Amelia’s eyes widened. “Me?”
“You.”
“Probably just wants to discuss Miss Thornton as he works, lovey,” said the housekeeper. “No need to fret. Mr C’s like a kitten in the mornings.”
Having reared a kitten, this greatly worried Amelia as she recalled swiping claws and sharp teeth if not promptly fed.
“The master,” Cruikshank continued with wintry eyes, “is located on his private floor. The room with double doors. Do not dally.”
Hmm.The room with all the mirrors and Amelia innocently nodded. A chance to discover what he got up to in there.
Once Mrs Dawkins had gathered the tea paraphernalia together, Amelia seized the tray and embarked up the stairs – all three flights.
Huffing at the top, she turned and traipsed the corridor. Perhaps he inspected his attire from all sides each morn or–
The nearer she got, the more she heard…odd noises.
The slam of feet.
An exhalation.
She paused outside the door.
A growl?
Any diligent governess would knock.
But she wasn’t a governess so should endeavour to find out what was happening.
Balancing the tray on one hand, she twisted the handle and slowly pushed the door ajar.
Heavens.
Mr Hugh Cadwalader was enacting some form of athletic lunge, arms stretched as though he held an invisible longbow, and faintly, she concluded that no cushioned embellishment of any sort whatsoever was used for his chest.
For it was bare.
A little moist and…rippling.
She blinked.
At all ten of them.
As although he had his back to her, his chest was reflected in all those mirrors.
Bare.
As she’d aforementioned.
She ought to remove herself post-haste, without ado, as surely he’d not meant her to enter whilst he was exercising in solely black breeches. That would be no manner in which to treat a naïve governess.
Yet…
She was not a governess.
As she’d aforementioned.
And…
