Rules of Attraction Read Online Free

bones, his gaze chill with intent, and his hair… dear God, a streak of white iced each temple.
    The past nine years had not been kind to… whatever title he called himself.
    Yet beneath her fright and dismay, treacherous desire rose in her.
    Did he want her still? Would he want her tonight?
    And would she fight, or would she want him in return?
    She tripped on the fringe of the carpet, and that brought her back to the here and now, to the reality of the predicament in which she found herself and to the relentless observation of… her husband. She wasn't really close enough for the fire to do her any good, but the scent of the burning wood filled her lungs with the promise of warmth. If she remained where she stood, she could keep an armchair between them. A feeble defense, but at least a defense. Clutching the upholstery in her trembling fingers, she asked, "Tell me. How can it be that you are the earl of Raeburn?"
    "I was fifth in line for the title. Somehow, the others died, and here I am."
    He had always smiled before. He'd always had charm and confidence. The confidence was still there, but the charm and smiles had disappeared as if they'd never been. She should know him, but seeing him was like facing a stranger… a stranger who held rights over her. A stranger who had watched her grow up and who knew her only too well.
    But she wasn't an overly polite, tentative eighteen-year-old anymore, either. She held advantages of experience and composure he could scarcely guess at. Schooling her expression and her tone to match the one she used to interview prospective governesses, she said, "You were a cotton merchant."
    "I still am."
    "You invested in railways."
    "A risk which paid off royally."
    "You weren't in line for any title."
    "Obviously I was." He gestured around him. "I'm also the fourth in line for a barony." He shrugged, his broad shoulders moving up and down in a gesture of disdain. "Yet I can't imagine anything more pathetic than a man who gets his self-respect by boasting of a distant, noble connection."
    She could. During the time she'd run the Distinguished Academy of Governesses, she'd met plenty of men who thought an obscure connection to William the Conqueror made them respectable enough to do whatever they wanted with her girls— or with her. She had always disabused them— vain, selfish gentlemen that they were. Too bad this lord was forged from a different metal. A little vanity and selfishness made a man easier to handle.
    "You're late," Dougald repeated his earlier complaint. "I expected you over an hour ago. And don't tell me the train was not on schedule. It always runs on schedule."
    "Your man failed to meet me promptly." She shivered again, chilled by a sense of lingering cold and the frost emanating from Dougald.
    "My man?"
    "Alfred."
    "Alfred met you?" His voice didn't rise, but his tone didn't bode well. "In his cart ?"
    She remembered only too well his temper, so she carefully explained, "Mrs. Trenchard said there was a misunderstanding."
    "Yes, I would say there was." Ruddy color lit his cheeks.
    For a moment Hannah thought he looked much as the young Dougald had before he flew into a rage, and she took comfort in sighting the man she had known so well.
    Better the devil you know than the devil you don't know.
    Then he took a moderating breath. "My fault. I've been here only a year, and Mrs. Trenchard doesn't yet know which of my comments she should disregard."
    The man she had married seldom acknowledged fault. Now he accepted blame, yet the housekeeper feared him so much she'd abused a fellow employee. "What did you say to her… about me?" Hannah asked.
    "The truth."
    Uncomfortable, to know yourself discussed before your arrival. "Did you tell her I was your wife?"
    "Haven't you heard? My wife is dead, murdered at my own hands." He held them up, fingers shaped as if they cupped her neck. "I wouldn't deprive the people hereabouts of the pleasure they gain in repeating the