~~~
At half-past two in the morning, Polly gave up trying to sleep. Sighing, she tossed aside the bedclothes and sat up, rubbing the heels of her palms over her eyes. The conversation with Rosie had stayed with her, chasing sleep away.
Her sister had claimed she was too… sensitive. Was that her true problem? But who wouldn’t feel hurt by what Revelstoke had said—what he’d done? Hurt swamped Polly, along with anxious bewilderment: Rosie had never dismissed her feelings before. The other was her best friend, her constant companion, the one who’d always understood. And now…
Anger bubbled up. This was allRevelstoke’sfault.
From the moment he’d entered Polly’s life, he’d wreaked havoc. He’d said those unforgivable things about her, mocked her when she’d caught him acting like a madman, and then added insult on top of injury tonight. Now he had Rosie in his thrall, so much so that the girl was takinghisside over Polly’s. And who knew what nefarious troubles had brought him to darken Ambrose’s doorstep?
Her stomach rumbled noisily. On top of everything, she was hungry—and that is Revelstoke’s fault too, she fumed. She’d been so distracted by the blasted man at supper that she’d hardly eaten anything herself.
Disgruntled, she tossed the coverlet aside and got out of bed. Perhaps warmed milk might soothe her ruffled state; she certainly wasn’t going to fall asleep otherwise. She donned a chintz wrapper, lit a lamp, and made her way downstairs to the kitchen.
The cavernous basement room was warm, the air redolent of delicious smells. Embers glowed in the cooking hearth, the precisely hung rows of pots and pans glinting in the light of Polly’s lamp. Making a trip to the larder, she returned with a jug of milk, a leftover slice of Em’s cake, and a bowl of plump cherries. She nibbled on the fruit, pouring some milk into a pan to warm, when a faint rustling noise made her freeze.
It was coming from the dark corridor beyond the kitchen… the stillroom? Her muscles tensed, and she listened for more of the furtive sounds. She told herself it was just a mouse, but when more rummaging noises emerged, her pulse beat in a rapid staccato.
She grabbed hold of the closest weapon; with her hands wrapped around the handle of a cast-iron pan, she moved stealthily toward the stillroom. She’d do a quick reconnaissance, summon help if necessary. As she neared, she heard shuffling, glass tinkling… the sound of a clandestine search? She peered cautiously into the stillroom—and her breath clogged her throat. In the flickering dimness, she made out a large, menacing shape hunting through the shelves.
She gulped.Time to get help.
She began creeping backward down the hallway when a floorboard squeaked beneath her slipper. Through the pounding panic, she thought she heard a man’s voice, and she turned to flee down the corridor. She made it to the kitchen when a vise-like grip closed around her arm.
“Let go of me!” She swung her weapon with all her might. She made contact, the force of impact vibrating up her arm.
“Hell and damnation,” the burglar swore.
Panting, she raised the pan again—only to have it yanked from her grip. Even as she drew air to scream, a hand covered her mouth, her back colliding against a wall of muscle. Her hair in her eyes, she struggled blindly, kicking out, trying to escape by any means necessary.
“Desist, you Amazon,” a low voice growled in her ear. “It’s me. Revelstoke.”
The words took an instant to penetrate.
“Rblsmuck?” Her words were muffled by his hand.
“Aye. Now if I release you, will you please refrain from waking up the entire bloody house?”
The instant she was free, she spun around, stumbled back. There was no mistaking the earl’s sardonic features. In the dim kitchen, his eyes glittered like midnight sapphires, a night beard darkening his lean jaw. The scruff and his billowing linen shirt, which hung open at the collar, made him look like a dangerous pirate.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she struggled to calm the anarchy of her breath. “What on earth are you doing skulking about?”
He set her makeshift weapon down upon the kitchen trestle. “I wasn’t skulking. I was looking for something.”
“In the stillroom?”
“I woke up with a devil of a headache, if you must know. I didn’t want to disturb anyone at this hour, so I came in to look for willow bark powder. My housekeeper always keeps some in the stillroom.” He ran a hand through his dark hair and winced.
When he withdrew his hand, she saw that it had blood upon it.
“D-did I do that?” she stammered.
“It’s nothing. I’ve a hard head, and trust me,” he said wryly, “it has encountered harder surfaces than your pan.”
Remorse percolated through her. She’d assaulted Revelstoke… made himbleed. Whatever she might think of him, she’d never wish him physical harm.
“Come with me,” she said.
His brows lifted. “Where are we going?”
