Page 11 of The Best Marquess

Pippa bit her lip, looking a trifle dazed. “I never would have thought of kissing a wrist, but there you go. Not unpleasant at all.”

He made himself stand, utterly aware of the open drawing room door, and not wanting to reveal his own inexperience. “Now I really must go. Keep an eye out for the book. I’ll see you soon.”

“Fare thee well.”

Finn bowed and departed the parlor; ten minutes later he was striding into the entrance hall of Pinehurst House.

As the red brick townhouse was fairly modern compared to most buildings in London—only about eighty years old—the windows were large and the fireplaces well kept, meaning the place was warm and bright, even in winter. A shame though, that the building possessed no soul. Nowhere could a visitor see evidence that a family lived here, such as portraits of a wedding or seaside trip, even beloved pets. In fact, the only portrait added to Finn’s knowledge was of his father, next to all the previous Lord Pinehursts in the gallery.

Also, there were no colorful woven rugs to cover the cold wooden floor, no treasured heirlooms or trinkets crammed on shelves, not even a stray sheet of music left sitting atop the pianoforte. Everything was scrupulously neat without so much as a hint of dust, like a brand-new mausoleum. Just the way Pinehurst liked it.

“Good day, Lord Knighton. I trust your errands went well?”

He nodded at the lanky, silver-haired butler, Travers, the longest serving member of staff here. At first glance the man appeared rather stuffy, but a few years ago he’d up and wed their equally lanky widowed housekeeper. The way the two glanced at each other when they thought no one was looking, like they couldn’t wait for their duties to be done so they might meet in a secluded alcove, was quite endearing. “Well as can be expected. Any news?”

The butler’s lips pursed. “That man…”

Finn almost laughed. That man was Cunningham, his father’s secretary, and he and Travers had been verbally feuding for the best part of a decade. “What has he done now?”

“Sharing far too much information regarding Lord Pinehurst’s illness. Mrs. Travers caught several of the maids gossiping about it, how you might soon be as eligible as Devonshire in terms of great fortune and ancient title.”

His stomach clenched. “I don’t want to hear any of that. My father will be quite well, he just needs rest. I’ll be the heir for some time yet; no one should waste time toadying up to me.”

Pity glimmered in the older man’s eyes. “My lord…”

Finn held up a hand. “Quite well,” he repeated sharply.

Travers inclined his head. “Perhaps a tea tray to your chamber?”

“Better make it a fresh brandy bottle.”

He needed it, after the day he’d had. Brandy might also help inspire some new toy designs. But one thing he would not be thinking about: his damned father dying.

Inheriting the marquessate on top of everything else going on in his life would be a crushing blow to his dreams. That wretched title represented so many things he loathed; old, stuck in the mud ways, duty at all costs, misery, a life bereft of love or passion. Indeed, the Duke of Devonshire could be the most eligible bachelor in England with his compliments and blessings.

A fledgling business with staff to manage, helping his sister and niece, thwarting Lady Kingsford, and attempting to win the heart of Pippa Nash was quite enough for any man.

Chapter 3

There was something wonderfully peaceful about the hours between dawn and breakfast.

Well, usually there was.

Brow furrowing in irritation, Pippa stared at the paper in front of her and tapped her quill against the edge of the writing desk. She’d managed three whole lines. Three! Normally she wrote until her fingers ached, then took the pile of letters downstairs to add to the mail tray on her way to the dining room. Obviously, that would not be happening today.

Instead, she pulled her dressing gown tighter around her body to ward off the chill, and stared out the window at the early morning gloom. When her family were still fast asleep, the servants were enjoying a hearty hot meal, and not even the birds had begun to chorus, it was easy to pretend she was the only person in London. While she mostly attended to correspondence, other times she would stay in bed and contemplate the world. Or light some beeswax candles and read.

But all she could think about right now was Finn kissing her wrist.

When he’d brushed his lips over her knuckles, she’d jerked away like she’d been burned. Because it had felt like that. A hot, unruly sensation even more intense than his thumb rubbing. She’d had to bite her lip to swallow a moan, as well as an invitation for him to pull down her bodice and pinch her suddenly aching nipples. Which was even more brazen than a pretend betrothal. Asking for kissing lessons as part of their bargain was quite enough.

An unexpected knock sounded at the door and she nearly shrieked.

“Come in,” Pippa called, frowning.

Ruby bustled through the door carrying a tea tray. “I know the hour is ungodly, but an urgent note arrived for you. Not the family…just you. From Grosvenor Square.”

Lilian.