In The Devil's Stables (Spirited #1)

Chapter 29

Greyson wasn't fooled.

Halting in the entryway to his study, Greyson's eyes tracked over the room within, the curtains drawn back to let in meager strands of sunlight as they split through the dust motes.

He knew Charlie was in here.

Hiding somewhere in his study.

Greyson mentally chastised himself, wondering if the lady knew her disguise had been compromised from the first because of her enticing scent.

The sweet, floral fragrance seemed to be all over his things.

In each nook and cranny of his rooms.

On his skin.

Greyson could feel his blood thrumming in his veins as his instincts awoke sleepily, stretching while it patiently waited for the opportune moment to reveal her.

Why the devil had she been in here to begin with? Greyson wondered absently.

And was she aware that entering his chambers was the most foolhardy thing the she could do? For now that he had had his first taste of her, Greyson was constantly replaying their blissful joining on the back of his lids. A play acted out over and over again until his skin burned, his lips tingled and he could feel the contours of her thighs on the calluses of his palms.

And he couldn't ask the bloody termagant about the why of it, devil take it!

Greyson turned on his heel to find his butler, Reeves, behind him.

"Send him in," Greyson called gruffly, closing the door with a thud.

Greyson's eyes took in the room as he stepped towards his desk. That was when he saw it. His chest on the far right side of his study - a family heirloom that had resided in this room for much longer than Greyson had been alive - had a piece of white linen sticking out from between the doors.

Hell, was she hidden inside the bloody thing?

He didn't have a moment to ponder further for it seemed his unwelcome guest had arrived. The familiar figure of Lord Henry, Marquess Crowley, filled the doorway dressed no less immaculately than he had been at his London ball. His gray suit of superfine lined his lean muscles. His hair was artfully arranged with the distinct scent of lemon pomade drifting to Greyson's nose.

But there was something in the way Crowley stood, erect with his chin tilted defiantely in the air, that paused Greyson. For while his body was still, his eyes weren't. They flitted around the room, landing on each piece of furniture as if he didn't quite know what he was doing here or how he had landed in that particular spot.

That made two of them.

Hell, but Greyson would give almost anything to be back in his bedchamber now in nothing but his bedsheets as he dealt with his infuriating childhood friend. The one who had - like a complete and total peeper - been watching Greyson sleep.

But Thorne had news to share.

It seemed all of London was filled with talk of him.

"I am beginning to fear, old chap," Thorne had began, having no shame in staring at Greyson as Greyson shifted uncomfortably, "that you would come quite undone without me."

His friend made a show of sprawling negligently, his rear sinking further and further into Greyson's relocated chair.

Greyson had narrowed his eyes in Thorne's direction, his hips still wrapped in his bedsheet, one hand fisting the material about his hips like his own personal girdle. His temper - already at a low with the last few day's activities - snapped. Greyson spoke through gritted teeth. "What the devil is that supposed to mean?"