Maximillian Hunt, the extremely reluctant Viscount Warfield, glowered at the lamp on his desk and fervently hoped it would soon cease reminding him of his unwelcome houseguest. Perhaps she would do as he’d said and leave today. Last night had been too late to depart, of course. Not even he was so beastly as to demand she venture out into the darkness.
But today was pleasant and plenty light enough. If she were smart, she’d leave as soon as she broke her fast.
At that precise moment, Mrs. Bundle came in bearing his breakfast tray, as she did every morning around this time. She brought the tray to his desk and removed the cover to reveal the usual plate: toast, eggs, kippers, and turnips.
“Where would you like to meet with Miss Treadway after breakfast?” she asked perfunctorily.
“Nowhere. I’d like you to get her to leave.”
“I feel certain you’ll be able to do that without my assistance,” she said with a touch of heat, which she hadn’t done with him in some time.
Chewing a bite of toast, he slid her a glower.
She glared right back at him. “Meet her in the library. With your ledgers. She’s here to help, and you need it.”
He growled before taking another bite of toast, masticating it as if it were meat instead of bread, and that he was the beast everyone described him to be.
Because he was.
Mrs. Bundle put her hands on her hips and fixed him with maternal disdain. It was one of the few things that could still provoke discomfort—the kind he felt when he knew he ought to do better and thought, perhaps, that he should.
“We can’t keep on as we are.” She glanced toward the window that looked out to the overgrown gardens. “Stonehill requires a much larger staff to care for the house, let alone the grounds. Your tenants need support, or they’ll move on. Are you truly content to allow Stonehill to fall into disrepair?”
Max shrugged. “What do I care? I don’t plan to wed or have children, and I am not aware of any heirs to the title. Does it really matter what happens to the estate?”
The housekeeper’s brown eyes sparked with anger. “Only to the tenants. One of these days, you’re going to drive me to leave. And Timothy will come with me. Where will you be then?”
He speared a whole kipper on his fork and fixed her with a dark stare. “I’ll be right here, surveying the view of my dilapidated gardens.” Stuffing the fish into his mouth, he champed it harshly, grinding his teeth in the process.
She gave a disgusted snort. “And who will bring your breakfast?”
“One of the scullery maids.”
“There is only one, and she’s only here in the afternoons. You could ask Mrs. Debley, I suppose, but she’s worked to the bone, not that she would say so or that you would care. What’s worse is that she’ll do it until she’s in her grave. Anything for her ‘dearest boy.’” Mrs. Bundle rolled her eyes.
Max suffered a moment’s self-recrimination. Mrs. Debley had been the cook at Stonehill since before he was born. She and Og in the stables were the only retainers left who had known him as a boy. She’d also known his father, his brother, and, of course, his beloved mother. If she—or Og—left, he might truly break.
If he wasn’t already broken.
He pulled himself back to the situation at hand—his aggrieved housekeeper. “If you want to leave, you should.”
“Who will be here to clean up after you and ensure you don’t waste away?”
Max shrugged again. “Perhaps I want to. Waste away, that is.”
She groaned, her frustration palpable. “Please go to the library to meet Miss Treadway when you’re finished. She’s quite charming and seems capable. Just give her what she needs and stay out of her way. Perhaps she can set things right.” Mrs. Bundle turned, her shoulders sagging as she retreated from the study.
Another pang of self-loathing dashed through him. Mrs. Bundle should leave—she’d be better off. No one could set things right, not his hardworking housekeeper, and certainly not some meddlesome chit from Lucien’s silly London club.
Lowering his gaze to his plate, Max pushed the food around. As usual, he’d started his meal with gusto only to lose his appetite rather quickly. It was too bad, for Mrs. Debley was an exceptionally fine cook. Even with a dearth of help in the kitchen.
He set his utensils down and reached for the coffee, taking too much into his mouth and scalding his tongue. Swallowing, he set the cup back down with a muttered curse.
Things were fine as they were. Mrs. Debley clearly didn’t need help in the kitchen, and Mrs. Bundle was managing things just fine. She was only provoking him because she was worried. How he loathed that word. If he never heard it again the rest of his life, it would be too soon. Everyone had been nothing but worried since he’d returned from Spain.
There was nothing to worry about. The estate wasn’t in shambles, and the tenants wouldn’t leave because he didn’t raise the rent. Indeed, perhaps he’d lower their rent to compensate for his poor management. Yes, that was a capital idea. Then Mrs. Bundle could stop worrying about that at least.
