CHAPTER FORTY SIX

Pushing open the bedroom door, Malice didn’t care if Cyril was with George. He was, but they were dressing for dinner.

“Kiss me.”

She didn’t hesitate. In fact she so little hesitated, she sprung across the floor. As she did he removed his hands from his cravat with a deep sigh as if it irritated him to see her there.

“Malice . . .”

“No, Cyril. I mean it.”

He flicked his cuff. A bored flick that said better than words how he felt about this. “Malice, you can’t keep doing this. Can’t you see? You’re making George jealous.”

“Making George jealous? Do you want me to laugh?”

“Not especially. So look here—”

Reaching out she grasped his cravat. “Well, I really don’t care, Cyril, now—”

“No really.” He pulled back, doing his best to adjust the knot. “George doesn’t like you here after you hit him with that jug.”

“Troll’s teeth. It would never have happened if he hadn’t opened that damned door.”

“Troll’s teeth? How interesting. What is that? A Viking oath?”