Finally, she stood. “My lord, I welcome you to Stonebridge Hall. I am Rosalind Trewent, and I sincerely apologise for my tardiness, but I was visiting tenants.”
From this distance, Rosalind could just make out his eyes widening before an impassive expression descended.
Occasional faint moonlight shone across his face, turning the scars silver. He was beautiful; not an Apollo, as she’d thought, but a powerfully built Hephaestus – slightly flawed, but a god nevertheless.
Her eyes followed his figure down; he wasn’t wearing a greatcoat, despite the cold, and buckskins fitted tightly to his form. Even in the light, she could see he wore the same walnut brown as the night of the house party.
She approached him but almost didn’t want to get too close; after all, a god could burn you with a glance, but Rosalind was aware that she could no longer let this magnificent man think she felt disgust toward him.
“Miss Trewent. ’Tis a pleasure. I believe I missed you at Rookdean’s house party.”
His voice was delicious; it must have been slightly damaged in the fire as it had a low rasp to it. No longer a young boy’s high tone but a man’s – rough yet deep; it raised a quiver deep within.
Thatdream returned: memories of his muscled body, his passionate movements, his plunging hips…
“I hope you are fully recovered now?” he asked politely.
So he was going to be like that.
Stepping closer, she held out her hand and he had no choice but to take it, surprise, once again, clearly written on his face. The touch of his fingers, even through gloves, made her shudder, and a wry smile crossed his face.
Stupid man. He was surmising again: surmising that his disfigurement made her tremble when it was something entirely different.
Clenching her other fist, Rosalind attempted to banish the heated dream from her mind.
For a moment, neither spoke, but there was no silence as owls welcomed the creeping dark, crying out as they began their nightly hunt. Rosalind felt herself relax.
“I am very well, thank you, but it seems I am later than I thought, if the owls are awake. Did Benedict welcome you?”
“We have spoken, and I believe I have you to thank for my room?”
“Yes, I thought you’d appreciate a large bed.”
He cleared his throat rather roughly, and a flush heated her cheeks as she imagined Benedict’s scold, “Rosalind, you can’t mention beds in a man’s company. It’s not proper.” She also realised he’d yet to release her hand.
“It appears most comfortable,” he murmured.
Rosalind couldn’t fault his politeness about a bed that looked like it should belong to a king’s whore. She wished she could see his grey eyes, but night was rapidly descending, and soon they would be in utter darkness; she’d better get on with it.
“I apologise most sincerely, my lord, for fainting at the house party. You must believe it had nothing to do with your scars.”
There, she’d said it, maybe rather too bluntly, but she’d never been one for prose.
He still hadn’t let go of her hand.
“I saw the look on your face, Miss Trewent. There is no need to worry as I’ve seen it before – disgust and horror. No doubt I will see it again. You won’t be the last.”
She fumed. Absolutely fumed.
Never in her life had she fainted. Not when father said he’d found a place for her to stay, not when Mrs Tadlow had mentioned speaking with Rosalind’s dead mother, and certainly not when a scrawny guard had said he could make her stay moreenjoyable.
And yet…yes, at the house party, heat had flooded her body – from the tips of her toes to the top of her head, even her hair had felt on fire. She had been hot, so hot, too hot… And she had crumpled to the floor in a faint. But it had nothing to do with disgust.
Rosalind glared at him. “That wasnothorror and disgust at your face.”
“No?” The single word conveyed both disbelief and amusement.
“I thought you were someone else.”