Pushing the tray away, he leaned back in his chair and looked at the portrait hanging over the mantel. His mother’s loving smile didn’t ease his pain, but it quieted the noise, at least for a few moments.
How had it been nearly twenty years since her passing? He could still feel her comforting embrace, smell her rose-and-peony soap, hear her warm laugh. But recalling things had never been his problem. In fact, memories were what kept him immersed in suffering.
And that was precisely what he deserved.
Fuck it.
He abruptly stood, sweeping up his coffee cup so it nearly sloshed over the rim. Just what he needed, a burn on his hand to go with the one on his tongue. What was one more wound?
Max stalked into the library and immediately caught sight of a blue skirt swaying far above eye level on the other side of the room. His unwelcome guest teetered on one of the very old, very rickety ladders used to access the books on the highest shelves. They were in need of replacement or repair, but he never used them.
“Oh!”
The rung on which she perched gave out. Max dropped his coffee cup and sprinted across the library, catching his thigh on a piece of furniture in his haste. Pain shot through him, but he didn’t slow. She dangled from the ladder by one hand, her feet swinging as she sought purchase.
“Help!” The plea leapt from her lips as she lost her grip and fell.
Strong arms caught Ada, and she gasped. Her rescuer grunted, his arms holding her tightly against his hard, broad chest.
She looked up into his face, seeing it for the first time in the light of day. His handsome, chiseled, and terribly scarred face. Framed with too-long but neatly combed blond hair. The night before, it had been untidy, falling across his forehead in a rather dashing manner.
“Thank you,” she managed, sounding rather breathless.
He narrowed his hazel eyes at her. They were more green at the center, becoming increasingly brown toward the outside. “You’re quite a little fool, aren’t you?”
“I’m not the one who allowed the ladder in my library to fall into disrepair.”
Satisfaction glimmered in his gaze. “You recognized its failure was imminent, yet chose to climb it anyway?”
“That’s not at all what I said. I recognized its imminent failure when it was too late to climb down. My goodness, but you are incredibly disagreeable. I thought I was prepared for your boorishness, but I can see I underestimated your lack of amiability. It isn’t just lacking; it’s nonexistent.”
He released her with a grunt, ensuring her feet had found the floor before he stepped back. “Then we are well suited, for I must say you suffer from a severe paucity of charm.”
She gaped at him, wounded to the quick. “Everyone finds me charming, or at least amenable and pleasant to be around. You bring out the worst in me, clearly.”
“It’s one of my finest skills.”
Was he bragging about his ability to provoke others’ worst natures? Who would do such a thing? “Is that your intent? To make everyone else as miserable as you are?”
His features shuttered, making his expression completely inscrutable. “That would be impossible.”
“Then you admit you’re miserable.” That was a start at least. But a start to what? Did she really think she’d be able to cure whatever ailed him during her fortnight here? What if it wasn’t a curable ailment? Just because he’d been vastly different—according to both Lucien, who’d known him very well, and Prudence’s mother, who’d known the viscount’s father well—before he’d gone to war didn’t mean he could go back to being that way. Perhaps he was permanently damaged.
No, Ada refused to think that. Everyone could come back from the abyss. She had.
His jaw worked, as though he clenched his teeth. “I admitted nothing. You are an insulting chit.”
“I’m insulting?” She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a benign smile. “You’re only trying to provoke me to leave. Don’t bother. I’m here to complete my task.” She narrowed one eye. “What are you so afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid,” he snapped. “I simply want to be left alone. You’re intruding on my privacy.”
“Heaven forbid! I am more than happy to leave you alone. I require your ledgers, not you. I’ll write up any questions I have, and you can respond in writing. We needn’t even see each other again.” Except then she couldn’t try to coax forth the kinder, more pleasant gentleman buried beneath the beast before her. Assuming that gentleman could be found.
He seemed to mull what she offered, his lips pressing together, and his gaze focused beyond her.
She didn’t believe him about not being afraid. Something was keeping him locked inside his misery. What was preventing him from being the man he once was? And how was she to determine answers without spending time with him? Bother!
She’d see what Mrs. Bundle would reveal. Or other retainers, perhaps. Not Timothy, obviously, since he barely spoke. There had to be a maid. Didn’t there? Not that Ada had seen one yet. There most definitely was a cook. Dinner and breakfast had been delicious, and Ada doubted Mrs. Bundle could accomplish the feat of preparing both while attending to her other duties. Especially if there wasn’t a maid. Goodness, what if Mrs. Bundle made all the beds and laid the fires and cleaned and did the laundry and…Ada was suddenly feeling exhausted.
