Thank heavens.
She wanted to breathe as if she’d held it for a year.
She gave his arm a gentle squeeze, the power beneath unmistakable. “That sounds like the perfect compromise.”
Mrs Flavell clapped as though they were the evening’s entertainment. “Excellent. Will you join the festivities or shall I show you to your room? It’s exquisite. You won’t be disappointed.”
“Is Langridge here?” he said.
“He’s in the smoking room. Why?”
“What about Mrs Passmore?”
“She’s resting. Took two lovers and a bottle of ratafia to the Turkish room and hasn’t surfaced since.”
“If I stay, you’ll give my coachman a bed and send our luggage upstairs,” he said, determined to issue at least one command tonight. “And you’ll ensure Mrs Passmore receives my note.”
“Of course. There’s an escritoire in the room. Write your missive there. Shall I have supper sent up?”
Though Daphne’s stomach rumbled at the suggestion, Mr Hawke refused. “We’ll help ourselves in the dining room. I want a corked bottle of claret. I’ve no wish to wake up drugged and bare-arsed in a bush.”
Not wine, or even the scandalous image of Mr Hawke naked, topped Daphne’s list of priorities. “When might we speak about my mother? I doubt you’ll rise before dawn.”
“I shall pen a note,” Mrs Flavell said breezily. “Samson will see you receive it before you go. Should more questions arise, you’re welcome to return.”
Perhaps she had no intention of sharing anything valuable. Or perhaps this was a ploy to force Mr Hawke’s hand.
He agreed, a point he stressed as they piled veal and minted potatoes onto a plate while two other guests made lewd suggestions about the sausages.
“I hope you know what you’ve cost me, angel.”
Goodness. Could he not call herhoyden? Something sharp and dismissive. Anything that didn’t summon memories of a romantic waltz and a blazing kiss in the garden.
“Your pride?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he drew her aside, away from the table and the ravenous guests, his hand firm at her elbow.
He leaned in, voice low. “You’ve made me break my own rules. That’s no small feat.”
The heat of his whisper tickled her ear, sending something tight and traitorous curling low in her belly.
“What rules might those be? A preference for your own bed? A vow to stay dry while your guests drown in sin?”
His thigh brushed hers, deliberate or not, she couldn’t tell.
“To stay in control. To keep emotion locked away whereit belongs, because it serves no one but the weak. To resist temptation.”
His breath softened on the last word. Then his gaze dipped to the swell of her breasts. Another fracture in his polished discipline.
“So why agree to stay?”
“You know why.”
She did. She felt it like an invisible shield. He couldn’t walk away and leave her unguarded, no matter how much he might want to.
Voices swelled outside the dining room. A burst of laughter, the scuffle of feet, then a couple spilled through the doorway, flushed and giggling. One clutched a half-empty bottle. The other grabbed it and took a long swig.
Mr Hawke muttered something murderous under his breath and reached for the cutlery, sliding two sets into his coat pocket. “We’ll eat upstairs. I’ve little patience left tonight.”
