From the slight pink on her cheeks to the steady rise and fall of her chest, the strands of red hair coming loose about her face and softening a bold jaw, it all gave one impression.
Lovely.
He clenched his teeth together so hard the sound reverberated through his skull. Lady Clementine was far from lovely. In fact, she was slowly becoming a royal pain in his rear. Lovely women did not make demands and shove past gentlemen and insert themselves into situations that had nothing to do with them.
Before he could do something decidedly ungentlemanly like grab her arm or even better, pick her up at the waist and throw her over his shoulder, she darted away again. He kept his fists balled at his side as she opened one door, stopped, eyed the interior then shook her head and moved on to the next.
She did the same with the next three rooms, each of them as feminine in appearance as the last with pale, muted colors, endless fabrics and pillows stacked high on each bed. He didn’t visit Hindwick enough to know which room was her bedroom.
“What exactly are you looking for?” he couldn’t resist asking, brow furrowed.
“Signs of occupation.”
“The maid has already cleaned this morning. You will not find much.”
When she opened the next door, she stilled, her gaze narrow. He watched her. Whatever was going on behind those eyes was oddly mesmerizing, as though he could see every element of her mind ticking over, analyzing the situation.
But this was a Musgrave. None of them were known for thinking before acting. More than that, this was Lady Clementine Musgrave. As near as he could tell, she lived her life in a blur, moving from one thing to the next. He hardly imagined her capable of standing still for one second, let alone stopping and actually thinking.
“This is the one.”
He moved closer and peered around the edge of the doorway. A neatly made four-poster bed in shades of blue sat in an equally neat and tidy room. A washbowl remained upon the washstand alongside a brush and comb. Fresh flowers sat in vases. But none of this meant anything. All the other rooms had offered the same.
“How do you—”
She moved past him into the room. “The air smells of fragrance,” she told him, ignoring his stare and dropping onto her haunches near the dressing table.
He inhaled. He’d attributed the sweet scent to the flowers, however, now she’d pointed it out, he caught the slight hint of lilacs—his aunt’s favorite perfume. He stepped into the room, mindful of keeping the door open. They were not in some busy ballroom, and they were certainly not going to be found in some compromising position, but he’d be damned if they’d be found behind a closed door by a gossip-spreading servant.
He watched her move about the room with folded arms. As hard as Roman tried, it seemed he could not intimidate her. Odd, really. From a young age his large body and even larger fists had intimidated most people. Combined with his title and his ability with said fists, he often found people stammering and fumbling in his presence.
He imagined Lady Clementine had never stumbled or stammered in her life, such was the confidence of the blasted chit. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t envy it. No one would look at Lord Roman Avery, the Marquis of Rochdale, and think of him as anything other than confident.
They had no idea.
“What are you looking for?”
“I am not certain yet.” She tapped a finger to her lips and strode to the window.
Several heartbeats of silence passed. Roman had to wonder quite what was wrong with him, allowing this, but again he could not fathom what his options were besides bodily removing her from the room. A deep gnawing sensation in his chest told him touching her might be the biggest mistake he ever made, though he wasn’t certain why.
When she lifted a knee to climb onto the windowsill, he regretted not flinging her out on her rear the moment she arrived.
“What the devil are you doing?” he demanded, casting his gaze upward when he caught the briefest glimpse of skin as she hitched her skirts to rise and stand on the windowsill. The tiny, tantalizing line of skin above a woman’s stocking...was there anything more alluring?
Throat dry, he shook his head and strode over as she readjusted her skirts and wavered upon the thin ledge.
“You’re going to fall and hurt yourself.”
“Nonsense. I’m not even three feet high.”
“Lady—”
“Clem,” she corrected.
His sighed. “Clem...come down at once.”
“Ah ha!”