Miss Woolf stirred, her long lashes fluttering. In a hoarse whisper, she breathed, “Water … please.”
Mrs Boswell reached for the carafe on the side table and poured cooled barley water into a glass. “Just a sip, miss. Enough to wet your lips.”
Miss Woolf’s hand trembled as she steadied the glass. She lifted it, the rim brushing her mouth. Gabriel watched the cool liquid glisten against her lips before she swallowed, herthroat working with the effort. His heartbeat quickened, and he told himself the rush of feeling was nothing more than relief.
She lowered the glass, her gaze wandering about the chamber. Confusion clouded her features as she took in the carved panels, the heavy drapes, and the parade of peacocks. “We’re at Studland Park? The last I recall, we were at World’s End.”
Gabriel stepped forward, eyes fixed on her. “That was two days ago. You’ve barely stirred since.”
“Mr Gentry diagnosed exhaustion,” Mrs Boswell said, setting the glass back on the side table. “He seemed certain you would recover.”
“Two days ago? Good Lord.” She clutched her chest, panic flashing in her eyes. The thin nightgown offered little defence, and her gaze flicked to him, as though recalling how near he stood. Awareness quivered in the space between them before colour drained from her face and her eyes swept the chamber, sharp now, searching.
Gabriel knew what she sought. The valise.
“It’s safe,” he said to reassure her.
Her fingers sought Mrs Boswell’s sleeve. “Might I trouble you for something to eat?” The question came gently, as though she were unaccustomed to asking for favours.
“Do you mean to remain abed, miss?” Mrs Boswell asked, patting her hand. “You would be wise to do so.”
She drew a weary breath. “I shall eat first and see how I feel.”
Gabriel caught the faint tremor in her voice, but also the resolve beneath it. “I shall dine here with Miss Woolf. Have Molière send up his onion soup.”
Miss Woolf made no objection. Why would she, when theonly thing that mattered was the bag she had hidden at the foot of a corpse? Indeed, Mrs Boswell had barely closed the door before she pushed herself upright.
“Where is the bag? Did you open it? Tell me you didn’t touch anything.” She eyed him cautiously. “I suppose you’re shocked, angry, perhaps disappointed the contents were less intriguing than expected.”
“On the contrary.” His gaze slipped to the three pearl buttons at her throat, undone to reveal smooth porcelain skin, then lower to the copper strands brushing her collarbone. She looked bed-tumbled, and the sight roused thoughts forbidden to a man sworn to celibacy. “It’s the smallest things I find most intriguing. But I haven’t opened the valise.”
She frowned. “Why? It’s not locked.”
“I know.”
“You’ve not peeked inside?”
He gave a short snort. “And betray your trust? How am I to prove I have honourable motives if I falter at the first hurdle?”
Her gaze slid over him. “Few men possess your strength—your strength of will, I mean.” Yet her eyes caught on the breadth of his chest, just as they had at the washstand when she’d paused in the doorway, breathless at the sight of him bare.
She was a formidable adversary in this game of resolve. For the first time in years he felt like a man, flesh and blood, not a marquess bound by duty. He would be wise to eat his soup downstairs.
“How would you like to do this?” The words slipped out clumsily, and he cursed himself for it. They lacked the precision he prided himself on. “Shall we eat first?” His jaw tightened. “Eat before we open the valise? Assuming you feel well enough.”
Her throat worked tirelessly before she said, “It’s not too late to bundle me in a hackney cab with that dratted bag and forget you ever met me.”
It was too late. His last chance to do something honourable. He might have lectured her on what it meant to make a vow, how faith was all he had left. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a folded parchment, and handed it to her.
“What’s this?” She took it, her pale fingers shaking as she realised he’d used the weight of his position to make demands of the Archbishop. “You obtained a licence?”
“You’re an intelligent woman, Miss Woolf. Do I strike you as a man who makes worthless promises?”
“No, but?—”
“You must make the choice now.” A knot twisted in his stomach. Her answer shouldn’t matter, but it did. The realisation unsettled him, though his voice remained composed. “I can summon Kincaid. He will take you anywhere you wish to go. Scotland. Dover. A ship bound for the Americas.”
He stopped there, letting her weigh the options.
