By the time they made the short walk to her guest chambers, the earl had gone.
And Lucy found herself alone with Arran.
Nay, Mr. McQuoid.
He only referred to her by her given name at his father’s ordering.
“Thank you for your assistance, Mr. McQuoid,” she murmured.
“In disentangling you from my garrulous father?” he drawled.
Oh, good Sunday sermons. She was always stepping into it. “I didn’t mean—”
Arran waved his right hand. “When the earl said we do not stand on ceremony, it wasn’t just him being polite. We don’t, Lucy.”
He commanded her name as though it belonged to him. He wrapped it in satin and steel all at the same time. This gentleman wasn’t the safe sort like Mr. Smith. Nay, Captain McQuoid was the manner of man lasses were warned to steer clear of: to protect her heart...and virtue.
Arran dipped a hooded gaze to her mouth.
Lucy’s heart jumped.
But his focus? His focus continued lower—slowly lower—to the neckline of her gown.
Still lower, where it lingered…
Lucy gasped.
Face flaming, she snatched her fingers back from where she still fully gripped Arran’s arm.
“Good night,” she blurted. She reached blindly out, searching her fingers about for the door handle.
Arran inclined his head. “Lucy.”
His baritone, like the warmed chocolate her father used to make, had the same warming effect.
Lucy yanked the door open and shut it with too much enthusiasm; the rattle of the panel echoed damningly.
Heart pounding, she lay her hands behind her back and rested against the door.
Lucy focused on drawing smooth, even breaths—unsuccessfully. “My head’s mince.”
It was very possible that in accepting the McQuoid’s grace and staying in their home, she had broken some law. One that could even potentially see her hanged.
Such a worry was only secondary.
Lucy had contended with any number of men over the course of her years living and working at The Spotted Elk. When drink became involved, men became unpredictable. Some were given to boisterous laughter and song. Others became sullen and angry drunkards with foul mouths. The raucous ones spoiled for a fight.
Her father hadn’t tolerated handsy ones beyond anything more than a single finger laid upon her before he’d thrown them out.
She’d faced them all.
Not a single one of those countless patrons roused the unease that Mr. Arran McQuoid did.
Nor was it fear.
She didn’t know what name to put to it.
She only knew that the only way to escape the McQuoid family unscathed, after this particular misunderstanding, was to stay far, far away from Arran McQuoid.
