Page 6 of When We Touch

She didn’t tell him that she would wish it if he produced the devil himself—as long as it kept him from marrying a dowager with one foot in the grave and not a prayer of producing an heir.

“Naturally,” she murmured, and started to leave the parlor. She was shaking too hard to stay.

But at the arch to the entry, she paused, swinging back on him. “If you get into this kind of debt again, Justin, you won’t need to worry about Newgate. I’ll swing you from a yardarm myself, do you understand?”

She didn’t want an answer. She fled.

* * *

“Nine-fifty-five,” Mireau said, giving her the exact time before she could ask. She had voiced the question every few minutes for the last twenty.

Like Justin, he had tried to dissuade her. He had come up with every other possible solution, none of which was actually possible. He had wanted to wage some kind of battle himself, but they both knew, even if he suddenly managed to make himself a respected literary name, it would be eons before he actually made money in any appreciable sum.

Then they had talked about the pros and cons, because he was Mireau, and he always made her see herself and a situation clearly.

“Justin has seen the man?” Mireau asked suddenly.

“Yes.”

“And his description?” Mireau asked.

“Tall and dignified.”

Mireau was looking out the upstairs window above the entry. She realized that their visitors had come, and she rushed up behind him, carefully taking a position where she might be covered by the draperies.

A carriage had arrived. Far grander than her uncle’s. Big, drawn by a pair of matched black stallions that were truly magnificent. A third horse was tethered to the rear. Three men stood at the open doorway to the coach, where velvet covered steps had been lowered to allow the riders to step down.

One of the arrivals looked up.

Maggie stared down at him, stunned.

He wasn’t old. He was tall, and certainly, dignified. He had a head of sweeping, almost ebony dark hair. His features were hewn lean and clean, his jaw had a definite square and rugged angle to it. His eyes were large, color indiscernible from here, but his brows were sharply defined, and his mouth had a cynical sensuality. In a fitted waistcoat, cravat, and sharply tailored jacket, he appeared ruggedly well built, the elegance of his attire almost a sham over the magnitude of his physique.

“Why . . . he’s . . . gorgeous. Extraordinary!” Mireau breathed.

“Nonsense,” she murmured. But she felt a faint shiver along her spine and something more. Something she had thought dead and buried. The slightest stirring of excitement.

Excitement . . . desire?

Lord, no! She quickly chastised herself for such a wretchedly disloyal thought.

And yet . . .

“Can that be him? The Viscount?” Mireau marveled.

Then, just as she realized that she had forgotten all about the draperies and that she was staring down at the man just as he was staring up at her, he smiled. And there was some kind of amusement and mockery in that smile. He made a slight bow to her, and stepped back.

Another man appeared from behind him.

Tall, and dignified. With strong features, and intelligent eyes.

Ah, yes, he was tall. And certainly, dignified. Very elegantly dressed, yet he wore the cut of his clothes extremely well for his . . . maturity.

His hair was as white as snow.

But he did have a full head of it.

His face, though one time fine, was deeply lined. Once broad shoulders were far more skeletal now. He was dignified, yes . . .