“Good evening, my lady. You’re ... early.”
“Good evening, Sir John.”
She approached the bed without being asked and stopped beside it.
He looked at her, taking in the fine gown. Her pinned hair. Her wary face. “The color suits you. You look beautiful.” He added quietly, “Beautiful and sad.”
She ducked her head.
Nib in hand, he lifted the quill, tickling under her chin. “Look at me,” he said gently. “What is it? Is Danny all right?”
“A little colicky, but otherwise fine.” She raised her head and braved a small smile. “Thank you for asking.”
Holding her gaze, he slowly lowered the quill from beneath her chin, down the column of her throat, and along her collarbone.
She jerked away, stepping back from the bed. His familiarity, which had previously warmed her, now put her on edge.
“Forgive me, I thought—” He hesitated, then frowned. “What’s wrong? Has something happened?”
“Mr. Lowden is with us again, and it’s... awkward. He’s asking questions.”
“About us?”
“About ... Hannah Rogers.”
“Ah...” He considered this, then said quietly, “Rememberthat Mr. Lowden works for me. You have nothing to fear from him.”
He tilted his head to the side and regarded her cautiously. “Or is fear not what you feel for him? Is there ... more to it?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “He took against me at first. Then we seemed to come to a truce. But now ... he’s changed toward me. He knows, or at least suspects the truth.”
“Leave him to me. Unless...” He studied her face. “Have you developed feelings for my solicitor?”
She stared at him, stunned by the suggestion, and yet ... could she honestly say she felt nothing for the man? After he had helped find Danny and Becky? She couldn’t deny she found him attractive. “I ... We ... Nothing of that sort is going on. But he seems ... angry with me, or at least distrustful, and I don’t like it.”
He nodded and said in his low, rich voice, “Perhaps he cannot reconcile the Lady Mayfield I wrote about with the modest gentlewoman he met here. A woman twice as ladylike as Marianna Spencer ever was.”
She relished his praise, even as dread cramped her stomach. She had been living in a dream these last few days. An unrealistic, unattainable dream.
He held out his hand to her. She hesitated, then placed hers in his. But then someone knocked on the door and Hannah jumped back. She didn’t want James Lowden to find them in anything resembling anintimateposition.
But it was not James Lowden. Mrs. Turrill entered carrying Danny, dressed in a little nightshirt and cap, his face red and pinched in pain.
“Sorry to disturb you both,” Mrs. Turrill said. “But it’s the colic again. Becky couldn’t settle him and nor can I.”
Hannah took the baby from the housekeeper and began gently bouncing him, her wrapped arm bearing more weight now without pain. “Thank you, Mrs. Turrill. I’ll take care ofhim. Why don’t you retire for the evening—you look exhausted. I’ll be up soon, and Becky can help me change.”
“I am worn off my feet, I admit,” the woman said. “Very well. If you’re sure.”
“I am. Good-night, Mrs. Turrill.”
“Good-night, my lady. Sir.”
When the housekeeper had departed, Hannah turned back to Sir John. Danny continued to whine. “Well, I won’t keep you. I’m sure you don’t want to listen to him fuss.”
“Nonsense. Here.” He set aside his writing things and opened his arms. “Give him to me.”
What was Sir John doing? What wasshedoing? Opening her heart to foolish hopes and dreams again, that’s what. Still, she could not refuse his offer, his warm expression, and outstretched arms.
