Innocent Courtesan to Adventurer's Bride. Louise Allen

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      ‘All the footmen were up and down stairs with water cans for an age. They told Trimble to keep the female staff out of the way and then traipsed through the house dripping and got into the sarco-whatsit.’

      ‘Sarcophagus,’ Lina murmured. Trust his late lordship to keep a vast marble coffin in his bedchamber. It was a miracle he had not insisted on being buried in it. ‘Both of them together?’ It was certainly big enough to bathe two large men in.

      ‘Yes. Funny way to go on if you ask me,’ Cook said darkly. ‘You don’t think he’s one of them, you know—mollies—do you?’

      ‘No,’ Lina said, the memory of those green eyes running over her all too clear for comfort. ‘Whatever else the new Lord Dreycott might be, I do not think he is attracted to men.’ Cook still looked disapproving. Lina had been startled herself when the girls had explained that particular variation in sexual preference to her, but on reflection it seemed no stranger than many of the things that the customers at The Blue Door asked of the girls.

      ‘They travel together all the time, no doubt they are simply used to sharing bathing facilities,’ she suggested. ‘And I think they have been in the East, so perhaps bathing is different there.’

      ‘Fine behaviour for Lord Dreycott, I must say. Foreign.’ Cook returned to garnishing a dish of whitebait with a sniff that dismissed everything from beyond her home parish as outlandish and uncivilised.

      ‘I am sure he will become a conventional member of the aristocracy soon enough,’ Lina said. And after all, if the staff could learn to adapt to the old baron’s eccentricities, this one could hardly be worse. Although, dripping through the house stark naked…No, she was not even going to think about it.

      Those long, muscled legs, those shoulders…No. It was surprising to discover that however dreadful the experience with Sir Humphrey had been, and however alarming it still was when a man stared at her, her response when confronted by a young, handsome and intelligent man was attraction and curiosity. There had not been many men like that in her life, which no doubt explained it.

      ‘He wants to know if we’ve got an ice house.’ Michael appeared in the kitchen, clutching an armful of bottles wrapped in straw. ‘I told him, of course we’ve got an ice house. Wants this putting in it and leaving.’ He held up one bottle. ‘And this one is for before dinner. They both look like water to me.’

      ‘I am certain we will soon adapt to his lordship’s little ways,’ Lina said. Men in her, albeit limited, experience, were demanding creatures, but most of them were at least predictable once one had sorted out their preferences.

      The sound of the dinner gong reverberated through the house and set Lina’s heart rate accelerating with it. ‘I had better go up.’

      The clock struck seven. Lina gave Cook a reassuring smile—although which of them actually needed the reassurance was moot—and hurried up the backstairs. Trimble held the dining room door open for her. ‘His lordship has just come down, Miss Celina.’ He permitted himself an infinitesimal lifting of his eyebrows.

      It did not take more than a moment to see why. Lord Dreycott was studying the portrait of his great-uncle over the fireplace, his hands on his hips, his head tipped back. It was as though the two men confronted each other, the impression made more vivid because the portrait must have been painted when Simon Ashley was about the same age as his great-nephew.

      The figure in the painting wore a powdered wig and a full-skirted suit of spectacular figured silk in powder blue. Ruffles and lace foamed under his chin, rings flashed on his fingers. But all the ruffles and silk in the world could not disguise the arrogant masculinity of the stance or the intelligence in the piercing green eyes that stared down at the room. Lina had looked at it many times over the past weeks and wondered what that dashing rake had been like before extreme old age had dimmed everything but his spirit.

      Now she could see, for his heir’s resemblance to the young Simon was startling and, in his own way, he was dressed in as spectacular a fashion. Full black trousers were tucked into soft crimson suede boots, and a knee-length over-tunic of dark green figured silk was open over a white lawn shirt with an embroidered, slashed neck. His thick tawny hair was tied back at his nape and his pose made that determined chin and the long muscles and tendons in his neck even more obvious.

      Lina could have sworn she made no sound, but she had only a moment to recover from the shock before Lord Dreycott turned. She dropped her eyes immediately, startled by a movement in the shadows at the back of the room. The man Gregor had also turned to look at her, his face impassive. He was dressed like the baron, except that he was all in plain dark blue save for his white shirt, and his hair was cropped short.

      ‘Miss Haddon.’ Lord Dreycott came forwards. ‘You will forgive my costume; I have no European clothing suitable for evening wear as yet.’

      ‘Of course, my lord.’ Who could object to sitting down to dinner with an exotic creature from the Arabian Nights or Childe Harold? She felt like a drab little peahen against his peacock magnificence.

      ‘Will you sit here?’ He pulled out the chair to the right of the head of the table, then took his own, which Gregor held. The man stepped back, folded his arms and gazed impassively over their heads as the footmen began to serve soup.

      ‘I have explained to Gregor that as it is highly unlikely that you intend to poison my food there is no need for him to taste it first,’ Lord Dreycott remarked.

      ‘Indeed, my lord?’ Lina said, so taken aback that she spoke without thinking, ‘As none of us knows you yet, we would have no reason to, would we?’ He raised his eyebrows at her forthright tone and she realised what she had said. ‘Forgive me, but do you have many attempts made upon your life?’

      ‘Enough to make me wary,’ he said. ‘It is hard to get out of the habit of precautions. Gregor, as you see, will watch my back whatever the setting.’

      Lina choked back a laugh, the picture of the silent Gregor padding after Lord Dreycott at some society function tickling her imagination. The old baron had been outrageous, but he had never provoked her into almost giving way to giggles with her mouth full of soup. She could barely even recall the last time she had felt amused.

      ‘Must you call me my lord, Miss Haddon? I keep wondering to whom you are speaking.’

      ‘I am sure you will soon become accustomed to the title, and there is nothing else I may properly call you, my lord.’ Lina took a bread roll and tried not to stare at the richly embroidered shirt cuff so close to her left hand. Certainly she did not want to contemplate the tanned hand with a heavy gold ring on one long finger.

      ‘We could dispense with propriety,’ he suggested. ‘My name is Jonathan Quinn Ashley. No one calls me Jonathan and I suppose you will not accept Quinn as proper.’ She heard the amusement in his voice at the word. She doubted he often gave much thought to propriety. ‘You must call me Ashley, which is my surname. What is your given name?’

      ‘Celina, my…Ashley. But really, I cannot, it would be most unsuitable in my position.’

      ‘What position? You are a guest. And who are we going to scandalise?’ Quinn Ashley enquired. ‘Gregor is unshockable, I assure you. And after years in my great-uncle’s service I imagine Trimble and the staff are hardened to far worse behaviour than a little informality. Is that not so, Trimble?’ He pitched his voice to the butler, who was standing by the sideboard, supervising.

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