She looked up.
With obvious effort, Cromwell hauled in a huge breath, drew himself up, and announced, “Mr. Gregory Cynster has arrived, miss.”
Damn!“I see.” She glanced at her projections, then laid them aside. She’d prepared herself and the household for this moment, even if she hadn’t foreseen said moment arriving today.
Drat the man. Couldn’t he have sent word?
She hated having situations sprung on her; she much preferred to be in control of events.
She pushed back her chair, hoping by her very calmness to infuse some calm into Cromwell. “Where did you put him?”
Cromwell blinked several times. “Er…I left him in the front hall. He walked in from the rear corridor—from the stables, I suppose—and gave me quite a shock. I didn’t expect to see him and didn’t know what…where…”
“No matter.” Served the blighter right for not having the courtesy to warn the house. She rose and glided around the desk. “Don’t worry. I’ll see to him.”
Cromwell looked much relieved. “He remembered me. I’d better introduce you.” He whirled and led the way out of the door he’d left swinging.
Stifling a sigh, Caitlin followed and closed the study door firmly behind her. She stepped out in Cromwell’s wake; relieved of responsibility, he was striding on quite eagerly.
She lengthened her stride and used the few moments to rapidly review her plan for dealing with the Hall’s new owner. With her strategy clear in her mind, she raised her chin to an angle she hoped would convey supreme assurance and swept into the front hall and came to an abrupt, all-but-teetering halt.
The god in a greatcoat who’d been examining a painting on the wall turned to Cromwell.
His rich hazel gaze rested briefly on the butler, then shifted further to land on Caitlin.
She felt it—the weight of his regard—like a blow. She stopped breathing.
He was tall. Cromwell was tall, but this man was half a head taller. His shoulders were broad, his chest wide, yet the overall impression was one of lean, supple strength. Steel. He reminded her of smooth, tensile steel, like a well-balanced blade that flexed and gave, but never broke.
Her senses registered all that, along with the understated elegance of his clothes, the quality of his boots and heavy greatcoat, but it was his face that transfixed her, that sucked the air from her lungs and left her breathless.
His hazel eyes were a mesmerizing blend of gold and mossy green. Long dark lashes, thick and luxurious, framed them. Beneath the fall of his wind-ruffled dark-brown hair, his forehead was broad, and his dark brows angled in a way that made him look vaguely piratical. Long, lean cheeks, a patrician nose, firm, mobile lips, and a squared chin completed the picture. To her eyes, he was the epitome of a dark angel.
Or a devil in human guise.
Trapped in his gaze, she swallowed, desperately scrambling to reassemble her wits.
Gregory drank in the sight of the lovely young woman who had stepped from the shadows of the corridor. He let his eyes feast; she was a sight worthy of such admiration, with her lustrous black hair, sumptuous figure, and strong yet feminine features. Her large almond-shaped eyes were a startling shade of violet blue—pansy blue, his mother would have called it. Her face was a fashionable oval, her complexion flawless, yet while her fine well-arched dark eyebrows, long, nicely curved lashes, and frankly wanton lips were those of a femme fatale, her straight nose and firm chin spoke of a determined disposition and an ironclad will.
His libido stirred. Unmistakably stirred.
Well, well. What have we here?
He had to wonder. Perhaps she was one of Minnie’s or Timms’s charity cases or even a distant relative.
When she continued to stare at him, blinking those wide blue eyes as if trying to make sense of his presence, he ventured, “I’m Gregory Cynster, the new owner. I’m waiting for—”
He stopped. She’d been following Cromwell. He glanced at the butler and saw he was now calm and composed, as if his duty had been discharged and no further weight rested on his shoulders.
Gregory returned his gaze to the woman—lady. His highly attuned senses informed him she was definitely the latter. Yet…hoping against hope, he went on, “Cromwell referred to a chatelaine.”
She stiffened slightly and raised her chin a notch higher. “That’s me.” She frowned slightly and amended, “I’m Caitlin Fergusson, chatelaine of Bellamy Hall.”
No, no, no, no, no!
If she was his employee, she was entirely out of his reach.
I can’t seduce her.
