Miss Carlyle's Curricle: Signet Regency Romance (InterMix) Read Online Free Page A

her height, and it had been with considerable relief—in more ways than one—that Diana had come home, thrown off her corsets, and put on her short stays instead. She felt awkward in the presence of this man, but not so very large. Indeed, even without his greatcoat, he looked broader of shoulder than she thought when she first saw him.
    He took her hand and bowed over it. “I am pleased to see you again, Miss Carlyle.”
    His hand was very warm upon hers—she realized suddenly that she wore no gloves, though why she should be conscious of such a thing when she rarely bothered with gloves at home, she did not know. Dismissing the thought of warm hands and the lack of gloves firmly from her mind, she looked into his eyes and found herself staring again. She felt suddenly that he was indeed quite pleased. It embarrassed her—well, he was still holding her hand, for one thing. She pulled away.
    “May I ask what your business is, sir?” she asked abruptly. She sounded a little rude, and this flustered her even more. What
was
it about this man that discomposed her so? Perhaps it was that she did not like dandies, and so did not like the thought of him being pleased to meet her. His brows rose, and she was glad that perhaps she had put him off by her manner, though her mother would not have approved.
    “I came at the request of Lord Brisbane.” He looked at her intently for a moment. “Did he not tell you?”
    “I am afraid . . .” Diana paused, tamping down the rising grief. “Lord Brisbane has—he is dead.” It was a bald, bleak statement, but better she make herself face the fact now than pretend with sentimental words that it was not so.
    A grim look flitted across Mr. Sinclair’s face. “So I understand, and I am sorry to hear it. However, my business with him still stands.”
    For one moment there was silence, and Diana grew aware of an odd tension in the air. She looked at him and then . . . she could not say he changed precisely. The tension between them shifted and dissipated. Mr. Sinclair smiled at her, gave a little sigh, and his eyes caught sight of the mirror above the mantelpiece. He bowed slightly, walked to the mirror, then peered into it and frowned. “How inconvenient it is when one must choose between the set of one’s neckcloth and resting to recover from fatigue,” he said.
    She barely refrained from wrinkling her nose again. “Of course,” she said, more politely this time. Her stomach twinged a little, and she remembered that she hadn’t requested breakfast yet. “Would you care for any refreshment? I am about to order my break—” She cast a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Well, I suppose it’s luncheon.”
    He turned and smiled widely now. “Yes, please, I would, and it is kind of you to offer.”
    Heat crept into her cheeks again, and Diana let out an impatient breath—she was blushing again, and she hated it. It was as if a cloak of awkwardness had wrapped itself around her, and once again she felt lumpish and too large, as she had in London. It was the way he looked at her, perhaps, with more attention than she liked. She pulled the bell rope and ordered the maid to bring luncheon—a substantial one, for she could not help thinking such a tall man would eat a great deal, even though he was quite lean.
    Another glance at the clock made her wonder if her mother would come down for her meal. She bit back a sigh—she would very much like to go up to her mother, but manners dictated she not leave Mr. Sinclair alone to eat the luncheon she had just ordered, especially since she had already said she wished to have some. She had been abrupt and ungracious as it was.
    When the luncheon arrived, Diana noted with a certain envy that Mr. Sinclair did indeed eat a great deal, and very precisely. She smiled slightly. He reminded her of the kitchen cat, Tom Mousekin, a large, sleek animal of impeccable elegance and finicky habits, who picked neatly at the scraps Cook would