No, there had to be other retainers. Surely there were groomsmen in the stables. Unless Warfield didn’t have any livestock. How could that be? Except, he never went anywhere, so it was entirely possible. Did he expect Mrs. Bundle to venture out to purchase things for the household without a cart at least? Perhaps someone from the village delivered what they required. Including the delicious pheasant that she’d devoured the night before? There must be a gamekeeper. Yes, there had to be people she could speak to about his lordship so she could fully conduct her investigation.
An investigation. That was precisely what was required. There were far too many questions about the viscount, his household, and his estate. Reviewing the ledgers would likely only prompt more questions.
She realized the beast was staring at her, his hazel eyes focused squarely on her face. She wondered what had caused the scars on his cheek and temple.
“Are you finished?” he asked.
Ada blinked at him. “With what?” He couldn’t be asking about her investigation. She’d only just decided that was what she must do. And she certainly wasn’t going to tell him her plan.
“Thinking. You were doing it so loudly that I nearly covered my ears.”
A laugh tumbled from her. Wit was the last thing she’d expected.
His eyes flickered with surprise, as if he too were astonished by what he’d said. But no, he was reacting to her laughter, for now he was glowering at her once more. Ah well, it was nice while it lasted.
Pivoting, he stamped back to his study, and Ada feared she’d ruined everything. Only how could she ruin something that was already a mess?
Perhaps she ought to follow him, to persuade him that he needed her. Or at least remind him that he was stuck with her for the full fortnight since Lucien’s coach wouldn’t return to fetch her until then. And if Warfield truly didn’t have any livestock, she was most certainly stranded.
Stranded with a beast. This had all the makings of a gothic novel.
Just when she was about to stalk after him into his study, he reappeared, his arms laden with books as he moved across the library to a table near the windows. He dropped the stack of volumes onto the top and turned to face her.
Ada hurried to join him, pushing aside her shock that he’d actually fetched the bloody ledgers. “I hope these are the ledgers,” she said, voicing her next thought.
“The past five years.”
Back to before his father had died, when presumably things were in better order. But perhaps they hadn’t been. It was possible the beast had inherited a failing estate. Was that why he was this way? Had his father been a poor viscount and somehow driven his son to become this angry ogre? Ada shook her head. If she wasn’t careful, her overactive mind was going to write this gothic novel in her head before she puzzled out the truth.
She looked out the windows and gasped. What should have been stunning gardens were laid out but horribly overgrown. There were also a great many dead things. It was an abysmal sight. “What on earth is going on out there?”
“Never mind,” he growled. “Focus on your task.”
“The gardens are my task. They are part of Stonehill.”
“They aren’t necessary to running a profitable estate. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
That was why Lucien had sent her, but that was no longer her only purpose. She had an investigation to conduct and a man to rehabilitate. “Yes, that is why I’m here,” she said evenly. “Your friend, Lord Lucien, wants to ensure Stonehill is profitable and that you can maintain it that way.”
His lip curled as his gaze moved to the windows. “I don’t care if it’s profitable. I’d be just fine letting it rot.”
She pursed her lips. “I’d say the garden is well on its way. Were you always this selfish? I’ve been led to believe you were once far more amiable.”
He turned his frigid gaze on her, but said nothing.
“I understand the war wounded you, changed you, but does everyone around you need to suffer because of that? What of your retainers? Your tenants?”
“Goddammit, woman!” he thundered, startling Ada. But she refused to flinch, even if she did feel a trifle frightened by his reaction. He leaned toward her, his features menacing. “You push too far.”
She imagined he was a fearful sight on the battlefield. It was no wonder he was a decorated war hero. Gentling her tone, she stood her ground and said, “What if I can find a steward to run the estate for you? Then you wouldn’t have to concern yourself with any of it.”
“I had a steward,” he clipped.
She knew that, of course, but not why he didn’t have one anymore. “What happened to him?”
“He left.”
She probably oughtn’t press him, but the investigation was afoot. “Why?”
Stony silence was his response.
“Did he find another position elsewhere?” She waited for him to answer, but he did not. “Did you stop paying him?” She held her breath, praying he would respond. Still nothing. It seemed goading was the only thing he reacted to—or could be guaranteed to react to. How she hated to poke at a wounded animal. In her sunniest tone, she offered, “Perhaps he simply found you impossible to work with.”
