Daphne intervened. She stepped to his side, her fingers brushing his arm to gently move it aside.
“Mr Hawke is my protector now.” It sounded absurd, like she’d soon be feeding him grapes while he lounged in a milk bath. “My father has been dead a week, Mrs Foster, and I can only assume you’re here for the same reason.”
Mrs Foster had the decency to blush. “What else was I to do but seek assistance? Your father left me in a terrible predicament. He hasn’t paid the lease on my townhouse in months.”
Daphne looked at her, suspicion rising.
What if Mrs Foster saw this as a chance to abandon her strawberry dessert and seize something sweeter? To deliver Daphne to Mr Irving and claim the bounty herself?
“I’m sure Lord Ainsley will cover any arrears.” Daphne slid her hand around Mr Hawke’s solid arm. Heavens. Since when did granite radiate heat? “Just as my benefactor will protect me.”
His green eyes warmed as they found hers. “Always.”
She stared, transfixed.
And, dare she admit, a little confused.
“Good night, Mrs Foster.” He straightened to an intimidating height. “Don’t interfere in my business again.”
He closed the door, forcing Mrs Foster out, but not before she cried, “I shall find a way to rescue you, my dear. You may count on it.”
The echo of it lingered, as did the silence that followed.
He turned to her, the click of the latch sealing her fate. “Itseems I’ll have to fortify my defences if I want to keep you, Miss Harland.”
Her breath caught. Not from fear, but from the look in his eyes. Like she was a treasure unearthed by accident. One he had no business coveting, but could no longer ignore.
“I belong to no man, Mr Hawke.” Her voice came steadier than she felt. What must it be like to belong to him? “The truest measure of a woman’s affection is that she stays when she’s free to leave.”
He inhaled too sharply.
Something shifted in the room.
“Am I to wake one morning and find the hearth cold, the cottage empty, the armoire bare?”
She held his gaze. “Perhaps.”
He didn’t step back, but she felt the steel return to his spine. He would seize control the only way he knew how.
“You have fifteen minutes to undress.” He moved to the door, fingers already on the lock. “To slip beneath those gold silk sheets and build a fortress with the pillows.”
“Where are you going?”
Several scenarios flashed through her mind. She pictured him striding through the crowd, women reaching for him, their hands on his chest and his jaw, drawn to him despite the danger.
She could stomach him fresh from a brawl but not the thought of his mouth on another woman’s skin.
“To fetch our clothes and the wine. Try not to miss me too much.”
The door shut with a click. The lock slid home.
He’d left her behind.
Locked in. And he’d taken the key.
The devil.
She might have stood rooted to the spot in a fit of rage, orplucked a pin from her coiffure to pick the lock. She could hammer on the door, call for Mrs Foster.
