Unveiled by Courtney Milan Page B

eyes widened in abject fear. “Jeffreys made no mention of—oh.” Strong snapped his mouth shut, almost viciously.
    Ash had never hired fools. Gullible geniuses, now…
    Strong swallowed. “Please tell me you wanted a list of every invitation the Dalrymple brothers have accepted over the past two months, complete with an inventory of the nearest coaching-houses, and a calculation of the shortest distance from London by stagecoach.”
    â€œThat,” Ash said, “was an exceptionally creative addition. I’ll have to talk to Jeffreys. He’s not usually quite so…so aggressive with the new men. Come. Let’s talk in my study.” He jerked his head towards the room to the right—a former parlor that he’d converted for his use.
    As Ash pushed himself to his feet, Strong let out a sigh. “Sir, how much were they having me on about, then?”
    â€œThe whole report.”
    If silence could blaspheme… Paper crinkled as Strong’s knuckles clenched about his alphabetical appendix.
    Ash shrugged. “I abhor lists. I despise reports, written on paper. If I wanted a useless stack of pages, I would just have you all send couriers out to deliver them, and never mind the expense of carting my men about England. But I don’t. The last thing I want to do, ever, is to sit down and read through a tangle of letters, just so that I can get to the point. I want all my reports delivered orally—that way, I can ask you questions as I wish, and I don’t have to trudge through extraneous material that will be of no use to any of us.”
    â€œDid they…” Strong rubbed his skullcap again, a grimace on his face. “That is, is this because…”
    â€œYou mean, were they trying to get you sacked?”Ash shook his head. “Jeffreys was having me on as much as you. He knows how I feel about paper.” Mostly. Even his right-hand man didn’t understand the true extent of it.
    â€œWell. That rather explains the first message I am supposed to deliver to you. Mr. Jeffreys has sent up a handful of agricultural texts for you, in answer to your last query, which he said betrayed a great deal of ignorance which could not be answered by a mere sentence or three. He told me to tell you to…to…” Strong paused and looked away.
    â€œOut with it.” Ash paused at the library door. “I know they aren’t your words.”
    â€œTo be a man and just read through them. Apparently, he, uh, appreciates your views on reports.”
    Ash smiled bitterly, feeling the exact opposite of appreciation. “Well, your first order of business when you get back to London is to tell him to go to hell. No—write that down. I don’t want you to forget. Here, I have paper—”
    He stopped, looking at the makeshift desk he’d made in the parlor. He’d left it clear last night, all the spare scraps of paper bundled away to whence they’d belonged—not that he had much use for paper as it was.
    But set atop the oak surface of his desk was a solitary sheet, folded in two. It was weighted down by a clay mug. A familiar clay mug, he realized as he picked it up. It smelled faintly of honey and nutmeg. In that instant, his remaining fatigue dissolved in a cloud of anticipation.
    â€œWait a minute,” Ash said softly. He felt a prickle of excitement in his fingertips—an echo of the surprise he’d experienced on finding Margaret last nightin nothing but a linen shift and a thin wrapper. Her hair had been down. Unbound, it had curled, and he’d longed to sink his hands in the silk of it. She’d looked like an apparition from one of his more sensual dreams. Even now, a part of him longed to go back to the conservatory, to start that conversation over again, and this time, to give in to his lust-filled imaginings. He was getting aroused, just remembering the pattern the moonlight had made on her