“I am Miss Woodchurch, the correspondent,” she said, shaking out her hem. Not that it did any good.
“Thecorrespondent,” he repeated snidely. “Of course you are. Come with me.” He turned and disappeared inside. He didn’t bother to introduce himself or hold the door for Hattie, forcing her to catch it before it swung shut on her.
“I know all about you,” the man was saying over his shoulder as she hurried to catch up to him. “I’m Mr. Callum, the majordomo of the viscount’s estate. I don’t expect you to know what that is.” He glanced back over his shoulder, presumably to judge her reaction to his condescension, but was distracted by the fact that she was a few feet behind him. “Mind you keep up.”
“I am doing my level best,” she said, as he strode down a long tiled hallway. They practically sprinted through the kitchen, then past the servants’ dining room, where she spotted two footmen smoking and reading a paper. Then up some narrow servants’ stairs. Another footman hurried down, forcing them to squeeze against the wall so he could pass. He glanced at Hattie and smiled. She smiled back and almost tripped up the stairs.
“Keep up!” Callum commanded again.
They were in another long hallway, this one carpeted, moving so fast and taking so many turns that Hattie was becoming disoriented. During her first visit, she hadn’t noticed all the art and antiques that filled this home. She hadn’t noticed anything but the viscount.
Mr. Callum turned abruptly into the study she’d stood in yesterday. This time, she noticed that the room was darkly paneled. The furnishings were covered with chintz, the draperies made of heavy velvet. It was a moment before Hattie realized that the viscount was there, seated on a sofa. He was wearing only his shirtsleeves, his coat and waistcoat draped over one of the sofa arms. He had one leg crossed over the other, and on his lap, a thick leather document case that held a sheath of papers. He glanced up. “Miss Woodchurch.” He took a moment to glance at the pocket watch he pulled from his trousers. “You are prompt.”
His accent was still divine. “My lord.” She curtsied.
His gaze had already returned to his papers.
“Where shall I direct her, my lord?” Mr. Callum asked.
“She’ll remain with me,” the viscount said quietly. He looked up. “Thank you, Mr. Callum.”
Mr. Callum glared at Hattie on his way out, as if she’d offended him. It was entirely possible that she had, by virtue of being one, a female, and two, an employee. He could very well be one of those men who believed a woman’s place was only in the home as a wife and mother, which she had clearly failed to be.
“Miss Woodchurch?”
Hattie started and turned to the viscount. He motioned to a chair near the sofa, and then his attention went back to his papers.
She looked at the chair. “Am I to sit?”
He looked up, his gaze moving over her. She was desperately tempted to look down and make sure nothing was amiss.
“Of course. In the chair.”
Not of course, she would argue, as he had merely gestured in that direction, and hadn’t invited her in so many words to take a seat. But...he didn’t seem to be interested in her explanation, so Hattie sat, very gingerly, just on the edge where she could hop up in the event he needed something.
She waited. He continued to read. She gazed at him, taking in the strong line of his jaw, the way his muscles were evident beneath his shirt. She thought about striking up a conversation, but his brow was furrowed, as if he was concentrating.
He turned a page; she reached into her bag and took out her pencil and paper. Her movement caught his attention; he looked at the paper in her lap, then lifted his very fine hazel eyes to hers, and a tiny whisper of sensation slipped down her spine. “What is that?”
Her breath scraped against her lungs, as if she couldn’t get quite enough in. “Paper,” she croaked. She cleared her throat. “For notes. I believe that one must always write down the important things to better remember them.”
One of his dark brows rose. But he offered no comment and dropped his gaze to his papers again.
His lashes were so long and dark she was a bit envious. And his hair, a rich, coffee brown, was quite thick and curled loosely around his ears. She would be thrilled to have that sort of hair. She was suddenly struck with the image of running her fingers through his.Oh, Hattie.
“I have pencil and paper for you,” he said.
“Pardon?” His accent was so cool and sleek that it was a moment before she realized he was responding to her reason for having paper. “Oh! I, ah... I thought you might. But I wanted to be certain I’d not miss a thing.”
He frowned slightly. “What could you miss?”
“Well, hopefully, nothing. But it’s better to be prepared than not.” She felt an unconquerable need to explain herself, to fill the silence between them. “It’s a habit I developed at school. I had an instructor who was very detailed with his remarks. I couldn’t possibly commit them all to memory, so I began to write everything down. Remarkably, it worked rather well.”
“I see.”
Was she talking too much? Flora had once told her she talked too much.You’re always explaining things, she’d complained. That had been a very long time ago, but still, she would do well not to review her school years or deliver more trite sayings. She would wait silently. She’d sit on the edge of this chair with her mouth closed and await his instructions. A proper correspondent.
She took in the room, noting the books stacked on the table next to an armchair. She couldn’t make the titles out from here. One of the windows was open, and from her vantage point, she could see what looked like a lovely garden surrounded by high stone walls. The other two windows faced the opposite direction—the street, she assumed. Those windows were not open, which accounted for how deathly quiet it was in this room. She could practically hear each breath she took. She could hear each breathhetook.