His nostrils flared, and he growled. At last, he spoke. “You have one week, not a fortnight. I’m not agreeing to anything beyond that. I would be grateful if you could complete your work even faster.” He stepped closer, towering over her with his height and bulk. “If you question me or speak to me in that manner again, I’ll toss you out, regardless of the time of day. Or the weather.”
Spinning about, he tramped back to his study and slammed the door.
Well. That hadn’t gone too badly. But if he thought he could get rid of her before the fortnight was through, he was quite mistaken. When she sent him her first note, she’d remind him that Lucien’s coach wouldn’t return to fetch her until then.
In the meantime, she’d better find out whether he actually had any livestock.
Max had managed to get through an entire day without suffering the presence of his unwanted guest. Still, he’d been deeply aware of her in the library. Why hadn’t he thought to situate her far from his study instead of immediately adjacent?
As he finished his toilet, he worked to breathe and think of inane things. When he went to pick up his coat, he cleared his mind completely. For whatever reason, the simple act of donning this garment so often took him back to Spain. To that horrible day…
It was perhaps the best argument to hire a valet, but he still couldn’t bring himself to do so. He’d managed quite well on his own, and allowing someone that close to him wasn’t something he wished to do. Furthermore, he wasn’t even supposed to be a viscount or live this bloody life. By all accounts, he should be dead. Instead, his father and brother were, and here he was.
Pleased that he’d successfully avoided the unwanted memories, he made his way downstairs to his study. Was Miss Treadway already at work in the library? She had been yesterday morning. Apparently, she was a very early riser since she’d been up before Max, and he rose with the sun—or before it, depending on how or if he slept. That she’d beat him downstairs also annoyed him. Everything about her annoyed him.
She was too damned pleasant. And she was obviously thinking constantly. No, not just thinking, plotting. She was organizing some scheme or even a series of schemes. Perhaps he was being paranoid. Mrs. Bundle would say so.
Upon arriving in his study, he repeated what he’d done yesterday—he went to the door leading to the library and gently pried it open a few inches. He peered through the small opening toward the table near the windows. There she was again, her dark hair piled neatly atop her head, the column of her throat arcing as she bent over her work.
She’d beat him again. Yes, he should have stationed her in the sitting room upstairs at the front of the house. Then she would have been on an entirely different floor. Perhaps he’d move her there today. When she took a break from her work, he’d have Timothy carry her things upstairs. Unless she didn’t take any breaks. That would be just like her to be annoyingly committed to her work.
Closing the door, he retreated to his desk, then froze. A folded piece of parchment sat in the center. His name was written in beautiful strokes across the paper. There was no question who had put it there.
With a scowl, he snatched it up and opened it. She’d written out a series of questions. Did he have any vacant cottages? Any vacant farms? Did he personally collect the quarterly rents, and if not, who did? It went on and on, with a dozen or more queries. The last asked whether he had livestock, and if so, how many and what kind?
He read the closing twice, astonished by her brazenness.
I would be delighted if you would respond in person; however, if you would prefer to do so in writing, I have left space so that you may record your answers on this paper. I do appreciate your time.
Most sincerely,
Miss Treadway
Was she angling to become his steward? No, she already had a job at Lucien’s infernal club in London, which Lucien kept trying to persuade Max to join. The thought of mingling with people, socially or otherwise, made Max’s lip curl. That was why he’d mostly stayed away from the House of Lords, though he ought to attend. He’d been a few times, and on each occasion had beaten as hasty a retreat as possible.
It was the way people looked at him—with warmth and pride as they thanked him for his heroism. If they only knew the truth, they would revile him instead. He’d be banned from the Lords, his title stripped, probably. Not that he cared about any of that. His brother should have inherited the title, but fate had stolen him too. Everyone whom Max cared about met the same end. Well, most everyone. Hence, he now cared for no one.
He returned his mind to the need for a steward. He’d driven poor Acton away by refusing to allow him to spend money on improvements and by being generally obnoxious. Max had declined to meet with him, nor did he read the man’s reports. Frustrated, Acton had taken another position, which was precisely what Max had hoped. Indeed, he’d been satisfied when most of the retainers at Stonehill had taken themselves off. The fewer people around him, the better.
He grudgingly admitted that Miss Treadway was slightly impressive, at least in her zeal. In one day, she’d invested more time into his estate than he did in a month. He flinched, his shoulders twitching.
Going back to the library door, he pried it open again and looked in.
“My lord?”
Startled, he pulled the door shut more loudly than he would have preferred. He turned to see Mrs. Bundle setting his breakfast tray on the desk. “Just leave it there,” he said grumpily.
