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walked down the length of the hall, past artworks of pastoral scenes and portraits of bewigged ladies and gentlemen.
    “Do you have a valet?” Miranda asked, turning back toward Lord Archer as they moved past a small front parlor done up in lemon yellow and white with delicate Grecian style furnishings.
    “No. I am a grown man, well capable of dressing and shaving myself. Gilroy takes care of incidentals.” He waved his hand in distraction.
    Poor Gilroy .
    Lord Archer’s eyes cut to her as though hearing the silent criticism. “It isn’t as though I have lacings and coiffures to worry over,” he said.
    Childhood lectures from Mother ran in her head. One never speaks of personal grooming. A gentleman should never mention a lady’s toilette . Then again, Miranda had found Mother’s lectures rather stifling. “I admit surprise,” she said, catching a glimpse of a library filled with blue velvet sofas and deep leather wing chairs. “I’ve always thought nobles considered a valet a mark of distinction. Father said if you could, your lot would have someone wipe your…” She trailed off in a furious flush of heat.
    Lord Archer looked at her sidelong. “Do go on, Lady Archer.”
    She stepped away to peer into a large room of powder blue, rather hoping that the floor would open up and swallow her whole. What had prompted her to speak so basely? She had deliberately tried to bait Lord Archer.
    “The ladies’ salon,” he murmured as she gazed up at the ceiling painted like a summer sky with rolling clouds and sunbeams. The décor of the home was old-fashioned. There simply wasn’t enough to appease the modern eye, no wall coverings of ornate patterning, no doilies, needlework, or bric-a-brac to fill the space. White lintels, Grecian pediments over the doors, their dentil moldings foiled with gold. Marble busts and convex mirrors adorned the simple mantels. Gothic architecture, Georgian interior, Regency décor… it was like sinking slowly back in a time long past.
    “I shall give you a proper tour tomorrow.” He headed toward a massive staircase of white marble. “For now, you need rest.”
    Miranda could wander through a house such as this all day. But she let herself be led, her feet sinking soundlessly into the carpet when they reached the second floor.
    The walls were crimson. Golden candle-fed sconces and potted palms made the long hallway cheery, but the absence of servants was odd. “Where are the other servants?” she whispered. It would surely take an army of them to keep such a house.
    “I keep a small staff. My privacy is more important. You shall meet most of them tomorrow.”
    Feeling lost, she reached out and touched his arm. He pulled away with a low hiss, and her face flamed. “I’m sorry.” She chided herself for touching him, for feeling the need to.
    Lord Archer took a long breath. “No. I am.” He cursed sharply. “The accident… my right side. I don’t like to be touched on my right side.” He stilled and then lifted his left arm, offering it to her. “I have offended you, the very thought of which shames me. Take my left arm. It is unaffected. Please,” he added when she hesitated.
    His eyes were gray, a true dove gray surrounded by thick black lashes that rivaled any lady’s. It seemed an odd thing to fixate upon but she could not look away. Her heart tapped like a metronome, the palpable thing that was the force of his will and the strength of his body nearly overwhelmed her. Carefully, she placed a hand upon his arm, noting the hardness of it and the way his muscles jumped at her touch.
    Her husband nodded in satisfaction, then pulled her along. He stopped before a set of doors where an elderly woman waited.
    “This is Eula, our housekeeper,” he said by way of introduction. “You shall want to discuss the household running with her, I should think.”
    By the way the elder woman was glaring at her, Miranda had grave doubts as to their working together.
    Lord Archer