* * *
The knocking on his bedroom door was loud enough to wake the dead. “Go away!” Dace called. “Unless you are my wife, in which case enter and welcome!”
The door opened to allow Gordon to march to the foot of his bed and glare at the sight of him lying fully clothed and rudely awoken. “Your lady wife is in the offices, Lord Felmont,” the old Scot intoned like one announcing the plague had struck.
“Am I to take it she is not consulting the housekeeper?” drawled Dace. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed. His shoulder took several cautious attempts to get it moving again.
“Lady Felmont is talking to Jim Thwaite, alone with him in the plate pantry. With any luck she’ll not be crying on his chest when you get there.” The old man made a Scottish noise of disapproval. “The women I have to haul out of there!”
“Does my wife cry on his chest often?”
“Only the once. Cried on me, too, when the lists reported you missing. Of course, it could have been relief,” said the old man with a dry cackle.
Lizzie Tempest Ruins A Viscount (Felmont Brides Series Book 1) Page 20