It was eight-ish by the time Troy got home to Goodwin’s Court. Foxx had her nose in a book, her blue-jeaned legs tucked beneath her backside, the pink tips of her socks just visible.
Troy tilted the book so as to see its title:
Venetia: A Regency Romance by Georgette Heyer
A woman on the cover—heart-shaped face, improbably slender, in a pink dress that matched Foxx’s socks. Things could be worse. She might ask him to get a television set.
“Troy, you’re sneering. Stop it!”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. I can hear you. Your inner sneer is nagging at you even as you tell me lies.”
“Force of habit. My education ruined me.”
“Liar. You mean mine ruined me, don’t you?”
Troy shrugged off his coat, flopped down next to her.
“Is it interesting?”
Foxx said nothing, gathered herself with a squirm.
“OK. Then give me the gist of the plot.”
Foxx flipped open the dust cover, as though refreshing her memory from the publisher’s blurb.
“Well, Venetia’s an orphan …”
“Score one.”
“Shut up! Venetia’s an orphan … well, she thinks she’s an orphan … lives on an estate in Yorkshire … and she falls for Lord Jasper, the wicked baron who lives next door …”
Troy aimed for a blank expression—blank even if the muscles in his cheeks turned to agony suppressing a grin.
Foxx suddenly slammed the book shut.
“Oh God. What am I saying? It’s utter fucking tosh, isn’t it?”
She stood up sharply, threw the book at his groin, and stomped kitchenward.
“I’ll cook. Cooking and fucking. The only things I’m good for. You utter fucking bastard!”
Troy let the book fall to the floor. Lay back against the sofa. His inner sneer gave way to something fatter and fluffier and several degrees warmer. A voice that said, “It’s over.”