoran.”
The names were synonymous and interchangeable.
Edwin
stopped before her so only a pace divided them. “And tell me, where was
I not clear?” he purred. “Was it the part about making sure Broderick
Diggory hangs, as he deserves, that was not clear?” The color bled from
her cheeks. “Or was it my stated intentions for your sisters . . . what
are their names? Ophelia? Cleopatra?” he asked, mocking that
Shakespearean queen’s name, and the woman in front of him frowned
deeper. “How . . . unfortunate it would be if their business ventures
were both to fail.”
The young woman curled and uncurled her coarse hands at her sides. “Do not threaten my family,” she said coolly.
He’d hand it to her. She remained undaunted.
“Or what,
Miss Diggory?” A muscle ticked at the corner of her right eye, but she
did not rise to the bait, either. “Will you set my townhouse afire and
attempt to steal my son . . . again?”
Her
features leached even more of their color, leaving those previously
blushing cheeks a ghastly grey-white. And for her earlier brave show, it
was her turn to falter. “I didn’t . . .” And he celebrated that triumph
over his enemy.
“What was that?” he barked, cupping a hand around his ear. “You didn’t what?” Destroy my life? Shatter my family? “Kidnap my son?” he settled for, refusing to voice aloud his greatest agonies before this of all women.
She flinched.
“Now leave, and tell your real brother
if he violates our arrangement once more, using you or another one of
your . . . sisters or his henchmen to do his work for him, I’ll take you
all down.” His in-laws’ earlier recriminations flooded forward. It was
just something else they’d been right about.
Edwin had stomped over to his desk when he registered the absolute silence—more specifically, the lack of retreating footfalls.
He turned back.
Miss Diggory jutted her chin up defiantly. “No one sent me, my lord. I am here of my own volition.”
He
chuckled, that rusty, ill-used laugh more a growl than anything that
could ever be confused with a real expression of mirth. No one came here
of their own volition. As a rule, the world avoided him.
Shifting
direction, he returned to the stubborn chit’s side, and leaning down,
he placed his mouth close to her temple once more and fought the
maddening pull of whatever damned perfume she dabbed behind her ears.
“Do you think I’m foolish enough all these years later to believe a lie
dripping off a Diggory’s lips?”
The
young woman’s back moved up and down, an indication of her rapid
breath. Of her fear. A lifetime ago, he’d have sooner chopped off his
left hand than deliberately taunt a woman and take pleasure in her fear.
No longer. That pathetic excuse of a man who’d gotten his wife and babe
killed, and the other son snatched, reveled in this woman’s unease.
“Hmm?” he prodded, and she jumped.
“I
have no reason to lie to you, my lord,” she said calmly, and as she
spoke, her breath, containing a whispery trace of honey, filtered from
her lips and fanned his mouth. Another unexpectedly sweet scent, at odds
with her past and name and sins. It enticed, drawing his gaze to her
mouth and holding his focus there, mesmerized. “There is nothing I want,
need, or desire.” She darted her tongue out and traced the plump seam
of her lips. And God forgive him, his gut clenched. For even as
self-loathing spiraled through him, something far worse, far more
perilous and viler and more treacherous, held him in its snare: desire. “The only reason I’ve come . . . the only worry I had . . . was for Stephen.”
Stephen.
That
single name, spoken aloud, snapped whatever siren’s trap she’d sucked
him momentarily into. “August.” Had there ever been a doubt as to his
insanity, this quixotic fascination with the woman’s slightly too-full
mouth as she spoke was evidence enough of it.
She tipped her head, and one of the few brown strands that had managed a curl bounced at her shoulder.
Edwin
flared his nostrils. “His name is August Rudolph Thadeus Stephen
Warren, the Earl of Greyley.” He flicked a stare over her face. “You’ve
no relation to him. He is His Lordship to you.” Stalking over to the
front of the room, he pulled the door open. “Now that you’ve seen
him”—he peeled his lip in a mocking sneer—“safely delivered to his
rightful home, you are dismissed. You may leave now.”
Gertrude Killoran drew in a breath. “I am afraid I cannot do that.”
He narrowed his eyes. “And whyever not?”
“I’m not leaving.”
“I beg your pardon?” What more could she possibly want or expect of him?
The young woman clasped her palms before her, like a nun at the abbey. “I’m staying.”
Confusion rooted around his mind. “Staying?” he repeated. “Staying where?”
“Here.” She settled her features into a serene expression he’d have believed impossible for a Diggory. “Indefinitely,” she clarified.
Edwin rocked back on his heels.
My God, I’ve finally found someone madder than myself.
In the Dark with the Duke by Christi Caldwell
