Her shoes tapped on the shiny tiles as she made her way through the house until she reached soft, luxurious carpeting. She had not even known of the existence of this room and she could not help feeling like an intruder in the pristine, powder-blue room.
A piano occupied one corner by the long windows that let in streams of sunlight and a small circle of delicate chairs occupied the center of the room. She couldn’t picture Lord Huntingdon sitting on any of the chairs, so she imagined this room was hardly used.
It served to remind her of their differences, something she kept forgetting. Though her own home had two drawing rooms, they only used the one in the colder months. It never looked this clean or untouched either, and the furnishings were worn, old and patched together in places.
See? No matter how similar they seemed in their ethics, their worlds could not be further apart.
A breeze wrapped itself about her when she stepped outside, pressing her skirts to her legs. She shut the glass-paned door behind her, clasped her hat in place and scurried in the direction of the stables. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness of the interior after the bright daylight of the courtyard. Horses shifted in their stalls at her presence, but she saw no sign of the earl. A strange scraping sound snared her attention and she marched down the stalls in the direction of the noise.
Her breath came to a standstill in her lungs. She couldn’t be certain what she expected to find but it wasn’t this.
Shirt sleeves rolled to just above his elbows, no cravat and afternoon stubble shading his chin, Lord Huntingdon carved away at a strip of wood, sending flecks of it flying about him. The muscles in his arms flexed, making her mouth a little dry. If the scraps of wood on the floor were anything to go by, he’d been doing this for some time.
“Lord Huntingdon?” she managed to rasp.
He stilled, dropped the wood on the table in front of him and straightened, shoving a hand through his disheveled hair. Sawdust clung to the dark waves and she longed to brush them loose, so she clamped her hands at her sides.
“Miss Haversham. What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering when—” She leaned to peer past him. “Is that a perambulator?”
His lips curved marginally. “Of sorts. It is not quite finished yet.”
She rounded the table and smoothed a hand across the wood frame. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “Who is it for? Is your new sister expecting a child?”
He shook his head, that vague amusement still on his lips.
“I don’t mean to criticize but it’s a little smaller than most I’ve seen. Is there a reason for that?”
“It is lighter than most perambulators. Intended to be able to be pushed more easily. I also designed with a certain, ungrowing occupant in mind.”
Freya glanced up at him. “Ungrowing? I do not understand.”
“It’s for you.”
“For me?” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “But I am not pregnant!”
“No.” He smiled. “For The Brigadier.”
She eyed him for a few moments her lips parted. “For Brig?”
He nodded and folded his arms, drawing her attention to the firm muscles of his bare forearms. “So you no longer have to carry him to the park.”
She sucked in a sharp breath, her chest almost painful. He had made this for her. To save her from carrying her dog. God Lord, this man was too much.
“You really should not have...” Her throat closed over and she tried to swallow the tightness several times and failed.
He shrugged. “I like making things and it seemed a worthwhile project.”
Her vision clouded over, her eyes stinging. She turned away and sniffed.
“If you hate it...” He put a hand to her arm.
“No, it’s not that,” she whispered. “It’s just...” Tears dripped down her cheeks, one plopping unceremoniously on the straw beneath her feet. “It’s just no one has ever done anything as nice as this for me before.”
“You deserve it,” he murmured.
Lord Huntingdon twisted her toward him and brushed away a tear with a thumb, his finger pad leaving a little hot trail on her skin. She met his gaze and swallowed hard. Sunlight from the narrow window of the stables highlighted his strong jaw and the intensity in his gaze. Every inch of her froze, knowing what was to come.
And there was no chance she would deny him. How could she? He had carved this with his bare hands just for her. Or for her dog. Either way, it was the singular most kind thing anyone had ever done.
He closed the gap, putting a deliberate hand to the base of her spine to inch her in toward him. He gave her all the time in the world to deny him, to push him away or utter a word.
Freya lifted her chin and closed her eyes. His lips met hers slowly, gently as though savoring some sort of delicacy. She issued a tiny moan at the feel of him against her and she splayed her hands over his chest, able to explore the carved muscles beneath the thin layers of fabric. He tasted her with his tongue, lazily exploring her and giving her all the time in the world to relish his kiss. Her heart thudded erratically, and her skin heated from top to toe.
Hands sliding down to his arms, she gripped him in an attempt to draw closer and kiss deeper, but he stilled abruptly. His hand dropped from her spine and cold air assailed her. She opened her eyes slowly and glanced at him from beneath heavy lids, aware of the warm, puffy state of her lips. His shoulders shuddered slightly, and he stepped back even farther, issuing a regretful sound from the back of his throat.
She flattened a hand to her pounding chest. “I—”
He huffed out a breath. “What was it you wanted anyway?” he asked sharply.
“Oh.” She’d practically forgotten why she had sought him out. “Oh, yes, um I was wondering when the physician would be coming?”
His furrowed brow intensified. “Is your mother worse?”
“No, quite the opposite,” she said hastily. “I was just hoping to let her know when we might expect him.”
“At around three I believe. I received a missive from him this morning.”
