Eve set her cup and saucer on the table and rose in as dignified a manner as possible. She couldn’t sit here a moment longer without knowing the truth. Even if it was the height of rudeness to excuse herself while their guest remained.
“If you’ll be so kind as to accept my regrets,” Eve muttered. Lord Blitzencreek seemed almost as relieved as she was to not be forced into conversation with her. “It’s been a tiring day and I have some letters to write.”
She didn’t wait to hear any protests but edged around the room until she could slip out the door.
Mr. Clark, thank goodness, was nowhere to be seen so she didn’t have to make any explanations. She seized the damp coat she’d worn earlier from where it hung drying on the coat tree and only grimaced slightly at the cold and wet.
An almost desperate sense of urgency pushed her to hasten outside and across the square for the third time that day. Absent the protection of her boots, the cold wet snow soaked all the way through her slippers. She was quite single-minded, however, and didn’t pause until she’d marched through the entrance of the Crowing Cock. Only when the heavy door closed behind her did her inappropriate behavior collide with her conscience. Not even a full day in the same town as the Marquess of Merriweather and already she was risking her reputation.
A door slammed from somewhere above and she jumped. She peeked into the taproom and although embers glowed in the hearth, the chairs around the long table were unoccupied. The empty dish in which she’d carefully baked the pie earlier sat abandoned, as did a few picked-over platters and half-empty tankards of ale.
What if he and the man he’d been with earlier had already left Maybridge Falls despite the inclement weather? What if she never saw him again?
Infinitely more cautious now but unwilling to abandon her quest, Eve climbed the stairs and located the room he’d indicated; number three.
She knocked twice. When the floorboards on the other side creaked ominously, she straightened her shoulders
“Eve?” He didn’t hold the door wide but simply stared at her, his hair and clothing rumpled. His thundery gaze narrowed warily, as though he feared anything she had to say to him.
“You weren’t making a joke, were you?”
He tilted his head sideways.
“About my mother,” she added.
“Why would I joke about your mother?” He furrowed his brows, but more blue showed in his gaze now than a moment ago.
Eve glanced to her right and left, reluctant to be caught standing at the open door of a single gentleman’s chamber unchaperoned. “Can I come in?”
He sighed heavily, looking for all the world as though he was going to send her away.
Eve twisted her mouth into a half-smile. “Please?”
Finally, he stepped back and opened the door for her to pass. He wore only his stockings, breeches, and a long linen shirt, untucked. She flicked her gaze to the hearth, where his boots sat nearby drying and his waistcoat hung over the back of a chair. She couldn’t stay long.
She moved toward the fire and held her hands out for warmth.
Nicholas had crossed to the window where he turned, half sat against the sill, and folded his arms across his chest. Before he could spew any of his cynical nonsense from earlier, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“Your hair is longer.”
Chapter 4
Nick grimaced. “I haven’t had it cut properly since my return to England.” He tilted his head. “Why are you here, Eve?”
“I changed my mind.”
He’d removed his cravat, unfastened the top buttons of his shirt, and looked even more handsome than he did in full evening wear. Staring at the sinewy tendons along his neck and then the tiny hairs at the top of his chest seemed inordinately intimate.
“You changed your mind?” he prompted her.
Ignoring the large bed in the middle of the room, she glanced at the table where a tray, steaming pot, cup, and saucer provided the perfect answer.
“About tea.” She inhaled sharply and then removed her coat and draped it on the bed. She was finding it difficult to think straight in his presence—in his bedchamber. “And talking.”
“But I’m heartless, remember?” He scrubbed one hand down his face and crossed to a desk near the hearth. A chest sat opened on the floor with a few papers scattered on the floor beside it.
The trunk was nearly filled with unopened envelopes.
She drifted closer, and her heart stuttered.
“I’m behind on my correspondence.” Shedding his defensiveness for the moment, he gestured at the pile sheepishly.
Eve’s gaze was caught and then fixed on one familiar-looking envelope. “It’s an awful lot of correspondence.” He hasn’t read it. He hadn’t even opened it. Was it possible he’d not read any of them?
She twisted her hands in front of her, unsure of what this meant. It would explain his assertion that she’d abandoned him. He couldn’t have known of her mother’s illness and death.
But anger bubbled inside her too. He hadn’t cared enough to open her letters? Every day for months, without fail, she’d checked the post for word from him. She’d hoped and waited and inevitably been disappointed when nothing arrived. If he’d cared for her at all, wouldn’t he have done the same? Isn’t that what people did?
“When I realized you’d left, I went ahead with the journey I’d planned.” Nick handed her the single cup and then sat in the opposite chair, stared toward the floor, and then frowned. “The journey I’d planned before we met.”
“So you went to France after all.” Why did that hurt? That he’d carried on as though nothing of magnitude had happened.
It had been one of the reasons she’d resisted his suit when he had first approached her. How could she give her heart to a man who’d be leaving the country
