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A logical man would leave, and Phineas was a logical man. But that fear he’d glimpsed in her resonated like a bell deep in his chest, refusing to fade.

Which was why he surprised himself when he said, “I’m staying.”

CHAPTER 11

“There’s roast chicken and ham in the larder, along with some cheese,” Mrs. Keenan said, “and potted meats and tinned fish if things grow dire…”

But Bridget wasn’t listening. Her fingertips tingled where they’d touched the pointer on the talking board, as though she were still holding a sliver of ice.

“… the rest of the sourdough rolls from this morning, and butter, of course…”

This was real, she’d admitted aloud to Valebrook.

This was real, when nothing else was. When no other phenomenon had ever been real for her.

“Bridget, are you listening?”

She blinked and brought the housekeeper, her hands perched on her wide hips, into focus. “Cheese and chicken in the larder, tinned fish, butter.” She forced a broken smile onto her lips. “I’ll be fine.”

“But what about that Valebrook fellow?” Mrs. Keenan wrinkled her nose. “He’s a suspicious sort. I have a bad feeling about him being alone here with you.”

Bridget did as well, but likely for different reasons. She hadn’t told her housekeeper about their meeting in the village, or her foolish wager, and she hadn’t expected she’d need to. After successfully fooling hundreds of guests at Ashveil Manor over the years, she doubted Valebrook would be the first to see through her careful façade, let alone find the proof he could carry back to Parliament.

Until she had admitted it to him.

Mentally, she slapped her forehead. A slip of the tongue when she was rattled might be her undoing, a crack small enough for him to dig his thumb into, pushing it wider until he could see everything she kept hidden inside.

But she wouldn’t allow it. She’d have to be clever and quick, but she could survive one more night with the insufferable skeptic.

“You should come with us, Bridget.”

She shook her head, forcing herself into the present, and gave her housekeeper what she hoped was a nonplussed smile. “You needn’t worry about me. And you should be on your way before nightfall.”

The storm had darkened the sky, and with a lingering glance towards the kitchen window overlooking the garden, the housekeeper nodded brusquely, kissed Bridget on the cheek, and hustled out the door.

Bridget pressed her hands on the trestle table and exhaled in a rush, letting her gaze linger on the scarred wood beneath her palms. But that was all the rest she allowed herself.

She bustled around the kitchen, preparing a tray with whatever looked appealing in the larder. At the last moment, she grabbed the bottle of cooking wine from beside the range, yanked the cork out with her teeth, and carried it to the table.

After contemplating making a proper sandwich, she instead selected the largest iced biscuit she could find and shoved it in her mouth, followed by a swig directly from the wine bottle. She’d need all the fortification she could get.

But immediately she regretted her decision—for not the first time that day—when Valebrook appeared at the threshold, and she nearly choked. He’d shed his jacket and necktie at some point and rolled his shirtsleeves to the elbow. Mud streaked his trousers, and perspiration glistened at his brow and open collar. He leaned one bare forearm against the doorframe, his cheeks blooming with a flush from exertion.

Arousal hooked low in her belly and pulled; had she not been gagging on the now-unpleasant lump of cooking wine and biscuit, she might have moaned aloud. That would have been a disaster.

Instead, she merely coughed bits of gooey crumbs into her fist. Far more dignified than moaning.

His attention snapped to her, and he stood fully upright. “My apologies,” he said, formality slipping over him like a cloak. “Mrs. Keenan sent me in here for supper⁠—”

“Mrs. Keenan sent you?” she wheezed through the sugary mass in her throat. That traitor.

He nodded. “I was helping load their carriage, and a wheel got stuck in the mud when they tried to leave.” His stormy gaze caught on the half-empty bottle. “Is that wine?”

She chuckled beneath her breath and shoved it in his direction. “You could call it that.”

He sat on a stool across the table from her, and for a moment she considered retrieving a glass for him. But he lifted the bottle, took a hearty swig from the lip, and coughed, wincing as he put it down.

“It’s cooking wine,” she said. “Not the finest vintage.”