“Good. Excellent.” She clasped her hands together in front of her. “Well, I suppose I should...” She loosened her hands and jerked a thumb toward the exit.
“Yes, you should.”
So much of her longed to stay. To ask why he had ended the kiss, to beg to know why he had not taken it further. She hardly had a wealth of experience with men, but she had received a few kisses in her lifetime and had even been coaxed into bed with one man several years ago. She knew how eager menfolk were to take a willing woman to bed. So why had he backed down?
She dropped her shoulders and hurried to the courtyard, pausing outside and letting the cold wind chill her heated skin. He had backed down because he did not really want her. That was the only explanation. Maybe he felt sorry for her or perhaps even liked her—as an odd sort of a friend. Why else would he help her mother and her silly old dog?
But women like her did not end up in the beds of earls, and she should not want it either. She had seen how poor women were treated by rich men time and again—cast aside, often pregnant and forgotten. If she was clever, she would do everything she could to keep away from such a fate.
What a shame her usually clever mind did not seem to want to work around him. She would have to try much, much harder not to fall for him.
Chapter Sixteen
Guy paced to the window, paused and peered out at the dark streets then paced back to the fireplace to warm his hands over the flickering flames. The sun had set a good hour ago and dinner would be in another hour. Miss Haversham knew that. So why had she not returned home?
Home? He stared sightlessly at the painting above the mantelpiece. This was not her home, and with how her mother’s health was improving, she would be leaving soon. A heavy weight settled in his stomach at the thought and he shoved away from the carved marble fireplace with a huff. He had no claim to her, no reason to be concerned over wh
ere she was. He wasn’t her father, her husband or even her lover.
By God did he want to be, though.
He gritted his teeth, paced back to the window and squinted into the night. Lamps glowed at intervals along the road, highlighting the occasional pedestrian and setting his heart racing then dropping when he realized it wasn’t her.
He couldn’t deny it. He wanted her. Every inch of her. Just the recollection of kissing her made him hurt. But the trouble was, he wouldn’t be the one to be hurt if they continued. Well, perhaps his ego would be, but no woman could manage him, of that he was certain. Amelia hadn’t been the only encounter like that, though hers had been the worst because he had been convinced she loved him and would be willing to try. If his bloody fiancée didn’t want him to bed her, no other woman would, and he wasn’t willing to hurt Miss Haversham for the world.
The door inched open and he jolted around. “Brown,” he said, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice.
“I take it Miss Haversham is not yet home.”
“She has not returned to my house yet, no,” he corrected.
Brown’s lips flickered then moved into a sharp, straight line. “She will be home for dinner I am certain, my lord. The girl hardly seems the disordered sort.”
“It hardly matters. She can go hungry if she really wishes.”
“Of course, my lord.” The butler’s lips did that odd little quirk again.
Guy sighed and stared down the butler. “What do you want, Brown?”
“Oh, nothing at all, my lord. Just wanted to see if Miss Haversham was with you.”
“Well, as you can see, she is not,” he said irritably. “Now cease your prying and go do whatever it is butlers do.”
“We only run the entire house, my lord. Nothing much.”
“I shall tell Mrs. Bellamy you said that,” Guy warned him. “See if she agrees.”
“If you wish, my lord.” He ducked his head and backed out of the room.
Clenching his jaw, Guy turned his attention to the window once more. Damn the man. He found it entirely amusing for some reason that he had taken in Miss Haversham and her mother. Was he such a bastard that he would usually ignore such pleas for help? He would have done it for anyone, naturally.
Brown had little idea of his involvement in The Kidnap Club, but the man knew him well. Guy did not think such an act should have surprised him.
Movement caught his eye and he moved swiftly back from the window, settled into the armchair by the fire and retrieved the book he had left splayed on the table. He squinted at the text, but the dull candle and lamplight made it near impossible to read. That, and the fact he found himself listening for the front door. It thudded shut and muffled conversation between Miss Haversham and Brown resonated through the walls. Finally, soft footsteps made their way toward his door.
He froze, book in hand, aware of his every breath. The footsteps stilled. But the door did not open. He eyed the door. Blast, was she—
The door opened and he turned back to the book, forcing a concentrated expression.
“I am sorry it’s so late.” He saw her walk toward him from the corner of his eye.
“Hmm?” He lowered the book and glanced at her. “What did you say?”
“I was just, um, apologizing for returning so late.”
He waved a hand, moved the bookmark to the open page and placed it on the arm of the chair. “I’m not your keeper. You may come and go as you please.”
“I am your guest, though.”
She moved closer to the fire, holding her still gloved hands to it. A tremor ran through her and he grimaced. He should not ask. It was nothing to do with him. Besides, the chances were she was chasing down gossip or trying to find some evidence of his involvement in the disappearance of those women. He couldn’t forget she was essentially the enemy here.
“Where were you?” he asked, the question rushing out before his brain could stop him.
“Lucy had been offered some food from one of the large houses she makes garments for, so we spent most of the evening distributing it.”
He lifted both of his brows. “Ah.”
