Vernon and Percy hadn’t been in the house earlier. Caitlin turned to them. “He insisted on being shown around the house and meeting those who live here, so thus far, he’s spoken briefly with Alice and Millie, Julia, Joshua, and our three painters. I would suggest our cause will be best served were you two to take the lead this evening. I’ll meet him in the hall, explain about the Fund, and bring him into the drawing room and introduce you two.”
Percy nodded. “We’ll take it from there and do our spiels.”
“Good.” Caitlin knew she could count on them. She looked at the others. “It might be best for Julia, Joshua, and Alice and Millie to speak while we’re at table, and then you three”—she bent a stern gaze on the painters—“can do your part when we return to the drawing room.”
Hugo brightened. “Perhaps he won’t want tea and would rather play billiards instead. We could give him a good game, I’m sure.”
“No billiards!” Caitlin managed to contain her glare. “This evening is all about informing Mr. Cynster about the businesses at the Hall. We need to make him understand how valuable they, as a collective, are. We can’t be certain how long he’ll stay. You’ll have your chance to make your case properly this evening—don’t squander it.”
“We won’t,” a chastened Melrose assured her. “We’ll be on our best behavior, truly.”
Caitlin gave them a look that translated to:You’d better be!
While she’d been speaking with the painters, Julia, Joshua, Alice, and Millie had discussed and agreed on the order in which they would speak. When Caitlin turned to them, they laid out their schedule for her approval, which she gave readily.
The dressing gong sounded, the deepbongresonating through the house.
Caitlin shooed everyone to the door. “Don’t be late!”
She was the last to leave the conservatory—making sure the painters were on their way upstairs and not ducking back to put one last touch to some work. After closing the door, she hurried not toward the stairs but to the kitchens. There, she found Cromwell and Nessie and checked both had everything they required and all was on track for serving what would be Mr. Cynster’s first meal there as owner of the estate.
Cromwell assured her he’d found the right wines in the cellars and the footmen had given the silver an extra polish.
As for the food, “It’ll be a meal to remember. Don’t you worry,” Nessie assured her. “We’re bound and determined to put our best foot forward, no bones about it.”
“All right.” Dragging in a calming breath, Caitlin nodded, whirled, and raced for the stairs. She needed to make the right impression herself.
Her eyes on the ground, she hurried along, debating which of her few evening gowns to wear. She pushed through the green-baize-covered door into the rear of the hall and rushed along the side of the massive staircase. She swung around the newel post—and collided with a wall.
One of warm, masculine muscle.
“Oh!” She stumbled back.
A steely arm wrapped about her waist and hauled her upright—against a body of hard, muscled planes. A large hand gripped her upper arm and steadied her, sending a wave of heat rushing through her.
Stunned, wide-eyed, she stared into Gregory Cynster’s face. She tried to get her lungs to work and failed.
At close quarters, his moss-and-gold eyes were even more mesmerizing than she’d thought, and his lips…
She blinked. Stared.What am I doing?
She lowered her lids and drew in a tight, restricted breath.
His arms fell away, and he stepped back. “My apologies, Miss Fergusson.”
Weakly, she waved. “The fault was mine. Sir.” She managed another shallow breath. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
From beneath her lashes, she glanced at him—and he was waiting to catch her gaze. One of his eyebrows arched lightly, and his lips were definitely not straight.
She raised her head and tipped up her chin. “If you’ll excuse me, I must get on.”
Gregory waved her up the stairs and, as she climbed, ascended beside her. The aftereffects of the recent contact were still coursing through him. Pleasant though those were, he recognized burgeoning temptation when it struck him, which, all things considered, suggested he should start viewing his chatelaine as a dangerous distraction.
He couldn’t afford to become entangled with her.
Focus on what you’re here to do.
“I want the study.”
