Things were already looking up. Or they were, if only Greyley would cooperate. Anna was determined to succeed in bringing the children to order. She’d do it if she had to employ witchery of some sort. Grinning a little at her absurdity, she trailed her fingers over the worn red velvet seat of the chair nearest to her, marveling at its smoothness. Almost as smooth as Greyley’s voice when he was pleased about something. The untoward thought sent a shiver down her spine.

“Miss Thraxton,” the low voice she had been imagining drawled from behind her. “Jenkins said you wished to speak to me.”

Anna steeled her nerves and pasted a pleasant smile on her lips as she turned to face her employer, the irascible, aggravating Earl of Greyley.

Chapter 7

They say the Earl of Greyley never invests without first making a list of all possible outcomes, for better or worse. No wonder the man’s never married.

Lady Bristol to Viscount Evanstock, while dancing a country dance at Almack’s

Greyley stood leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his massive chest, his heavy-lidded eyes watching her intently. “Do you like the chair? I bought it at a private auction just last month.”

The chair? Anna realized her hand was still on the velvet seat. “It’s lovely.”

“It was King Henry the Eighth’s favorite, one he inherited from his own father. Try it. It’s very comfortable.”

She pulled her hand away and tucked it behind her, amazed at the thought that her fingers had just touched the same place a king’s bottom had once rested. Imagine that. And Greyley wanted her to sit there.

Anna wasn’t a small woman and she would be damned if the first thing she did while in Greyley’s house was break his favorite chair. “No, thank you. I am quite fine standing—”

“Sit.” Greyley shoved himself from the door facing and walked toward her, every movement lethal in some way. “It will hold you. It was built in a time when function was first, and style last.”

The chair did look rather sturdy. Sturdier, in fact, than much of the furniture that graced the salons and drawing rooms in London. Still…she met his gaze and then admitted, “I don’t wish to break it.”

“How much to do you weigh?”

“It doesn’t matter how much I weigh. Greyley, we should discuss the children. It has dawned on me that perhaps you don’t understand—”

“I understand all too well.” His dark gaze swept over her. “I’d guess you were about eight stone?”

Anna stiffened. “We should discuss something else. Something more pleasant.” Like having a tooth extracted. Or perhaps the fact that horses always smelled the worst when pulling a romantic-looking carriage.

He lifted a brow. “Nine stone then, just to be on the safe side. Not that it matters. I weigh far more than you and the chair holds me fine.” He walked past her to sit in the chair. Once there, he crossed his arms and then looked up at her with a superior expression. “See? It didn’t even creak.”