Perhaps longer, as it took exactly seven and three-quarters of another minute for anyone to answer the door.
Finally. Good heavens, what on earth does it take to…
He had to blink several times at the golden light shining in front of him when the door creaked open to reveal someone. His tight jaw slackened, and he blinked several times.
This is not an elderly woman.
CHAPTER 2
Few guests came to Redcliff Manor.
In truth, no one had a reason to come unless they wished to stare at the few who remained in residence.
The late Marquess, her father, had unfortunately cast a dark cloud on the name, the estate, and the now barren coffers.
As the new Marquess had written to confirm that he never wished to step foot there, all of this made a quiet life for Verity Redcliff.
Until now.
A handsome stranger stood in her doorway with the most disgruntled expression she’d ever seen.
She clutched the open door, eyeing him warily. A good minute passed and he said nothing. All he did was stare.
At last, Verity opened her mouth. “Welcome to Redcliff Manor. Who might you be?”
The well-dressed stranger blinked like an owl before frowning at her. So, hewasconscious.
Bracing herself for hearing something dreadful, she instead found herself waiting and waiting.
Perhaps he is a mute?
“Who are you?” she asked again.
She didn’t expect guests and wanted him gone. The little she had left to her name was her reputation, which she would not permit some stranger to ruin. Even if he was dressed extremely well.
She studied him and wondered what might be amiss. There was nothing wrong with him beyond his silence, from what she could see. A perfectly cut coat with beautiful, wind-tousled hair. His posture was elegant, and he was everything refined. Were it not for his riding breeches, she would have assumed he had stepped right out of the streets of London.
Trying again, she asked, “Well? Have you come for a reason?”
He blinked, saying nothing as he eyed her with disdain. The narrowing of his eyes said that something was going on inside his head.
Verity didn’t think she would like what he was thinking. Perhaps he meant to insult her. What was she, really, if not a lady any longer but not quite a servant either?
Her gown was threadbare and overly simple. She wore no rings or earbobs, and her hair hung in a loose plait down her back like she wasn’t more than eight years of age.
I may not be pretty or splendid or rich, but I am still a lady. I have my pride.
She resisted the urge to huff.
“I will ask you one more time, Sir,” she said sternly. “Who are you? What is your business here?”
Those eyes of his were too dark to be any color but black. She didn’t understand how that could be possible. But they were black all the same, staring her down. He looked all the way down to her shoes—the serviceable boots were the last she had and could not be hidden with her old gown—and studied her face again.
Perhaps we met in London? Perhaps he is attempting to place me? But I doubt it. That was four years ago, and Ionly attended one Season for three months. This is if he is a gentleman.
But how could he not be? I wonder if he is a lord. I suppose I should have made that assumption.
She stepped back to close the door in his face, no longer entertained. Only then did he noisily clear his throat. A warm flush bloomed on his face and faded so quickly that she nearly missed it.