The housekeeper’s dark brows arched briefly. “Are you going to eat?”
“Of course.” But he made no move toward the desk.
Mrs. Bundle pursed her lips before turning and leaving. Exhaling, Max carefully opened the door again, half expecting to find Miss Treadway right there in response to hearing the door shut. But she wasn’t. She was still seated at her table, her attention wholly focused on her task.
Max clenched her missive in his grasp and walked toward her. She was incredibly engaged in her work, for she didn’t look up at all as he approached. He noted the little pleats between her brows as she read the book laid open on the table beneath her gaze. She was rather attractive, in an adorable, endearing way. Which was asinine because there was nothing he found adorable nor endearing.
He scowled just as she looked up, a brilliant smile lighting her face. She instantly went from adorable to captivating. He hated that his body responded with a mild heat.
“You ask too many damned questions.”
She nodded, unperturbed by his sourness. “I do. It’s a personality trait that some find aggravating, I admit. But I can’t help my curiosity.” She smiled again. “In this case, my questions are quite necessary. Will you answer them?” She sounded both hopeful and doubtful at the same time.
“My steward collected the rents until he left last year.”
“And who has collected them since?”
“Og.”
She cocked her head to the side. “Is that a person?”
“Ogden, the stable master.”
She wrote down his name on a parchment to the side of her book, where she’d written a great deal in her lovely, sweeping hand. “How did he know what to collect?”
“He had a list.”
“I see. And he recorded the payments? I can’t seem to find a record of payments since Mr. Acton left last spring.”
“Og must have marked them on the list.”
“He reads, then?” she asked cautiously.
“Er…probably?” Og was over sixty and had worked in the Stonehill stables most of his life. When would he have learned to read and why? Max hated that he felt stupid, especially in front of Miss Treadway. Which was irritating since she was the one making him feel stupid with her endless questions.
That he ought to know the answers to.
But he didn’t. He had no desire to manage this estate. Did it matter if the rents were collected? He didn’t need the money.
“I’ll speak to Og,” she said with another perturbing smile. “Care to answer any other questions?”
“There is one vacant farm.”
“Oh, thank you.” She scribbled the information down. “I wasn’t quite sure. There’s an indication that a lease terminated last fall, but no record if they left or perhaps entered into another lease.”
The farmer had requested to meet with Max, but he’d declined—not that Max would tell her that. Then Og had informed him that the farm had been vacated after the harvest.
“Are there any potential tenants?” she asked expectantly, her blue-gray eyes fixed on him with that bloody curiosity she’d mentioned. She was beyond curious—she was meddlesome.
“Not that I’m aware of.” Hell, he really did need a steward, even if he didn’t plan to maintain the estate for future generations. He just needed to hire someone who understood that. Perhaps that was how he could get her to leave him alone. “If I promise to hire a steward, will you return to London?”
“Hiring a steward is an excellent idea!” she exclaimed brightly. “But no, I can’t return to London until the end of the fortnight when Lucien’s coach returns to fetch me. I’m afraid you have to suffer my presence.” She didn’t sound the least bit apologetic.
He leveled her with his sternest stare. “I can send you back in my coach.”
“You do have livestock, then? And a coach?” She snatched up her pencil once more. “How many horses? And how many of them are for riding as opposed to coaching?”
Did she never stop? “What does any of that have to do with the estate?”
She wrote “one coach” on the paper. “Livestock are an expense—their care and whether you need to replace them anytime soon.”
“There is a coach and a cart and some other vehicles.” He shrugged. “You can ask Og when you speak with him.” Shit, now he was encouraging her to speak with his retainers? Og was the only person who might be surlier than him, so it was entirely possible that the stable master wouldn’t spare even a moment for her.
Max ought to warn her about that. He did not.
“What about the horses you ride?” she pressed.
Tension gripped his frame, and he clenched his teeth. “I don’t ride.”
Her gaze widened with surprise. “I see. Actually, no, I don’t see. You’re a viscount. I thought it was a requirement that noblemen gad about the countryside on horseback. How do you even hunt?”
“I don’t ride, and I don’t hunt.” And he didn’t explain. “If I promise to hire a steward, you’ll leave in my coach?”
“No, because I’m not sure I trust you to hire someone. Anyway, you can’t hire a steward within my allotted fortnight. I suppose I could always extend my—”
“No.”
“Visit, but—what I was going to say before you rudely interrupted—you obviously won’t allow that.” She gave him a scolding look. “Furthermore, I’ve only just begun, and I promised Lucien a thorough review. I keep my promises, my lord.”
