Despite the warning, the girl’s brow didn’t unpucker a whit as she tucked her sewing into a basket and approached her mother. “Do you really think it wise to allow a man in our flat?” To her credit, Harriet kept her voice to a whisper—though he could still make out the words over the ticking of the clock.
“Mr. Baggett is here for our protection, child. Besides, ’tis not yer place to naysay me.”
It wasn’t, but was it his place to admit he’d overheard? Would the girl not be mortified if he said anything? Still, it was to her credit she cared for her mother, a woman she’d seen wronged by other men.
“Harriet.” He took a single step towards the women. “Your mother speaks truth. I mean to defend her and all of you, nothing more. Nothing less. There is no need for you to fret.”
Harriet pinched her lips shut, eyes wary despite his words.
“Ye heard the man, girl. Now go.” Martha gave her a gentle push, then turned to him. “Have a seat Mr. Baggett. Will ye take a cup of tea as well?”
“No, thank you. It’s probably best I say what I must without anything breakable in my hands.” He sank onto the sofa.
Martha bit her lip as she perched on the other end of the sofa. “Is there a problem, then? Have I or the girls angered ye in any way? Ach!” Her eyes narrowed. “’Tis Frankie, aye? What’s the boy done now?”
“No, it’s none of those things. It’s…well…” He ran his hand along his thigh. Over and over. This was turning out to be harder than facing a band of drunk bricklayers bent on some knuckle bruising.
And still the clock ticked.
Leaning aside, Martha pressed her hand atop his, stopping his nervous movement. “Yer givin’ me a fright. What ails ye, Mr. Baggett?”
“That’s exactly what ails me!Mr. Baggett.” Unbidden, his gaze shot to her mouth. He’d pay a queen’s ransom to hear his Christian name from her lips. Would to God she’d someday allow such an intimacy.
But for now, all her lips did was quirk in bewilderment. “But tha’s yer name, ain’t it?”
“Yes, it is. Yes, of course.” Curse it! He sounded like a blathering idiot. Rising, he rubbed the back of his neck. He’d never felt this mud-fuddled when he’d been with Edwina. Then again, he’d never experienced such strong passions with her as he did when in the presence of Martha. Could it be…?
Had he never truly loved Edwina?
Now that was a stunning thought.
“Mr. Baggett, yer as agitated as a landed mackerel. Ye sure yer well?”
“No, I am most certainly not.” He dropped back to the sofa with a sigh, irritated at his schoolboy antics, annoyed by the incessant ticking of the wretched clock, disgusted at his lack of courage. Was he a man or a sissy-footed dandy afraid of his own shadow? Enough of this!
Squaring his shoulders, he gathered Martha’s hands in his. “Mrs. Jones, if you would allow it, I would be more to you than simply Mr. Baggett.”
Her eyes widened. “Such as?”
“The thing is I…I cannot get you out of my mind. As I go to sleep, I think of you. When I wake, you are my first thought. You, Martha Jones, are with me every breath of every day. And I find I can no longer go on pretending otherwise. In short, I love you and—” Still clutching her hands, he slid off the sofa and dropped to one knee. “I would be the most honoured man in all of England if you would—”
He cocked his head, listening hard.
“If I would…?” She squeezed his hands, hope brilliant in her eyes.
But the blasted ticking, ticking, ticking!
“Did you happen to get a new clock?” He glanced around.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Baggett?”
Not a clock in sight. None on the walls. Nothing on the mantel.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Untwining his fingers from Martha’s, he dropped to the floor and peered beneath the couch.
And his heart quit beating altogether.
