Improper Relations Read Online Free Page A

I were to be discovered at this end of the corridor or were seen entering his rooms? I tapped on his door, so softly it seemed unlikely to me that he would hear, and waited.
    “Come in,” rumbled his voice, so strong and certain, beckoning me within. I slipped inside and shut the door behind me soundlessly.
    I’d never visited his chambers before. What struck me first was how plain they were, certainly if compared to the ornate, elaborate splendor of his mother’s rooms. They were nearly empty of furniture, for a start. His sitting room had only a large desk, set before the south-facing windows, a pair of wooden chairs flanking the hearth, and a row of bookcases, filled with what looked to be well-worn volumes, running the length of the opposite wall.
    He was sitting at the desk, which was covered with papers and folders and books all in a jumble, and was making notations on one of the papers—it was hard to make out, but it appeared to be some kind of elaborate map or drawing. He set down his pen, wiped his fingers on the blotter and came to me.
    He said nothing, only took my hand and led me toward a door. I hesitated, for I knew it was the entrance to his bedchamber. Was that what he intended should happen between us tonight?
    “I know what you’re thinking, Hannah. I simply thought we’d be more comfortable in here.”
    His bedroom was nearly as plain as the sitting room. The bed itself was magnificent, a huge Jacobean four-poster that had probably been built at the same time as Bexington Hall itself. But it bore no embroidered hangings, no costly damask cover, and instead was draped in a plain linen coverlet. In front of the fire were two hopelessly old-fashioned high-backed chairs, their upholstery threadbare in places. A low cabinet held decanters and glasses, their crystal glinting in the firelight.
    “What about your valet?” I whispered.
    “Jessup’s in London,” he said, his smile infinitely understanding. “When I’m in Dorset I shift for myself. But I can lock the door if you like.”
    As he moved to secure the door, I dared to look at him properly. When my husband had come to my bedchamber, he’d worn a thickly quilted robe over his nightshirt and a matching velvet cap on his head. Even in the heat of midsummer he’d always worn that ridiculous robe and cap.
    Leo, by contrast, wore the same trousers, shirt and waistcoat he’d had on earlier. He’d discarded his coat and tie, as well as his boots and stockings. I had never seen a man’s bare feet before.
    “I had on new boots today,” he explained, seeing how I stared. “They pinched. Will you come and sit by the fire and have something to drink? I remember you said you don’t care for spirits, so I had a bottle of claret brought up. Shall I pour you a glass?”
    “Yes, thank you,” I said, and took the goblet from him. I drank from it, perhaps a little faster than I ought to have, and the warmth of the wine spread rapidly through my veins.
    He sat in the chair facing me, only a yard away, his legs splayed wide, and took a sip from the glass of whiskey he’d poured for himself. I could feel his eyes upon me, and the sensation was unnerving. What did he see in me that interested him so?
    “Where were you at dinner?” I asked, desperate to fracture the silence.
    “I was reading. When I saw how late I was, I thought it best to have a tray brought to me here. You know how my father tends to go on.”
    Another long pause as he swallowed a mouthful of spirits. “Did you miss me?”
    “It’s only that your parents were, ah…”
    “I know. Leo the wastrel, etcetera, etcetera. Nothing I haven’t heard before. Did you miss me?”
    “I…yes. Yes, I missed you.”
    “Good. I was thinking of you, if it makes any difference. I was thinking about what I want from you, and what you must want from me.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Because that is why you’re here, aren’t you?”
    I wasn’t ready to answer, not yet, so I