Slave to the Night (The Brotherhood 2)

"The dot?" he repeated.

"You've not been listening to a word I have said. The next page is blank, but if you examine it under the light, you can see the indentations. It isn't Markham. It is Mark dot ham."

Elliot turned the page to study it himself. "I see what you mean. So you think she met with someone called Mark?"

"I'm not sure," she said with a sigh. "Your name is mentioned, which is why I assumed it was you. But there is no other mention of a Mark."

Curious to know what Miss Rosemond had written, he flicked back through the pages. "Where are the notes she made about me?"

She snatched the diary from him. "It is rude to read someone's private thoughts. I only did so because I feared the worst." She studied his face for a moment, sighed and then conceded. "Under the circumstances, I suppose you deserve to know what she wrote, but I shall read it to you."

"Very well."

Finding the relevant page, she began. "Lord Markham was as arrogant as ever, but I see the way he looks at me with those lustful eyes. Given time, I believe I have what it takes to win him over. The only qualities he admires amount to—" She stopped abruptly.

"Go on."

"The rest doesn't really matter."

"It matters to me. Go on."

"The … the only qualities he admires amount to nothing more than a m-moist mouth and a warm body. Although I believe the latter is somewhat negotiable."

Disdain bubbled away in his gut, and he stormed over to the drinks table. The blood slithered into the glass without making a sound. He swallowed it down, closed his eyes and savoured the taste. Truth be told, he felt ashamed. Something he'd never felt, something he never expected he would.

Mrs. Denton walked over to him. "It is just one person's opinion."

"Is it? I wouldn't be so sure."

What troubled him most was why he wanted Grace Denton to think better of him. Why did the idea of finding something more than the shallow, insipid women he was used to, cause hope to unfurl like the first fresh flower of spring?

A knock on the door disturbed his reverie, and he glanced up to see Whithers.

"The guest room is ready, my lord, and a bath has been drawn."

"Thank you, Whithers. You may leave the tub in the room tonight and dispense with it in the morning."

Whithers coughed into his fist. "And Lord Hartford is here."

What the hell did Leo want? At this hour, he was usually nestled comfortably between soft thighs.

Mrs. Denton stepped forward. "Invite your guest in, my lord. I'm tired and shall retreat to my room."

It was for the best. The more time he spent in her company, the more he lost all grip on reality, the more his mind was plagued by whimsical fantasies.

"Give us a minute, Whithers, and then you may show Lord Hartford in." As Whithers retreated, he turned to his delectable guest. "I'm a late riser, so we will confer later in

the afternoon. Whithers will provide anything you need in the meantime."

She smiled, but the beautiful image faded as Leo's voice boomed through the hall. "Is he in here?" The gentleman strode in like a true Turkish prince. "As you left the party so early, I thought I'd bring it to you. The ladies are waiting in my carriage and—" He stopped abruptly, his wide eyes focusing on Grace Denton.

"Forgive me," Leo said offering a gracious bow. "I did not expect you to have company."

Elliot turned to Mrs. Denton. "Whithers will show you up to your room."

She inclined her head. "Thank you, my lord."

Ignoring Leo's frown, he watched her walk from the room.