There were others as well. Almost all the charities benefitted children or women. There were other notations as well—ones she couldn’t decipher. Was he making notes of the names of his most frequent gamblers, the pugilists who were the most successful, or something else?
Her analytical mind continued to scan the figures and notations. All the entries were in the same handwriting. A bold, masculine script. Only Ian handled the books. No secretary or assistant.
Interesting.
She understood firsthand that it was time-consuming and tedious work. Her accounting for the milliner was simple and on a small scale in comparison. Ian must spend hours at the task.
She studied the tiny figures in the rows and columns. He wasn’t perfect, and she spotted an error. She didn’t want to use ink, so she rummaged in one of the desk drawers until she found a pencil and made a note in the column.
Setting aside the ledger, she reached for another, then another. The candle burned low and she found and lit another. The brandy soothed her nerves as she worked. She grew drowsy, but she wasn’t ready to return to her room. Her very empty bedchamber. She rested the book on her chest and leaned even farther back in the leather chair. Her eyelids fluttered.
“First eavesdropping, now helping yourself to my private ledgers. I didn’t realize I married a spy.”
At these words, her eyes flew open to see her husband standing by the desk, his dark eyes staring down at her.
Chapter Eighteen
Ian had come home to claim his bride. Grace had insisted that she’d never willingly come to his bed, but Ian had never agreed not to try to seduce her, to change her mind, one sweet kiss at a time. Passion was a tantalizing form of persuasion.
When he saw that her bedchamber was empty, he’d experienced a pang of panic. Had she left him? No, she wouldn’t. She was too proud, too stubborn to flee. He’d pushed his fears aside and searched for her. After looking in the dining room, drawing room, and study, he’d found her in his library.
He halted at the vision before him.
She was sitting in his desk chair, nestled in the supple black leather. She had changed from her wedding gown into a garment designed to tempt a man and make him lose his mind. Soft cotton caressed the curves of her breasts and hips, and the hem had ridden up to reveal a fair amount of shapely leg. She had removed her stockings and her bare feet were propped on the corner of his desk. Her hair was loose and slightly disheveled. Dark locks brushed her shoulders and the tops of her breasts. Even more surprising than when he’d found her asleep at his desk was finding one of his ledgers open and resting low on her hips. Other open ledgers were spread out across his desk in a haphazard manner.
She’d been busy in his absence.
He should be concerned, even angry, at her invasion of his privacy. Instead, he grew hard and tight in his new tailored trousers. He’d bathed at the club and had come home to his bride, but he’d never expected to find her like he had. The sight of her asleep, dressed in the tantalizing shift was as unexpected as it was arousing.
He wanted to make love to her in his chair. On his desk. On the thick Aubusson carpet by his prized books. He’d known his fair share of temptation at the club. He understood the illicit draw of the crack of the dice across the green baize of the hazard table, knew the mesmerizing spin of the little white ball in the roulette wheel, even recognized the alluring innuendo of a masked woman’s invitation for dalliance. But the sight of his wife here…now…was beyond compare. She was a siren’s call to lure any red-blooded man to her side.
She blinked, focused her gaze, then struggled to sit upright in the chair. “Ian, what happened to your face?”
He touched his swollen eye, his black-and-blue chin. No doubt Brooks’s handiwork would appear worse before it improved.
“It’s nothing,” he said in a hoarse tone.
She glared at him. “I was told you were not to return tonight.”
Her voice was laced with censure. He couldn’t blame her. He was truly a blackguard for ruining her wedding day. If he could take back the conversation with the dowager at the wedding breakfast he would do so in an instant. He’d never intended to hurt her in such a fashion.
Not entirely true.
He’d had no intention of selling his casino. He just didn’t want her to learn of his plans so soon or in such a cruel fashion.
He was uncomfortable with his strong attraction to her. It made him feel powerless, and he hadn’t felt that emotion in a long, long time. “It seems my intrusion has interrupted your clandestine activities.”
She leaned forward in the chair. The sleeve of her garment slid a tantalizing inch down her shoulder to reveal a sliver of creamy skin, more tempting to him than a courtesan’s artfully displayed décolletage.
“I won’t apologize. I came here to read but discovered these,” she said, motioning to the club’s books spread across the oak surface. “The ledgers weren’t hidden or locked in your desk.”
“I shall have to remember to protect my privacy in the future.” He was sounding surly. It was difficult to keep his focus when all he had to do was reach out and give a slight tug to her sleeve to reveal her breast to his hungry gaze.
“You are a wealthy man.”
Her comment was unexpected, and his gaze snapped to her face. “You knew that.”
“Ah, yes. But not the extent of your fortune.”
A corner of his mouth twisted upward. “Are you pleased then to be my wife?”
She ignored his question and responded with one of her own. “Do you have a bookkeeper?”
Once again, she’d surprised him and he marveled at her ability to switch topics. “No.”
“I didn’t think so. You need one.”
“I do it myself.”
She regarded him from where she sat in his chair. “Why? I would think you would like the help of a bookkeeper or a secretary. Accounting takes an incredible amount of time.”
“I don’t trust anyone.”
“What about Brooks?” she asked.
“Only him. But he does not have a head for figures.”
“You should reconsider retaining a bookkeeper. You’ve made mistakes.”
That got his attention. “Mistakes? Where?”
“Here.” She pointed to the open ledger that had rested on her hips when he’d first walked into the room. It now sat on the desk before her.
He leaned down and the top of her hair tickled his nose. He inhaled the scent of her soap, lavender. The fragrance was one of the first things he’d noticed about her when she’d first come to him at his club. His gaze dropped to the luscious swell of her breasts above her gown. The top of one pink nipple was barely visible. He grew stiffer in his trousers, a feat he didn’t think was possible.
Christ. He needed to gain control. He wasn’t a randy boy of seventeen. He was in his thirties, the owner of the Raven Club where all kinds of vices could be found.
“I don’t see a mistake,” he said.
She tapped her finger at one of the tiny figures. “Right here. Column C, Row G. You printed four thousand, three hundred, twenty-two pounds. It should be four thousand, two hundred, twenty-two pounds. You lost a hundred pounds.”
He stared, his mind struggling to focus on the figures and not the desirable woman seated before him, distracting him effortlessly.