The Tudor Signet by Carola Dunn Read Free Book Online

care, the combing was a painful process. However, Mariette insisted that she proceed. No one had combed her hair for her since maman died, nor told her her black locks were beautiful, as the kindly abigail did. She peered eagerly into the silver-backed handglass Jenny gave her, trying to see if it were true. As usual, she decided she’d rather be blonde, like Lady Lilian.
    Jenny braided her hair and tied it back with a bit of white satin ribbon. The maid was adjusting a shawl of incredibly soft white wool around Mariette’s uppermost shoulder when someone tapped on the door.
    Wishing she were able to adopt a rather more elegant posture, Mariette called, “Come in.”
    She had first seen Lord Malcolm when she was robbing him, more concerned with his movements than his appearance. After that, she had viewed him through a blur of pain. He had carried her up the stairs as if she weighed no more than a feather bolster. Now she was surprised to find he was of little more than average height, his strength belied by a slight though well-knit frame.
    He was elegantly dressed, she thought, though she had little basis for comparison. His midnight blue coat, brass-buttoned, fitted to perfection. His snowy cravat was elaborately knotted and the frill of his shirt, equally snowy, projected over a low-cut waistcoat of blue and silver brocade. He wore trousers rather than the breeches still more common in the country. They moulded his muscular legs like a second skin...
    Hastily she transferred her gaze to his face: short, light-brown hair, brushed forward in the modern style; a broad brow above blue-grey eyes; a hint of an aristocratic hook to the nose; a determined chin, which Mariette knew was not necessarily a sign of a determined character. Altogether a rather ordinary face--he was nowhere near as good-looking as Ralph, or the haughty Lord Wareham.
    His expression was not a bit haughty. He looked just about as wary as she felt.
    He bowed. “Miss Bertrand,” he said, “allow me to introduce myself. I am Malcolm Eden.”
    His formality put her at her ease. He wasn’t treating her like a thief, like a naughty child, like a lightskirt with whose anatomy he was intimately familiar. He behaved as if she were an ordinary, respectable guest in his sister’s home.
    “How do you do, my lord. I...Get down, Ragamuffin!” She had been too busy staring at Lord Malcolm to notice her dog’s arrival until, miffed at being ignored, he reared up on the bed and licked her nose.
    Watching her pet the dog, Malcolm suddenly decided that, whatever else she might be, she was adorable.
    Before he could follow up this alarming thought, Lilian’s abigail curtsied to him and said, “Her ladyship told me to stay, my lord.”
    “Yes, of course. Why don’t you sit over here, Miss Pennick, and I’ll bring over a branch of candles so that you can see your needlework.” He settled her in a corner by the Dutch-tiled fireplace, as far from the bed as possible.
    For himself, he set a chair at a precisely calculated distance from the bed, far enough for propriety, close enough to talk quietly without being overheard. Though he paused a moment before seating himself, apparently Miss Bertrand was unaware that she ought to give him permission to sit down. She regarded him gravely but without fear, thank heaven. The last thing he needed was to figure as a threat.
    “I must apologize...” they both said at once.
    Malcolm laughed. Her answering smile brought a sparkle to eyes the lucent brown of a clear pool in a moorland stream--and revealed an unexpected dimple. His captivation was completed.
    Gammon!
    He knew his susceptibility to feminine pulchritude and he had never let it interfere with his work. Now was not the moment to succumb. He rushed into speech.
    “I believe, Miss Bertrand, as a gentleman it is my privilege to be the first to apologize, particularly as yours was by far the severer injury. May I hope that you will forgive me?”
    She looked