Millie glanced at the ceiling as she shook her head. “The door is open. And, in case you haven’t noticed, a maid has taken up a place on the stairs, just beyond our sight.”
Neville glanced over his shoulder, catching the swish of dark skirts.
“It’s alright,” Millie called. “Please do keep watch.” She sent him a brief, challenging look. “Although I can’t imagine Lord Neville capable of impropriety.”
“Well,” he said under his breath, “welittle lordlingsdo tend to take our honor seriously.”
“You see?” She threw up her hands. “There’sthe rub.”
“What do you mean?”
“Obviously”—she widened her eyes—“Honor is much too weighty a subject for a dull-witted young lady like me to understand.”
He frowned. “When have I ever suggested that you are dull-witted?”
She blinked rapidly. “I understand that you told my guardian I would be perfection indeed once I had the chance to enhance my intellect.”
Asquith. “I—I…” He had no explanation. “Forgive me.”
She sent him a deeply suspicious glance.
He couldn’t help but admit his earliest behavior toward her, when viewed in retrospect, formed a collective insult like the one she intended to inflict every time she called himlittle lordling.
He ran his hands through his hair. “We shouldn’t be here.”
“I know you find breaking the slightest rule objectionable,” she resumed her mocking tone, “but, really, there cannot be anything improper in us waiting here with a door wide open.”
“You know there is,” he interrupted in a fierce whisper.
“Only,” she whispered back, “if we were intent on atorridassignation.”
His stomach dropped.
“But for my own part, I would rather warm myself with tea.” She smiled pleasantly. “You?”
His consternation must have shown because she looked away and did not resume her teasing.
“Torrid,” he repeated, unable to stop himself.
She had the grace to blush. Then, she angled him a glance. Her gaze moved up and down his person as if reassessing whether he was capable of anythingtorrid.
Ah, Millie.
If she could catch a glimpse of the invisible, inward fires he was, even now, violently stomping, she’d know he wasverycapable of setting them both ablaze. Something in him, something perverse and angry, made him return her lazy perusal with an overtly blistering gaze.
Her neck snapped back. Her brows knit.
“Neville?” she whispered.
The soft, confused query brought him back to his senses. He touched his palm to his forehead and closed his eyes. “Again, forgive me.”
“Well,” she said finally, “we do always tend to be daggers-drawn, do we not?”
She’d spoken louder this time, as if she were attempting to reassure the poor maid, who was likely fearful of her post.
The maid should be concerned. He doubted the duchess would be pleased, if she were to return and find him alone with her sister. As for Harbury’s part, Neville wouldn’t be surprised to feel the tip of his cousin’s flintlock pressed against his own temple.
“We do tend to lock horns,” he conceded.