A Debutante In Disguise. Eleanor Webster
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footman’s mother is not alone in her opinion.’
‘Er—no, sir.’
Tony had felt something yesterday as Miss Barton had brushed by him. He’d experienced a tightening within his stomach and an added level of awareness as she’d skewered him with that bright luminous gaze. It was like a shadow—a reflection of what had been. Or what he had once been capable of feeling.
Before Waterloo, he would have noted her curves, the creaminess of her skin, the elegance of her neck, that russet hair and the firm line of her lips, the bottom lip full and slightly pouted. The very dowdiness of the grey dress almost enhanced her appeal, like an intriguing package, delightfully obscured.
He swore. His hand had jerked, spilling the coffee.
‘My lord?’
‘Clean up this mess. I seem intent on burning my good hand, as well.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘And tell me as soon as that new doctor arrives.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ Mason dabbed at Tony’s hand and at the liquid spilled on the sill.
Tony brushed away his efforts irritably. ‘“Yes” and “no”—is that the extent of your linguistic capabilities?’ he muttered. ‘You sound like a bloody parrot. Go. You know I hate hovering.’
‘Yes, my lord. I mean, no, my lord.’
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