She didn’t say that he didn’t keep his, but she’d just admitted to not trusting him, which was nearly the same thing.
“I’ve begun reading about estate management.” She inclined her head toward the open book on the table. “I’d love to speak with your tenants, and I imagine that will take at least the fortnight—”
“That is not what you are here to do. I don’t know what constitutes your ‘thorough review,’ but it isn’t interviewing my tenants. You’re here to look at my ledgers. You’ve already far overstepped. I should return you to London immediately.”
“You said should, which leads me to believe you will not.” Her lips spread in a brief satisfied smile. “What harm am I doing, exactly, Lord Warfield?”
She was aggravating the hell out of him.
“I think you must realize this is important,” she continued. “To ensure your ledgers are updated and accurate, I need information. I’m sure you’ll agree, however, that accuracy isn’t enough. Your estate must be profitable, and I suspect it’s not.” A faint grimace pulled at her alluring pink lips.
Wait. She was saying Stonehill was failing. Anger coiled within him.
Except he didn’t care if the estate failed. He had no reason to make it profitable. There was enough money for him to live out his life, however long he was cursed to endure it.
The urge to toss her in his coach and have Og drive her to London was overwhelming. But he knew Lucien would only come back and harass him again. The next time Lucien visited, Max feared they would come to blows. Again. Perhaps this time, they wouldn’t stop.
Exhaling, he ran his hand through his hair. She was staring at him. Specifically, at the scarred left side of his face. He’d been intrigued by the fact that she hadn’t seemed to notice his disfigurement, but clearly she had. Just as she didn’t want him to know that it bothered her, as evidenced by her rapid blinking and refocusing on the other side of his face. The handsome side. Sometimes he wished it was scarred too.
“If you stay, can you stop annoying me?” he asked.
She frowned, and the little pleats between her brows that he’d noticed while she was reading returned. “I confess I find it difficult to understand why you find me annoying. In general, people find me quite amiable and often seek my company. I try very hard to improve the moods of those around me. If someone is having a bad day, I do my best to make it better.” She pinned him with a frank stare. “You seem to have perpetual bad days, and so far, nothing I do improves a thing. I’ve tried to stay out of your way. That’s why I left you a note instead of bothering you in person.”
Yes, she had done that. He hadn’t even spoken to her yesterday, and the only reason he’d seen her was because he’d spied on her. “I do appreciate that.”
She was also right that every single day was bad. So perhaps it wasn’t that she was annoying at all. The problem, which he very much knew, was his.
Except she was annoying, and it was precisely because she was charming and exuberant and sought to cheer him. He didn’t want to let go of any of the bitterness that made him the nasty beast he’d become and that everyone avoided. If he allowed her to break through his defenses even the slightest bit, his war could very well be lost.
“Would you like to answer the rest of my questions now?” she asked hopefully.
“In writing.” He’d had enough of her for the moment. “Just do your work and leave me alone. And don’t bother anyone unless you ask me first.”
“How am I to do that and leave you alone at the same time? Shall I request to meet with people in writing and wait for your approval? That seems rather inefficient.”
He growled low in his throat.
“That wasn’t a response. Or if it was, I can’t translate it. I’m afraid I don’t speak Angry Gentleman.” She leaned toward him slightly. “Is there a guide that would help me?”
Now she was just poking fun. Trying to improve his mood. He refused to be amused.
He glowered at her. “You’re annoying me again.”
“My apologies. I will send you a list of the people I wish to see. Is there someone who can drive me around the estate in your coach? Or do you perhaps have a cart so that I can see things without having to peer through a window?”
She acted as if she were some sort of expert on estates. “What on earth would you even be looking for?”
Shrugging, she waved her hand. “Everything. I’m a keen observer. And an excellent listener.”
“I find that hard to believe since you’re almost always talking,” he muttered.
“Would it further annoy you for me to say that you are also being annoying?” she asked sweetly.
She nearly provoked him to laugh. Nearly. He gritted his teeth.
Her eyes lit. “Was that a faint smile?”
“No. I had a pain in my gut. It’s a result of my present company. I must excuse myself.”
“I’ll have a list for you by this evening.” She returned her attention to the book on the table. “And I’ll look forward to reading your responses.”
He felt dismissed, which annoyed him even more. Before he could say something else, which would only prolong this irritating conversation, he stalked back to his office. He slapped her missive with its interminable list of queries onto the desk.
Sitting down, he took the cover from his breakfast and wondered how he would endure the next twelve days.