But in truth, she didn’t want rescuing. She wanted to return to her quaint cottage at Shadowmere and continue living her fabricated life.
An icy fear twisted around her heart.
What if she didn’t want to leave at the end of the month?
What if she accepted Lady Soanes’ gift, stood alone on the windswept banks of Loch Tay, and realised she’d left her soul in a ramshackle cottage in Kingston upon Thames?
There was no time to dwell on it now.
Getting into the gown had been hard enough. Getting out of it might prove impossible. The only alternative was letting Mr Hawke loose on the hooks, though she doubted she’d survive the strain.
With a contortionist’s grit, she managed.
The veal and minted potatoes offered ample incentive, as did her rumbling stomach. She’d eaten, combed her hair and climbed into bed before Mr Hawke returned.
He entered without looking at the bed. He noticed her empty plate and she could have sworn he smiled. It died the moment he saw the red gown draped over the dressing screen.
“Tell me you’re not wearing that scandalous nightgown?”
“No. Just my simple shift.”
“That may be worse.” He set the crystal glasses on the dressing table and uncorked the wine. “Claret?”
“No, thank you.”
Tension tightened the air between them. She felt like a virgin bride on her wedding night. Well, she was chaste. But he most definitely wasn’t groom material.
“Do you mind if I drink?”
“Of course not. Where are my clothes?”
His eyes found hers, lingered, then drifted to her loosedark hair tumbling over one shoulder. His jaw tightened; he muttered something under his breath and drank straight from the bottle.
She watched his tongue trace his lower lip.
Who knew she would envy a devilish drop of claret?
“Mrs Flavell is gathering a few things she thinks might be useful. Her maid will press your old dress. She insists it will all be sent up by dawn.”
“Probably a safeguard to prevent us from leaving.”
“Probably.” He took another long swig of wine, then shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the hook in the gilded armoire. “The damned thing reeks of opium.”
She’d seen him in an untucked shirt before, dishevelled and rakish. But not like this. Not in his shirtsleeves, his waistcoat fitted snug to his frame, every button a threat to her composure. The flicker of candlelight across crisp linen, the tension in his shoulders, the easy power in the way he moved—it all made her far too aware of him as a man.
Life had just become a little more complicated.
He crossed the room and took his plate from the nightstand.
“Your food will be cold,” she said, desperate to talk about anything but where he might sleep tonight.
“I don’t mind.” He sat at the dressing table and ate in silence.
She shifted, trying to get comfortable.
The silence stretched, thick with things unsaid.
“Can I ask you something?” she said when it all became too much.
