Her parted lips pressed themselves into a thin line, and she sat, nearly toppling the chair with the force of her frustration.
This time, she stayed seated long enough that he began to think of returning to his own chair. Hardly had his knees bent, however, when she uncrossed her arms and laid one hand on the edge of her seat to rise. His awkward position—caught between sitting and standing—must have caught her attention, for she waved him down with her free hand, the one not clutching her book.
“I know it’s the custom for a gentleman to stand when a lady does, but you’ll do yourself an injury if you try to keep up with me.” Three of her quick steps put the breadth of the deal table between them. The candle lit her face, revealing a scattering of freckles. “I’ve never been noted for my ladylike behavior, if you hadn’t already guessed. So why should you worry about acting the gentleman? Not that I doubt you are a gentleman, Mr. Laurens,” she added hastily, looking him up and down where he stood. Color infused her cheeks. “And I certainly hope you will not take my thoughtless remark as a license to—well—”
“Miss Burke.” He stepped into the river of words, hoping to divert their course. “You may rest assured, I am a gentleman. You’re far safer in here than you would be on the other side of that door.”
Her nod of acknowledgment was quick, a trifle jerky, and he realized she was trembling. Now that the heat of the blush had left her face, he could see more clearly the bluish cast of her lips. “Come,” he said, moving both chairs closer to the table, closer to the meager warmth offered by the candle. “Take off that soaked pelisse.”
That order sent another flare of uncertainty through her eyes. But after a moment, she laid her book on the table and attempted to comply, though her fingers shook. The dress beneath was nearly as wet and clung provocatively to her curves. He took the sodden pelisse from her hands and quickly turned away. On a rusty hook near the door hung his greatcoat. After making a simple exchange of wet garment for dry, he returned to her side.
Once enveloped by his greatcoat’s length and breadth, she allowed herself to be guided to a chair. “I’m afraid I dare not build a fire,” he explained as he took the place across from her. “The chimney looks on the verge of collapse.” Indeed, some of its uppermost stones had tumbled down through the flue into the firebox. They lay glistening in the candlelight as rain trickled over them and damp air seeped into the room.
The candle gave at least the illusion of heat, though he knew, and she must too, that it would not last until dawn. It was only September. They were in no danger of freezing to death. But it promised to be a miserable night.
“You should try to get some rest,” he urged.
For once, she did not argue. Laying one arm on the tabletop, she used it to pillow her head. With one finger of the other hand, she traced the tooled leather binding of her book. “Thank y-y-you,” she stuttered through another shiver masked as a yawn. “It has been a tiring day.”
“Yes,” he agreed automatically.
Except he wasn’t tired. He’d ridden a good distance since morning, it was true, but today’s exertion was nothing to what he had known in recent years. But if it wasn’t fatigue that had prompted him to take shelter when the storm clouds rose, then what was it? Major Lord Tristan Laurens would have spurred his horse to a gallop, outrun those clouds, and made it home before nightfall, no matter how tired.
Raynham, on the other hand, was not so eager to reach Hawesdale Chase.
Crossing his legs at the ankle, he leaned back in his chair and prepared to pass an uncomfortable few hours. Rain continued to fall steadily, though the thunder now rolled farther off. Erica’s restive hand at last fell still, but even in her sleep, she still guarded her book. It made him wonder what was inside. Already the candle’s heat had begun to dry her hair, transforming its tangled waves from rusty brown to polished copper. He had no notion of what had become of her bonnet, or even if she had been wearing one at all. She had no gloves, either, and her nails were short and ragged. I’ve never been noted for my ladylike behavior, she had told him, with only the merest hint of chagrin. He did not envy the sister who had been charged with her keeping.
Yet he could not truthfully say he was sorry for an excuse to stay put a few hours more.
In this captivating new series set in Georgian England, a disgraced woman hides from her marriage—for better or worse…
Sarah Pevensey had hoped her arranged marriage to St. John Sutliffe, Viscount Fairfax, could become something more. But almost before it began, it ended in a scandal that shocked London society. Accused of being a jewel thief, Sarah fled to a small fishing village to rebuild her life.
The last time St. John saw his new wife, she was nestled in the lap of a soldier, disheveled, and no longer in possession of his family’s heirloom sapphire necklace. Now, three years later, he has located Sarah and is determined she pay for her crimes. But the woman he finds is far from what he expected. Humble and hardworking, Sarah has nothing to hide from her husband—or so it appears. Yet as he attempts to woo her to uncover her secrets, St. John soon realizes that if he’s not careful, she’ll steal his heart…
Susanna Craig’s dazzling series set in Georgian England sails to the Caribbean—where a willful young woman and a worldly man do their best to run every which
