How to Marry an Earl (A Cinderella Society 1)

He shook his head ruefully. “Aye, it might be at that.”

When the celebrationstapered off enough for Persephone to escape, she darted back to her chambers. She checked under the bed, inside the dressing room and the cabinet. No one nefarious hid inside, waiting to do her in. She might finally unclench the muscles in her spine.

The fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney and light flashing over silver candlesticks and gold framed paintings of hills and stone circles and a single confused looking sheep. It was familiar, comfortable.

She sat at the table in the corner and put pencil to paper on the writing desk. It was sloped, wood worn to a satiny finish with tiny flowers along the edge. She started the list she had promised Conall of the guests who were still happily ensconced at Lady Culpepper’s house party. It was then that she noticed a letter next to the inkwell; thick parchment and a wax seal she recognized. The British Museum.

Finally, something normal. A forgery which did not have a life hanging in the balance, or some new item they might consider lending last-minute to the duke for his exhibition. She had tried to convince them to share one of the Elgin marbles, even just a piece, but to no avail.

The letter, once skimmed, had her eyes narrowing.

“Conall Hunter, you sneak.”

He was trying to keep her out of the investigation. He’d contacted the museum and asked them to send them their most competent forgery expert. And they were sending her.

Serves him right.

How dare he work behind her back? He might have saved her life, but it hardly gave him the right to now make autocratic decisions with it.

A noise at the balcony made her skin prickle. She rose slowly, gown swishing over the carpet as she reached for a candlestick. It was reasonably heavy, certainly heavy enough to do some damage. She ought to scream for help, but the other guests were still below stairs, laughing and drinking through yet another parade of champagne. The duke did like to celebrate.

She could hide behind the curtains or slip out the door.

Or she could take her assailant by surprise and knock him about the head until he agreed to leave Henry out of his plots.

She found she had a rather bloodthirsty urge to do the latter.

“Percy?”

The voice was soft, husky. Recognizable.

Unfortunately, her body was already moving and the adrenaline coursing through her veins made her brain a little slow to catch up. She shrieked like Boudicca on the battlefield, the silver candlestick overhead as she rushed the intruder.

Conall.

He was faster than a man who spent his evenings dancing in ballrooms or playing the violin had any right to be. He caught her wrist tightly, stopping the candlestick before it could collide with his head. Instinct had him following through with the movement, turning her abruptly so that her back was against the wall. It was so fast, too fast. She was pinned before she could instruct her feet to kick or her knee to jam up. His expression was hard, focused. Gone was the charming earl; someone else stood in his place. Her breath caught in her throat.

Then he caught her gaze. His stance relaxed though he did not let her go. “Persephone?”

She blinked back, adrenaline tingling through her. It made her thighs feel hot and heavy.

Possibly not adrenaline.

“Who else did you expect in my bedroom?”

“Our traitor.” He glanced down at her, noting the flush of her cheeks, the rise and fall of her breasts, pushed by her stays. “I’m sorry if I frightened you,” he said, suddenly abashed. “I’m still on alert, it would seem.”

“I’m sorry if I frightened you,” she returned. Her voice sounded odd, breathy. To compensate, she tugged at his grasp on her wrist.

“You did, rather,” he nearly grinned. “But it serves me right. I ought to have thought it through.” Mollified, she stopped pulling at her arm, trying to free herself. “You’re rather fierce.”

“Not that it did me much good,” she grumbled.

“Next time don’t shout when you attack,” he suggested. “And you’re a little…petite… for the overhead strike.”

“Are you saying I’m short?”

“Are you saying you’re not?”