Regency Improprieties. Diane GastonЧитать онлайн книгу.
of her perfectly sculpted lips.
His brows knitted. This girl seemed not at all eager to hear an offer. ‘Indeed. About Lord Tannerton.’
‘Would you care to sit, sir?’ she asked with forced politeness.
He inclined his head, waiting for her to sit opposite him before he lowered himself into the seat.
‘You were saying, Mr Flynn?’
He began again, ‘I was saying, the marquess has heard you sing—’
‘And you, Mr Flynn? Have you heard me sing?’ She seemed bent on interrupting him.
‘Yes, Miss O’Keefe, I have had the pleasure.’
A genuine smile fleetingly appeared. ‘Were you liking my singing?’ She dipped her head and he noticed that her lashes were long and luxurious.
‘Very much,’ he said, regaining his wits.
She folded her hands in her lap. ‘Flynn. it is an Irish name. Where are you from, Mr Flynn?’
Flynn did not usually lose such total control over a conversation. It disturbed him, nearly as much as perceiving her reluctance disturbed him. Nearly as much as her eyes disturbed him.
‘Where am I from?’ he repeated.
‘Yes, where in Ireland are you from?’
He could not remember the last time he’d been asked this. ‘County Down, near Ballynahinch.’
Her bewitching eyes sparkled. ‘I attended school in Killyleagh.’
‘So did my sister.’ Those words slipped out.
‘Oh!’ She turned thoughtful for a moment. ‘Could she be Siobhan Flynn, by any chance? There was a Siobhan Flynn two years ahead of me.’
Siobhan’s name propelled him back to Ballynahinch. Little Siobhan. She’d been eleven when he’d last seen her. How old was she now? Twenty-one?
It meant Miss O’Keefe was naught but nineteen. No wonder her papa hovered near.
‘She may have been the same,’ he said.
Miss O’Keefe’s eyes danced with excitement. ‘How does she fare? I rarely heard news of any of the girls after they left.’
Flynn realised he had barely heeded news of Siobhan in his mother’s letters. ‘She is married and has two sons.’
Miss O’Keefe sighed. ‘How nice for her!’
Flynn began again. ‘About the marquess—’
‘Oh, yes, the marquess.’ Her false tone returned. ‘He sent you. You did not come to speak with me about home.’
Home. Home. It repeated in his ears.
‘The marquess is anxious to make your acquaintance, Miss O’Keefe. He is prepared to become your friend.’
‘My friend?’ She glanced away. ‘He knows so much after listening to a few songs?’
He opened his mouth to respond with lavish compliments.
She spoke first. ‘Are your friendships so easily made, Mr Flynn?’
‘My friendships?’ He was repeating again. He disliked that she distracted him from his intent, making him think instead of friends, long-ago boys who explored crumbling castle ruins with him or fished in crystalline streams.
He forced himself to meet her gaze directly. ‘I assure you, Miss O’Keefe, the marquess chooses his friends judiciously, and none would complain about the connection.’
She did not waver. ‘And is he usually sending you to inform his new friends of their good fortune?’
Flynn wrinkled his brow. She did not seem pleased at all at Tanner’s interest. Why? Her father and that other female certainly relished the potential connection.
He must convince her she would do well under Tanner’s protection. She would certainly have more freedom than she appeared to have in her father’s house, with the shrill Miss Dawes bullying her.
But the image that rose in his mind was not of her with Tanner, but of her standing on a green hillside, wind billowing through her skirts and hair.
He mentally shook himself. Somehow he maintained his direct gaze. ‘The marquess involves me if he feels it would best please the lady to do so.’ He reached into his coat pocket. ‘To show his good intentions, the marquess wishes to bestow upon you a small gift.’
Flynn pulled out a velvet box. She glanced in alarm at the door behind which her father and Miss Dawes were certainly eavesdropping. She stilled his hand. ‘No gifts,’ she whispered, slanting her eyes towards the door again. ‘Please.’
Flynn’s hand paused in mid-air, her touch branding his skin. Silently he nodded, slipping the box back in his pocket.
‘A gift would be very nice indeed,’ she said, raising her voice.
‘Then you shall have one very soon,’ he said.
Rose returned her hand to her lap, her breath coming rapidly. Her hand still tingled from touching him, and all her insides felt like melted candle wax.
He had played along with her wish not to have her father or Letty hear of a gift. If he had not, Letty would be badgering her for days to get her hands on a gift from a marquess. And to keep peace, her father would implore her to give in. The other gifts gentlemen left for her—gifts that ought to have been returned—made their way into Letty’s possession or were sold to buy some other trinket she desired.
Rose tried to show Mr Flynn her gratitude with a look, but had to avert her gaze from the intensity of his startling blue eyes.
When Letty had come to fetch her, saying the marquess’s secretary had arrived, Rose had been relieved she would not have to refuse a marquess to his face, especially if he were indeed the man who’d so captivated her. But the man who captivated her was his secretary and was Irish, and, even more wonderful, he’d become a momentary ally.
He was very handsome up close, with his commanding gaze. His hair and brows were nearly as dark as her own. She loved the firmness of his jaw and the decisive set to his sinfully sensuous mouth. What would it be like to touch her lips to his?
Rose mentally shook herself. She was thinking like a romantic, making this into a story like the novels she enjoyed reading, the ones that wove wonderful stories of love. This man had not come to court her, but to procure her for his employer.
Even so, his blue eyes continued to enslave her.
‘The marquess is a good man, Miss O’Keefe,’ he said.
She peered back at him. ‘Mr Flynn, why do you tie this up in pretty words? Do you not mean the marquess is wishing me to be his mistress? Is that not what this is about? Is that not the kind of “friend” he wishes me to be?’
A muscle flexed in Mr Flynn’s jaw, but his gaze held. ‘To be such a friend of this man has many advantages. He can assist you. Protect you.’
Rose’s gaze slipped back to the door that hid her father and Letty. They both certainly wanted her to accept the marquess’s protection. And his money.
He looked to the door, as well. ‘Will you need protection, Miss O’Keefe?’ His voice was soft and low. And concerned.
She glanced back in surprise and gave a light laugh. ‘I shall experience no difficulties, I assure you.’
Letty was as unpleasant as a woman could be, and her father was completely under her thumb, but Rose did not feel they yielded that much authority over her. She liked living with her father, making up a little for all the years that had separated them.
‘You could allow the marquess to help you,’ he said.
She reached over to grasp his