“Lord Brookings,” she forced a hard note to her voice, “if you don’t leave at once, I shall...I shall scream. That’s what I’ll do, I’ll scream. And quite loudly.”

“Because you fear for your virtue?” He considered her curiously and took a bite of the pastry.

“Not as much as I fear for my croissants!”

“I doubt that you have ever in your entire life screamed, quite loudly or otherwise,” he said mildly. “Unless of course it was at the unexpected appearance of a rat, but certainly not out of fear or rage or frustration. You don’t strike me as that type of woman.”

For a moment she considered lying, but what was the point? “I have never felt the need before as I usually have my emotions well in hand.”

“But not today.” He smirked, and she had the immediate impulse to smack his face.

“On the contrary, my lord, I am in complete control of my emotions as well as being both rational and logical.” She summoned a measure of calm. “As you will not depart willingly, it seems to me, if I were to scream as loudly as possible, you would then do exactly as I ask and leave my room.”

“You expect me to scamper away like a frightened bunny?” He tossed the rest of the croissant in his mouth.

“I’m not sure I would have used the term frightened bunny but...” She met his gaze firmly. “Yes, I do. Regardless of whatever reputation you claim to have, no man in his right mind wishes to have a woman’s scream echoing through his home. It tends to frighten servants, who will then seek other positions. And I imagine finding good servants in Paris is every bit as difficult as it is in London.”

“You have no idea,” he murmured and reached for another pastry.

“I would further suspect, even in Paris, neighbors who hear a woman’s scream—” she nodded at the open window “—might well be inclined to summon the police. Particularly if they lived next door to a foreign scoundrel with a scandalous reputation.”

He stared at her for a moment, then laughed. “Touché, India—”

“Miss Prendergast.”

“Derek calls you India.”

She rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. “Mr. Saunders and I will be spending a great deal of time together, accompanied by Professor and Mrs. Greer. In the interest of expediency, it was decided we would call one another by our given names. There is absolutely no reason why you and I should be so personal.”

“Except that I am your gracious host.”

“And while you do have my gratitude, I am still not inclined to call you Percival, Percy, Val or anything other than Lord Brookings.”

“I see.” He took a bite of her croissant and chewed thoughtfully, studying her the entire time.

She picked up a raspberry and tossed it in her mouth. If the man was trying to make her uncomfortable, he was failing. Admittedly, she might have been a bit nonplussed when he had first appeared in her room. Who wouldn’t be given she was in a strange bed dressed like a harlot? Perhaps their absurd sparring was to blame, or possibly the chocolate, but she had regained her normal disposition. She had no intention of letting this arrogant, presumptuous relation of Derek’s get the better of her. Why, it would be almost as bad as if Derek was doing it himself.

“I shall make a bargain with you, India,” he said at last.

“Miss Prendergast.” She smiled pleasantly.

“Believe it or not, it is remarkably difficult to scream.”

“I can’t imagine that.”

“But you have never before screamed. One must let go of all one’s reservations. Put one’s heart and soul into it, if you will. I doubt that a woman like you can do it.”

“What exactly do you mean?” She drew her brows together. “A woman like me?”

“Derek says you’re cool and collected. Not the least bit emotional.” He lowered his voice in a confidential manner. “Even somewhat cold.”

“Does he?” India wasn’t sure why something she’d always prided herself on now bothered her just the tiniest bit.

“He does.” Lord Brookings nodded, a challenge in his eye.

She met his gaze directly. “Good.”

He laughed. “I shall make you a wager, India.”

“Miss Prendergast. And I never wager.”

“You see, I don’t believe you can overcome your reserve, your unyielding conviction as to what is proper and what is not. Therefore, if you can toss your inhibitions aside and truly release a bloodcurdling yell, I shall, from then on, quite properly call you Miss Prendergast.”

“Good Lord.” For a moment, she could have sworn she was governess again. “How old are you?”

He grinned.

“And are you really a marquess?”

“I am.”

“And that is an English title? Not some frivolous foreign designation?”

