Page 3 of A Second Chance for Love

His mouth pulled up higher on one side, his hooded eyes glinting. “Ah, so you do remember me.”

As if anyone ever forgot Justin Taylor. Oona could tell by his smug tone that he wasn’t surprised at all that she knew who he was.

“Are you hurt?” His low voice vibrated through her body and reminded her she was still tight against his chest.

She squirmed.

His arms clenched slightly, as if he might keep her, and her pulse thundered at the thought. But he lowered her with sudden swiftness and her feet hit the ground with a loud clack.

Oona staggered back a step. “Wh-what are you doing here?” she demanded, tilting her head back sharply to meet his gaze; he looked nothing like his former self, and yet he did.

“You’re welcome, ma’am.” His hat had fallen, likely when he’d caught her, and he bent to pick it up.

Oona’s face heated. “Oh. I’m sorry, of course I’m grateful that you were here to catch me. But—”

“In answer to your question, I own this building,” he said coolly, but she could hear the pride simmering beneath his words. His full lips were curved into a faint smile, the same smirk he’d always worn in repose. It was remarkable how familiar the expression was even though she’d not seen it for a decade. As ever, he made Oona feel young, ignorant, gauche; that wasn’t all he’d made her feel.

But right now it was making her feel like an idiot. “You’re Mr. Taylor—Mr. Justin Taylor?”

“In the flesh.”

“Oh. I never put the two names together,” she said, sounding breathy and foolish.

“Taylor is a common name, as is Justin. Why would you ever link your employer’s landlord with an impoverished, disgraced groom you knew many years ago?”

Oona frowned at the slight but menacing emphasis on the word disgraced. Did he think she judged him for losing his position so long ago? The thought made her grimace; if he only knew about how she’d lost her position. Oona cringed at the thought of the arrogant, confident, and successful man in front of her learning about her mortifying disgrace. And it was clear that he was successful. Her eyes flickered over his elegantly clad body: skintight black pantaloons and a wool overcoat that embraced his broad shoulders as closely as a lover, his leather-clad hands holding a high-crowned black beaver hat.

What had happened to him? How had he gone from a groom to . . . this? Dozens of questions swirled around in her head like too many fish in a pond. Oona snatched at one, “How long have you known I worked for Madam LeMonde?”

He reached into his pocket and took out his watch. “Perhaps ten minutes.”

Why did that make her feel marginally less anxious?

Did you think he was stalking you, Oona?

No, she thought no such thing. In fact, she was more than a little surprised that he would even remember who she was.

He replaced his watch and once again turned his uncomfortable gaze on her.

Oona swallowed, loudly, and his lips twitched: he was enjoying her discomfort.

“Why are you looking at me that way?” she asked.

His eyebrows rose. “What way?”

Oona was good with words, but she had none to describe this particular look.

“I didn’t know you were a seamstress as well as a governess,” he said when she didn’t reply. “But then I suppose that’s not surprising as we did not occupy the same spheres—me being in the stables and you being in his lordship’s house.”

“No, I’m not—” she hesitated, uneasy at what she was about to admit to this man—a man who’d always flustered her, even when he’d been a mere groom. And now. . .

“Yes?” he prodded. “You’re not . . .”

“I’m not a seamstress; I’m the all-around dogsbody.” She’d not meant to sound so belligerent, but there it was.

“You didn’t like governessing?”

“Yes, actually, I enjoyed it a great deal.”