Why did his mind suddenly stop working when he looked into her emerald eyes and upon those delectable lips?
It wasn’t just her face, but when she was physically near, as she’d been in the carriage. All he could think about was touching her when he should have been carefully considering his words of winning her.
Preston turned to the driver and the men working on the wheel. “I’ll walk back to Ambrose Hall.”
“We will be done quickly, Lord Melcombe,” he assured him.
“I believe I need to walk,” was all he offered.
Miss Claywell was already out of sight as she’d taken off as if she was at the races. He forced himself to walk at a slower pace.
He’d scared her. She simply needed time to come to terms with what had happened in the carriage. She had wanted him as much as he wanted her, and it had likely scared her, given she was unfamiliar with passion.
If only his driver hadn’t been so quick in bringing assistance. However, it was probably for the best as he had been trying to think of ways to maneuver Miss Claywell out of her gown so that he could truly bring her pleasure and she would have been even more embarrassed had they been found in a state of undress.
“What is wrong with Miss Claywell,” his housekeeper demanded as soon as he stepped inside.
“What do you mean?”
He had a very good idea, but he certainly wasn’t going to tell Mrs. Wilson.
“When she returned, she was pale and shaking. If I didn’t know better, there were tears.”
Bloody hell. That hadnotbeen his intention.
“Did you ask?”
“She claimed a headache and the sun had only made it worse when she thought a walk would have improved her health.”
“You don’t believe her?”
“Do you?” she demanded.
“Miss Claywell complained while we were in Willanton,” he lied. “Has she gone to her set of rooms?”
“Yes, she apologized to the girls and said that she needed to rest for the remainder of the day.”
So long as she wasn’t packing, he was fine with her taking to her bed if that was what was needed.
Except, maybe the headache was an excuse, and she was packing.
“Please have a maid check on her frequently and alert me if anything is out of the ordinary, or if her condition worsens.”
“It truly is a headache?” Mrs. Wilson asked.
“If that is what she claims then I have no reason to doubt her.”
“I thought it was more the curse and difficulties Ambrose men suffer.”
Even if what his housekeeper suggested was correct, Preston was not going to confirm her suspicions. “I’m certain she will be recovered by tomorrow.”
His housekeeper watched him a bit longer, as if she wanted to question him further. “I’ll see that tea is taken to her, and perhaps something to help her sleep and for the pain,” she finally said.
“Thank you.” Preston turned and marched to the library where he poured a liberal glass of brandy. It was likely he’d not see Miss Claywell again today. And tonight, he’d leave his chamber door open and remain awake because if she intended to leave in the middle of the night again, she wouldn’t be able to do so without going by his set of rooms.
Althea yawned as she left her chamber. Her charges were awake early today in anticipation of snow and their excitement had bled through the walls to her chamber. She probably should have looked out the window to determine the weather, but she was in need of tea.
She blamed the butler, Jackson, an ancient man who had been with the household for decades. Her charges treated him more like a grandfather than a servant, and he in turn did not discourage them and often carried lemon drops that he’d sneak to them. It was Jackson who predicted snow today. When Althea had returned yesterday with complaints of a headache, he said it was because of the snow.
