She didn’t move, and for an instant, he thought she might argue, but for the first time since he’d laid eyes on her, she didn’t say a word. She remained still, and he could feel her gaze on him, but when he didn’t look up, she did as he’d bid her, her footsteps quiet against the stone floor of the kitchen.
The door opened, then closed again.
Only then, did he look up. The plate of ginger biscuits was on the sideboard, right where she’d left it, the tray with the chocolate pot and cups beside it.
But she was gone.
CHAPTER16
It was the ginger biscuits that did it.
Max had risen early, and spent all morning in his study, sprawled in the chair behind his desk, unanswered letters in a pile before him, and the ink drying on the nib of his pen. Instead of working, he’d been staring out the window like a proper half-wit, the remembered scent of ginger twining around him like wispy clouds of fog.
In the end, there was no other explanation. The ginger biscuits had been his downfall.
Not the gleam of firelight on Miss St. Claire’s hair, or the seductive parting of those rosebud lips, or the sweet pink flush that had colored her cheeks when she caught his gaze on her.
Not the kiss.
Certainly, not the kiss. He’d kissed dozens of ladies and never lost his head before. No, it must have been the ginger biscuits.
There, then. That was settled. Now he could return his attention to his work.
He seized his pen and dipped it in the ink, but paused with it poised above the page. The trouble was, he couldn’t deny even to himself that he’d been caught in her spell from the moment he’d wandered into the kitchen last night. Like every other unwary fly before him, he’d only realized he was tangled in her silken web until it was too late to free himself.
Though to be fair, she was an exceedingly kind-hearted spider.
It wasn’t that she was the only one who’d ever done him a good turn. He was often the recipient of his acquaintances’ generosity, but with the exception of Basingstoke and Montford, such favors weren’t motivated by kindness. They were bribes, manipulations, and transparent attempts to ingratiate themselves with him. He was accustomed to such machinations, and on his guard against them.
Why, then, should he suppose Miss St. Claire’s ginger biscuits were anything other than another shameless attempt to curry his favor? God knew she had a powerful incentive to attempt to wriggle her way into his good graces.
That was the rub, wasn’t it? He had every reason in the world to question her motives, but damned if he didn’t think her entirely innocent, regardless, because . . . well, because he was a great fool, evidently.
He never gave anyone the benefit of the doubt.Never. He’d seen too much ugliness to trust in the goodness of human nature.
But there wasn’t a single ugly thing about Rose St. Claire.
It was the green eyes, damn her. One glimpse into those guileless green eyes, and it was impossible to suspect her. Either she was in possession of the purest heart he’d ever had the misfortune to encounter, or else she was a spectacular actress.
Those green eyes, taken in conjunction with the ginger biscuits was a fatal combination. Was it any wonder he’d lost his mind? Was it any wonder he was sitting here mooning over Miss St. Claire, like some ridiculous, starry-eyed schoolboy?
He needed to see her, that was all, but she’d been hiding from him all morning. He’d been waiting for hours for her to venture downstairs, so he might . . .
Mightwhat? Tell her that he regretted kissing her last night? Hedidn’tregret it. There wasn’t a man alive who could regret such a kiss. Was he to become a liar now, along with all his other sins?
Very well, then. He’d beg her pardon and promise that such a thing would never happen again. Yes, that would be the proper thing to do.
But how could he be sure itwouldn’thappen again?
It shouldn’t have happened the first time, but it had, and after such a thing as a kiss like that happened once, it would take almost nothing for it to happen again. A sidelong glance from the corner of those lovely green eyes, a flutter of dark eyelashes, a curve of those rosebud lips, the accidental brush of fingertips . . .
He’d been over that kiss a thousand times since last night—had run through the moments leading up to it over and over as he’d tossed in his bed. The soft glow of the lamplight on her face, in her hair, illuminating her smile. Yes, that was how it had begun. The lighting was to blame for this entire debacle.
Then, as soon as he’d touched her, it had spun dangerously out of control.
He’dspun out of control, in a way he never had before.
Touching Miss St. Claire was forbidden, for one, but also the height of foolishness, not to mention unforgivably selfish. As innocent as that kiss had been, if anyone had happened to witness it, it would be more than enough to ruin her.