“I had only intended to help her with an important commission, but I could hardly say no, could I?”
“No, I imagine not.” And now he felt a real ass for getting annoyed at her for not returning home sooner.
Not her home. Why could he never recall that?
“Is my mother well?”
“She is in excellent spirits.”
Miss Haversham smiled. “She has improved so quickly. I am not certain I will ever be able to repay you.”
“You could give up on this idea that I need investigating.”
Her smile broadened. “Never.”
“So you still believe I am some awful, evil man responsible for the disappearance of all these women?”
She scanned his gaze. “I think you have a secret or two, yes.”
“And the evil part?”
“I have yet to decide on that.”
He rolled his eyes. “Of course.”
“If it’s any comfort, I’m not any closer to figuring out your secrets.”
“Good.”
“Ah, so you do have at least one.” Another tremble rippled through her.
Guy rose. “I didn’t say that.” He glanced her over, closed the gap between them and put his hands to her shoulders to direct her into the chair.
FREYA SWALLOWED HARD.
“You’re frozen.”
“I am fine,” she lied through gritted teeth in an effort to prevent them from chattering. Being some sort of damsel in distress to him was getting a little tiring.
Even if she did like it when he took charge.
No one ever took charge in her life before and she had to admit, there was something nice about it.
But she could not let herself give in. She already revealed herself to be a fool, offering herself up for one kiss then two. He made it clear he did not want her, so she needed to keep herself on guard every hour of the day. If only she were not so bone-tired and cold. It would make being strong a lot easier.
“Do as you are told for once,” Lord Huntingdon ordered.
She allowed herself to sink into the chair, aware of how her feet throbbed in her shoes. The plush cushions settled around her, and if it were not for this ridiculously handsome man in the same room, she could close her eyes and fall asleep with ease. But his furrowed brow and the strong slashes that counted for brows kept her fixated on him.
She’d never been more confused in her life and she did not do confused. Investigating was about looking at the evidence in front of one and coming to a firm conclusion. The trouble with Lord Huntingdon was she could come to no conclusion at all. Did he like her, did he not? Was he involved in something nefarious or was he simply a ludicrously heroic man?
He kneeled in front of her and she frowned. “What are you—”
Taking one hand in his, he pushed the buttons of her gloves through the holes, one by one. Such a simple act yet she found herself captivated by the strong, sure fingers making light work of the fiddly buttons. Then he drew the glove off slowly, set it over the arm of the chair and reached for the other one. He repeated the movement, adding her second glove to the chair.
Finally, he clasped one hand between both of his and she sighed at the warm touch of his slightly calloused hands—hands worn by the work he had been doing on the perambulator, she assumed. She was not privy to many lords’ hands, but she would wager few felt like this, like the hands of a man who actually worked hard. They made her feel less embarrassed by her own scratched, sore and rough hands.
He rubbed his palms over her hers, warming them. “Your hands are like ice,” he murmured.
She nodded, her mouth dry. He massaged her fingers then moved on to her other hand. He kept his gaze lowered, concentrating on warming her hands until they were pink, and all sensation had returned. She watched him, eyeing the dark waves of his hair that glinte
d with hints of gold in the lamplight and the firm slopes of his face. Her gaze fell to his mouth and she recalled how his lips had felt on hers, how swept away she had been.
This act felt no different. Here he was, taking charge of her welfare, allowing her to stop and cease thinking for a mere moment. It didn’t matter if she was cold because he would fix that, it did not matter that she was tired because he had a solution for that too. She would be fed, warm and rested by the morning.
It was hard to not like it. Hard not to like him. For so long, she had depended only on herself. As her mother had said, depending on another could also be a sign of strength.
Except, he did not want her in that way, and this was temporary.
She snatched her hand back and his gaze shot up. “I’m warm enough now, thank you.”
He rose to standing and placed hands behind his back. “Of course.” He dipped his head slightly. “I’ll see you at dinner then.”
Freya nodded, avoiding his gaze. She had offended him, but it was the only way. She could not let herself sink any deeper into whatever this was.
She stared into the dancing flames of the fire until he left and waited a few moments more to be certain he had gone. Then she made her way upstairs and eased open the door to her mother’s room. Seated upright in bed, an empty bowl sat at her bedside, and she clasped some embroidery in her hands.
“Oh, I have not seen you sew a single stitch in forever,” Freya gasped.
Her mother twisted the sample toward her, revealing a mess of stitches, and made a face. “I’m very much out of practice.”
“But it is a miracle.” She shut the door behind her and paused at her mother’s bedside.
Her mother scowled. “Whatever is the matter?”
Freya shouldn’t say. She couldn’t.
She flung herself down on the bed, her forehead landing on the soft mattress, her arms splayed beside her. “It’s a disaster,” she said against the blankets.
“What is, my love?” Her mother smoothed a hand over the back of her hair.
Freya twisted to view her, her cheek pressed against the soft fabric. “I like him, Mama. I really like him.”
Her mother gave a knowing nod. “I know you do, dear. I know.”
Taking the Spinster (The Kidnap Club Book 3) Page 11
