“Good Lord.” For a moment, she could have sworn she was governess again. “How old are you?”
He grinned.
“And are you really a marquess?”
“I am.”
“And that is an English title? Not some frivolous foreign designation?”
“I am the eighth Marquess of Brookings. My father was the seventh, my grandfather the sixth and so on. I have the papers to prove it if you wish to see them.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“So what’s it to be, India? Although I must say I like the sound of India and Percy. It fairly reeks of England, and yet I think it has a certain flair to it.” He reached for her last croissant. “Although, perhaps India and Val are even more—”
Before she could think better of it, India opened her mouth and screamed.
A WOMAN’S SCREAM ripped through the house, reverberating off lofty ceilings and echoing off marbled floors. Derek started, frozen in midstep on the stairs, and knew with unerring certainty whose scream it was. Bloody hell.
He sprinted toward India’s room, just down the hall from his, taking the steps of the broad, curving stairway two at a time. He and Val had talked for long hours after their arrival last night, and Derek knew there were no other guests staying at the grand house. He had left the professor and his wife downstairs in the breakfast room, probably too far away to hear, although he wouldn’t be at all surprised to find them right behind him. No one could miss that scream.
What was wrong now? India had made a noticeable attempt yesterday not to be overly critical of very nearly everything but she did not take well to the inconveniences of travel. It was obvious she’d had little travel experience except perhaps for the occasional trip from London to the country.
He reached the second floor and headed toward her room. India was in no real danger. He was confident of that. Although one never knew what—or who—one might run into in the halls of Val’s Parisian domicile. The last time Derek was here, there had been a precocious monkey—the adored pet of Val’s paramour at the time—that had been clever enough to escape his leash and evade capture for nearly a month, living off scraps in the kitchen and terrifying both servants and guests alike. For a small creature, he had been extremely unpleasant and rather threatening. Val broke it off with his owner the moment the beast was captured. Derek suspected the animal was no more than a convenient excuse.
Derek reached India’s room and pulled up short. Even a monkey wouldn’t have been a greater shock than the sight that greeted him.
The indomitable, unyielding, eminently proper Miss India Prendergast was sitting upright in her bed—still in her nightclothes—covers clutched nearly to her chin in one hand, a tray balanced on her lap, glaring at Val, who sat on the edge of her bed. More shocking still was India herself.
Her hair was loose and hung around her shoulders in clouds of unsuspected curls that caught the light and shimmered with gold highlights. Curls that were usually ruthlessly imprisoned in a knot on the top of her head, so tight it made his scalp ache to look at it. Her skin was flushed, no doubt with annoyance, and her green eyes sparkled—again, probably with annoyance. But it was most becoming. He could see little of her nightwear—a peachy shade and most flattering to her coloring—except for her arms. The almost transparent fabric was enhanced by creamy lace that caressed her wrists and whispered against the bedclothes. She was the picture of charming dishabille, an illusion at once angelic and seductive. A vision that fairly begged to be kissed. It was the oddest thought—kissing India Prendergast—but Derek couldn’t quite dismiss it. He would wager Val had thought the same thing.
Val reached a hand toward her tray. She smacked it away, and the illusion shattered.
“Good God, Miss Prendergast.” Derek stepped into the room. “Are you all right? What on earth is going on here?”
She gave Val a scathing look, then turned her attention to Derek. “This man is trying to steal my croissants, Mr. Saunders. As he has already taken two of them, and there is only one left—” her narrowed gaze shifted back to Val “—I could not allow that.”
“They’re excellent croissants, Derek.” Val looked mournfully at the remaining croissant. “You should try one.”
“I did,” Derek said slowly. “At breakfast.” This was about pastry? He stared at India. “You screamed because he took your croissant?”
For the first time since he’d met her, she looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Not exactly.”
“Not at all,” Val said. “She screamed because I challenged her to do so. Or perhaps dared is a better word.” He grinned at India. “What do you think, Miss Prendergast? Was it a challenge or a dare? Or...” He paused in a meaningful manner. “Was it a wager?”
“I told you—I do not wager,” she said in a manner entirely too lofty for a woman who had screamed not to defend her honor but to protect her pastry. “And you know perfectly well why I screamed.”
“Val.” Derek summoned a hard tone. “Why did she scream?”
Val shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“Utter nonsense. You know exactly why.” India huffed. “I asked him to leave as his presence is unwanted as well as being highly inappropriate.”
Val slanted him an unrepentant grin.
“I threatened to scream if he did not take his leave. He didn’t, so I did.”
“And an impressive scream it was, too.” Admiration curved Val’s lips. “I didn’t think she had it in her.”
“And yet it didn’t seem to work,” she said coolly.
For a moment, Derek thought there was a glint of amusement in her eyes, but then Val had always been skilled at amusing women. Still, for whatever reason, the thought that Val could make her smile was irritating.
“I’d wager you could hear it all over the house,” Val said smugly.
“I’d wager you could hear it all over the city.” Derek nodded at India. “Well done, Miss Prendergast.”
“Thank you, Mr. Saunders.” A satisfied note sounded in her voice, and this time there was no mistake. India was definitely trying not to smile. Perhaps there was hope for her, after all.
“You said you call him Derek.” Val’s eyes narrowed.
“Apparently, when I am entertaining incorrigible gentlemen in my bedchamber, I prefer more formal, proper terms of address.”
Val laughed, and Derek couldn’t resist a grin. This was going to be an interesting stay. He moved farther into the room, grabbed a chair and positioned it on the opposite side of the bed from Val.
She raised a brow. “Oh, do join us, Mr. Saunders.”
“I would be delighted.” He ignored the sarcasm in her voice and sat down. “While you have obviously already met, allow me to properly, formally introduce the Marquess of Brookings, my stepbrother.”
“Your what?” India stared in disbelief.
“Derek’s mother was my stepmother.”
“Val’s father was my mother’s second husband.”
“That explains so much,” she said under her breath.
“You were right, Derek,” Val said with a regretful shake of his head. “She is stuffy.”
“You