Beautiful Things: Second Sons Book One

Burke groaned as the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room after dinner. The room was set for cards and the ladies had two tables waiting. He loathed cards, especially in mixed company where he might have to make small talk with a marchioness. The duchess and Lady Oswald immediately called on Sir Andrew and James to complete their set, while the Swindon sisters batted their lashes at poor Tom.

“Escape while you can,” Tom muttered as he passed.

Wasting no time, Burke snagged a decanter of port and ducked through the door that led into the small library. He closed it as softly as possible and turned. It was a handsome, dark-paneled room, bound by bookcases on three sides, with a wall of windows along the fourth that was perfect for late afternoon reading. The windows were all closed now, hidden behind thick yellow curtains. A few candles burned on side tables, but the best light came from the fireplace.

He heaved a sigh of relief at being alone at last. The sound caught in his throat as he realized he was not, in fact, alone. Miss Harrow sat in his favorite chair, bathing in the warmth of the fire. She had her legs curled under her, book open in her lap. Damn, but she was beautiful. He traced the line of her neck, held at an angle by her cupped hand as she smiled, lost to her book.

She jerked herself upright. “Oh, forgive me sir, have the gentlemen come through already?”

“Please don’t bother on my account.”

“I confess, I slipped away,” she said, not listening as she adjusted herself to sit properly, hands folded in her lap, back straight. “I’ve never been much of a card player,” she admitted with a tired smile.

He watched the tension mount in her shoulders. She was nervous…and he knew why. Their stolen moment was on his mind too. Her warm body pressed against him, holding her in his arms. Was she afraid of him, or afraid of herself? He was eager to find out.

“Right now, you are contemplating fleeing like a startled fawn,” he mused. “Is it my presence that so discomfits you…or would the presence of any man here do the same?”

Her eyes darted for the door. “I should rejoin the ladies…”

“Do so at your own peril,” he said, moving around the back of the other chair. “The tables haven’t settled. I’m sure you’ll make a fine fourth at whist.” He poured himself a glass of port and took a sip, knowing he had her cornered. Was her fear of being alone with him greater than her annoyance of being trapped at a card table?

“I should…I’ll…just wait another moment,” she muttered, turning her attention back to her book.

He smirked, victorious. “Glass of port?”

“No, thank you,” she replied, not raising her eyes from her book.

Silence suited him just fine. He stretched out his legs, angling them towards the fire. Laughter and chatter filtered through the wall, followed by the telltale sound of shuffling cards.

After a few minutes, Miss Harrow snapped her book shut with a huff. “How long have you lived in the country then, Mr. Burke?”

His hand paused with his glass halfway to his lips. “Pardon?”

“Well, we can’t very well sit here making no conversation when we aren’t acquainted,” she argued. “It feels…intimate…and I refuse to share an intimate moment with a stranger, so please will you tell me how long you’ve lived in the countryside?”

But she wanted to share intimate moments with a man she knew well? How did Burke get himself on that list? “So, you’d rather ask me mindless questions, interrupting my port and your book? That’s more preferable to you than silence?”

For a moment her eyes flashed, and he saw the fire she kept hidden deep inside. “You only assume the questions will be mindless, sir. Perhaps you’ll find that I am a wit. Perhaps it will be only your answers that are mindless.”

There she is. Oh, this was a delightful turn of events. Much more entertaining than a bloody game of cards or even his own company. “And are you a wit, Miss Harrow?”

“I—don’t—”

Yes, there was that blush he was coming to know so well. Perhaps when she knew him better, she’d let him press his lips to each cheek, tasting that warmth for himself. “Come now, don’t be shy. You want to parry words with me, and I’m more than happy to oblige.”

“I never meant to imply this was a fencing match,” she replied. “I meant for us to make small talk.”

“How long have I lived in the country? Oh yes, very small talk indeed. I’ve watched you since that first moment in the pub. I see how those dark eyes of yours survey every scene like a hawk on the hunt. You miss nothing, do you? You must have questions more probing than the length of my tenure residing in the country.”

Her eyes narrowed again. “One minute you call me a scared little fawn…now I am a queenly hawk, surveying all the land. Which is it, Mr. Burke? Am I predator or prey?”

Fuck, he liked the way she said his name. The sound was low and throaty. She put music in it. He wanted her to say it again. “Perhaps you are a shapeshifting goddess,” he mused. “Did not Artemis change form at will?”

This comparison made her laugh. “Please, Mr. Burke. Between you and the lieutenant, I won’t get a moment’s peace. No more references to goddesses, or I shall know I’m being teased and take offense.”

His name on her lips again. She wasn’t a goddess; she was a witch, and this was some spell. Worse, she was a siren, for the very sound of her voice was luring him in. He found himself wanting to slip from his chair and drop to his knees before her. The vision of it made his cock twitch. Christ, what was happening to him?

“As you wish,” he muttered. “Shall we steer this ship to safer waters? Stick to questions of the mindless variety?”

Her head tilted to the side, those brown eyes holding him captive. “How is it, sir, that you seem so at ease here? You seem more like a master of this house than a guest.”

Well, that wasn’t a mindless question. He met her steady gaze. Her cheeks bloomed again, but she didn’t shift away. She seemed genuinely curious to know him better. Could he ever allow such a thing? He promised James he’d keep his distance…

“I was raised in this house, or near enough to it,” he explained. “My late father was steward to the late duke. I’m the same age as James, so we were always together as lads—hunting, fishing, climbing trees.” He leaned back in his chair. “I imagine I know the forests and hills of Alcott better than any man living…except for maybe James.”

“And the duke, surely,” she added.

He snorted. “George was never much for outdoor sports.”

“Does he prefer indoor sports then? Fencing, boxing, and the like?”

To own the truth aloud about George’s hobbies would be indecorous. He said the only thing that could pass as neither truth nor lie. “And the like…”

“The Corbins clearly adore you,” she murmured. “And yet most of the other house guests seem to only tolerate you. What am I missing?”

He met her gaze, unable to control his frown. This was most certainly not a mindless question. “If I tell you, Miss Harrow, we will be acquainted. To use your own word, it would spark an ‘intimacy’ between us. Are you sure you want to know?”

He watched her breath catch in her throat. For a moment, he thought she would say no and flee for the safety of the drawing room. Instead, she leaned forward and whispered, “Yes.”

He sighed and spilled the worst kept secret in England. “Miss Harrow, I am quite literally the bastard son of a whore.”