“I am the eighth Marquess of Brookings. My father was the seventh, my grandfather the sixth and so on. I have the papers to prove it if you wish to see them.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“So what’s it to be, India? Although I must say I like the sound of India and Percy. It fairly reeks of England, and yet I think it has a certain flair to it.” He reached for her last croissant. “Although, perhaps India and Val are even more—”

Before she could think better of it, India opened her mouth and screamed.


CHAPTER EIGHT


A WOMAN’S SCREAM ripped through the house, reverberating off lofty ceilings and echoing off marbled floors. Derek started, frozen in midstep on the stairs, and knew with unerring certainty whose scream it was. Bloody hell.

He sprinted toward India’s room, just down the hall from his, taking the steps of the broad, curving stairway two at a time. He and Val had talked for long hours after their arrival last night, and Derek knew there were no other guests staying at the grand house. He had left the professor and his wife downstairs in the breakfast room, probably too far away to hear, although he wouldn’t be at all surprised to find them right behind him. No one could miss that scream.

What was wrong now? India had made a noticeable attempt yesterday not to be overly critical of very nearly everything but she did not take well to the inconveniences of travel. It was obvious she’d had little travel experience except perhaps for the occasional trip from London to the country.

He reached the second floor and headed toward her room. India was in no real danger. He was confident of that. Although one never knew what—or who—one might run into in the halls of Val’s Parisian domicile. The last time Derek was here, there had been a precocious monkey—the adored pet of Val’s paramour at the time—that had been clever enough to escape his leash and evade capture for nearly a month, living off scraps in the kitchen and terrifying both servants and guests alike. For a small creature, he had been extremely unpleasant and rather threatening. Val broke it off with his owner the moment the beast was captured. Derek suspected the animal was no more than a convenient excuse.

Derek reached India’s room and pulled up short. Even a monkey wouldn’t have been a greater shock than the sight that greeted him.

The indomitable, unyielding, eminently proper Miss India Prendergast was sitting upright in her bed—still in her nightclothes—covers clutched nearly to her chin in one hand, a tray balanced on her lap, glaring at Val, who sat on the edge of her bed. More shocking still was India herself.

Her hair was loose and hung around her shoulders in clouds of unsuspected curls that caught the light and shimmered with gold highlights. Curls that were usually ruthlessly imprisoned in a knot on the top of her head, so tight it made his scalp ache to look at it. Her skin was flushed, no doubt with annoyance, and her green eyes sparkled—again, probably with annoyance. But it was most becoming. He could see little of her nightwear—a peachy shade and most flattering to her coloring—except for her arms. The almost transparent fabric was enhanced by creamy lace that caressed her wrists and whispered against the bedclothes. She was the picture of charming dishabille, an illusion at once angelic and seductive. A vision that fairly begged to be kissed. It was the oddest thought—kissing India Prendergast—but Derek couldn’t quite dismiss it. He would wager Val had thought the same thing.

Val reached a hand toward her tray. She smacked it away, and the illusion shattered.

“Good God, Miss Prendergast.” Derek stepped into the room. “Are you all right? What on earth is going on here?”

She gave Val a scathing look, then turned her attention to Derek. “This man is trying to steal my croissants, Mr. Saunders. As he has already taken two of them, and there is only one left—” her narrowed gaze shifted back to Val “—I could not allow that.”

“They’re excellent croissants, Derek.” Val looked mournfully at the remaining croissant. “You should try one.”

“I did,” Derek said slowly. “At breakfast.” This was about pastry? He stared at India. “You screamed because he took your croissant?”

For the first time since he’d met her, she looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Not exactly.”

“Not at all,” Val said. “She screamed because I challenged her to do so. Or perhaps dared is a better word.” He grinned at India. “What do you think, Miss Prendergast? Was it a challenge or a dare? Or...” He paused in a meaningful manner. “Was it a wager?”

“I told you—I do not wager,” she said in a manner entirely too lofty for a woman who had screamed not to defend her honor but to protect her pastry. “And you know perfectly well why I screamed.”

“Val.” Derek summoned a hard tone. “Why did she scream?”

Val shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“Utter nonsense. You know exactly why.” India huffed. “I asked him to leave as his presence is unwanted as well as being highly inappropriate.”

Val slanted him an unrepentant grin.

“I threatened to scream if he did not take his leave. He didn’t, so I did.”