“Your drawing room,” he repeated, amazed.
Apparently, he didn’t even regard her as the mistress of the house. Her ears glowed with humiliation. “Insofar as the drawing room is a private area of the home, and usually the wife’s area,” she muttered. “Which requires any decent visitor to at least announce themselves to the wife before they enter it.”
The flash of displeasure in Lucian’s gaze said he didn’t appreciate the lecture on domestic protocol. He leaned down until his nose nearly touched hers. “And as your husband,” he said softly, “I won’t tolerate you acting like a snooty brat when we have company—even if you think they’re beneath you.”
His voice was cold. His eyes were colder. She stared into the gray depths thinking the soul behind might well be an arctic desert, hostile to anyone who had made the mistake of daring a foray. Last night, she had fallen asleep wearing the pendant he had gifted her between her breasts and a spark of hope inside her chest. She had slept well for the first time since the calamity in the gallery. Snooty brat. He did not like her much at all. Except, and she realized this now, except when he was trying to seduce her into sharing his bed.
“I would like to take to my room,” she said shakily.
His gaze searched hers right down to her bones, and whatever he saw made him step back. He speared five exasperate fingers through his hair. “All right. Go, then.”
She left with enough verve to make her heels slip on the floor. Halfway across the entrance hall, she abruptly turned left into the corridor leading to the back entrance. The correct procedure would be to ring the bell next to the door and ask Nicolas to please ready the carriage, then call for Carson. Next, Lucian would notice she was absconding, and he would probably put a stop to it. With a quick glance back over her shoulder, she opened the door and bolted into the courtyard. She banged her elbow on the doorframe on the way out, and the dull ache was still pulsing through her arm long after she had left Belgravia behind.
It took her nearly an hour to arrive at the sleek granite fa?ade of London Print at number thirty-five Bedford Street. Both the white-haired receptionist in the lobby and the page boy operating the lift knew her as a friend of the owners of the house, hence they did not dare notice that she was hatless, gloveless, panting, and unsuccessfully trying to hide a limp. Limp notwithstanding, she hurried from the lift to the director’s apartment, for in the unlikely event that Lucie had returned from Italy, she would be in the apartment during lunchtime rather than her office. She had so little hope to find her friend, she burst into the room without knocking.
“Oh dear,” she gasped, and squeezed her eyes shut. Lucie was here, behind the desk, breaking from a passionate embrace with a tall, red-haired man.
“I apologize—”
“Hattie!” For a beat, it looked as though Lucie considered vaulting over the desk, then she rushed around it instead and flew across the room. She clasped Hattie’s hands in a grip surprisingly firm for her delicate frame. Behind her, Lord Ballentine was leisurely straightening his cuffs and cravat.
“My dear,” Lucie said, her eyes searching Hattie’s with concern, “how do you do?”
Hattie’s gaze flicked to Lord Ballentine, who turned to her and dipped his head. “Mrs. Blackstone.”
Her stomach gave a tiny lurch, the inevitable effect of the viscount’s symmetric beauty on a sentient person. With his soft mouth, high cheekbones, and perfectly cut jawline, his face called the archangels to mind. The devious glint in his eyes, however, said he was as wicked as the fallen one, and women across Britain were undecided whether to envy Lucie her roguish fiancé or to pity her. Judging by the lingering rosy flush on Lucie’s cheeks and her kiss-swollen lips, her friend was perfectly satisfied with her choice.
“The lift moved much faster than I remember,” Hattie stammered, mortified.
“Well spotted, ma’am,” Ballentine said smoothly. “I had the old lift replaced by a hydraulic one.”
“That sounds terribly modern.”
“Rather, the old one was hopelessly behind the times—this one is, too. Werner von Siemens has just invented an electric lift.”
“How fascinating.”
“Why don’t I send a tea cart up,” Ballentine suggested. “Mrs. Blackstone—congratulations on your nuptials. My lady.”
He exchanged glances with Lucie—his tender, hers harried—on his way out, and the moment the door had closed behind him, Lucie tugged Hattie toward a green fainting couch.