How to Master Your Marquis by Juliana Gray Read Free Book Online Page B

mischievous young princess and a week spent with the solid weight of a Gutenberg Bible balanced atop her head.
    “Yes, Mr. Thomas. About you. You don’t seem the ordinary sort of law clerk at all.” Hatherfield served himself and slumped with massive masculine grace into the chair behind him, dangling his wine from one hand and his bread and cheese from the other, glossy blond hair flopping in an irresistible wave onto his forehead. Apollo transformed to Dionysus.
    Hmm. Stefanie rather liked Dionysus.
    She slumped into her own chair, not to be outdone, and propped her foot upon the desk for good measure. “For that matter, your lordship, you don’t seem the ordinary sort of marquis, if you don’t mind my observing. All this rowing business. Fetching supper for lowly clerks, unannounced. Haven’t you a club in which to drink yourself silly and gamble away your fortune? A mistress on whom to get a bastard or two?” A luxurious sip of wine. “Explain yourself.”
    Hatherfield coughed. “You first.”
    Stefanie gestured outward with her wine hand. “Nothing to tell. I am as you see me. Humble fellow seeking to make his fortune in the law.”
    “Really.”
    “Really.”
    Hatherfield bit into his bread and cheese and ate without hurry. His gaze settled at the top of her head and traveled warmly downward, bite by bite, lingering on the buttons of her waistcoat, the seam of her trousers, until he reached the tip of her shoe where it rested atop the desk. He swallowed his last. “How fortunate, then, that you can count on the patronage of the Duke of Olympia in your quest for professional glory.”
    Stefanie’s skin tingled, her clothes itched. Could he see the lurch of her heart beneath her waistcoat? She kept her limbs still under his lazy stare, her face mild, but the effort required all her concentration. He’d asked a question. What was it? “Olympia?” she said feebly.
    “Yes. A lucky coincidence, having such a powerful chap so thoroughly in your corner.”
    “We are related. On my mother’s side.”
    “I see. Eat your supper, Thomas. You need your strength.”
    Stefanie, not ordinarily an obedient sort of girl, found herself biting into her bread with vigor. “And you, sir?” she asked, through her full mouth, as slovenly and unfeminine as she could manage. “Isn’t your mistress expecting you this evening?”
    “I don’t have a mistress, Mr. Thomas.”
    Was that a trace of emphasis on the Mister ? Was that a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth? Stefanie lifted her other leg to the desk and crossed it over the first.
    “Come now, your lordship,” she said. “We are both men of the world, aren’t we? A gorgeous young fellow like you, a fine, healthy animal. A chap has his needs, hasn’t he? Nothing to be ashamed of.”
    “I’m flattered by your assessment of my charms, Mr. Thomas, but I’m afraid I must disappoint you there.” He spread his hands. “No mistress.”
    “Ah. You’re between lovers, then?”
    “In fact, I’ve never kept a mistress.” Hatherfield shrugged and drank the rest of his wine, without moving his eyes so much as a millimeter away from the center of Stefanie’s gaze. He leaned forward and refilled his glass.
    “Oh. I see.” Stefanie had just opened her mouth to ask why, when an Awful Possibility occurred to her.
    No mistress. Warm gaze traveling down the length of Stefanie’s trousers. Masculine beauty beyond the range of ordinary human imagination. That absent mustache, those shaved cheeks, as sleek as a boy’s.
    Stefanie’s mouth went dry with disappointment. Well, not disappointment, surely. It wasn’t as if she’d ever contemplated . . . After all, she had her disguise to maintain . . . Well, really, she was a princess, and once she regained her title, there could be no . . .
    Oh, but still. He was so . . . so . . . delicious. Sprawled there in his chair, simmering with gorgeousness and strength and a sort of intent inventiveness, his