Mischief And Marriage. Emma Darcy

there anything else I should know so as not to give offence?’

      ‘I’m not a madam. Madams are people who run brothels.’

      ‘Oh!’ The quirky little smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. ‘Then that’s clearly inappropriate. I shall call you milady.’

      ‘I’m not your lady.’ Ashley managed not to say, ‘Yet.’

      ‘Mrs. Harcourt?’

      She didn’t want to be reminded of her marriage to Roger, either, but perhaps it wasn’t appropriate to ask Cliffton to call her Ashley at this point. It could wait until she knew him better. She nodded her assent to the name and sipped her tea, trying desperately to collect her thoughts into a properly ordered pattern.

      Events seemed to be tumbling over themselves, not giving her time to sort through what needed to be done. And it didn’t help to have Cliffton hovering over her enquiringly. Not only were the beautiful blue depths of his eyes enough for her wits to drown in, she seemed to be getting a fixation on the tantalising little tilts and curves of his mouth. She hadn’t thought about being kissed by a man for quite a while. The provocative question arose…Did butlers help put their mistresses to bed?

      Ashley was shocked at herself, but a perverse little voice whispered that it had been over six years and she was as normal as the next woman in wanting an exciting relationship with a man, so it was perfectly all right to fantasise what it might be like. Especially with a man of Cliffton’s unusual and extraordinary qualities. In fact, she wouldn’t be normal if she didn’t.

      It took an enormous effort of will to drag her mind back to practical matters. ‘I think you should show me some credentials, Cliffton,’ she said soberly. ‘After all, it’s asking a lot for me to accept what you’re saying off the cuff, so to speak.’

      ‘Quite right! I have the investigative report tracing the family line to young William in my luggage. I shall ask the chauffeur to fetch it in as soon as the photograph session is over. In the meantime, will my passport suffice as a means of identification?’

      He removed it from an inner pocket in his suit coat and offered it to her. Ashley put down her teacup, intent on examining whatever solid information she could get about him. It was certainly a British passport, and the photograph unmistakably identified him as Harold Alistair Cliffton. A very