Rosalind had decided this was the best explanation. After all, what could she say? I was hunting for the boy I remembered in childhood but all I saw was a muscular monolith of a man dressed in walnut brown. You’d turned, as though feeling my silent perusal, and our eyes had locked. Your face matched the man in my dreams – naked, writhing, thrusting…
No. She’d stay with “I thought you were someone else.”
“I see.” He grinned. “Someone you obviously didn’t like, judging by your countenance.”
“Not exactly but I was…surprised.”
“You fainted.”
“I wasverysurprised.”
Finally, she watched his mouth curve up at the edges. “I can do nothing but believe you.”
“Good. For it is the truth.” Mostly…but as he’d once told her in a nursery, many years before: sometimes, it was acceptable to lie. “We shall see you for dinner, then? Mrs Ludgate has prepared venison roasted in red wine as we have two earls for dinner. She complains I never eat and that Benedict doesn’t appreciate her cooking, so I hope you have a hearty appetite?”
Hestillhad her hand, but she didn’t pull away.
“I am ravenous.”
Rosalind bit her lip at the rasped words; they made her prickle…in places she had no right to prickle.
“But, could I ask you a few questions about the murders first?” he said, his fingers lightly pressing before slowly releasing her hand.
Her mouth gaped. Of course. He was here with a purpose, after all – a very serious purpose. She nodded her assent.
“Thank you,” he said. “I had to curtail my questioning of Stonebridge as he disappeared to visit the stables.”
“Erm. Yes, he would do. He frequently does, I’m afraid.” What? she thought, having just seen Benedict head to the woods with a large pack – nowhere near the stables. She turned before any action gave away her lie, suspecting that very little got past this man.
Lucas watched Miss Trewent bite her lip nervously. She’d lied about something – her eyes had turned evasive in the gloom. He tried not to think about how pretty she looked, that same damn feeling he’d had at the house party.
“Did you know either girl well?”
“No, not really. I used to see Bridget in church but that was all. Miss Risley…well, although we had tea, she was much younger than I.”
“Did you have much in common?”
“I have twenty-five years, my lord, and Miss Risley was seventeen. A very coddled seventeen, I might add so no, not really, but she was a sweet child and I cannot think anyone would wish her harm.”
Her voice sounded sincere so it was possible she’d been merely lying about his scars not bothering her. Certainly, he didn’t believe her about supposing him to be someone else that night. Rarely did he see someone of his height.
“No, indeed,” he murmured.
A shiver racked her slight frame, and he wondered again at the tremble he had noticed as he’d held her hand. Revulsion? Or had she too experienced the pleasurable sensation at their touch?
Probably not. His own large fingers had refused to let go, but she hadn’t seemed annoyed or reluctant.
What was her relationship with Stonebridge? She was rather too old to be a ward, so was she just a dependent relation? Or a lover? The thought filled him with irritation.
“Erm. I am rather cold,” she said through chattering teeth.
“Oh, bloody hell. Sorry, I mean… Dashed poor of me to have you standing out here in the–”
Miss Trewent’s laughter stopped his bungling words. Of course, she was cold – not shivering in pleasure at his touch.
A gloved hand was laid on his arm and his whole body tensed.
“We will talk more at dinner, although not necessarily of murders as Mrs Mereworth can be rather fragile.”
