Page 18 of The Lady’s No Angel

“It’s only a morsel,” he said dismissively, setting a good-sized slice upon her plate.

“Your idea of a morsel and mine are not at all the same thing,” she said with a laugh.

He grinned, reaching for his wine. “It is good to see you smile, Miss Baxter. You spend far too much of the day looking as if you have the weight of the world upon your shoulders. I would be glad to bear some of that weight if you would allow it.”

And he certainly had the shoulders to do it, Angel thought wistfully before giving herself a mental shake.

“I assure you, there is nothing to concern yourself over. My worries are only those of a woman travelling without a man to protect her, but as you have kindly offered your services until we reach Eynsford, I have nothing at all to fret over.”

Angel spoke firmly, doing her best to meet his too knowing gaze and reassure him she spoke true. He looked unconvinced.

Taking a sip of his wine, he set down the glass and upended the remainder of the beef and mushrooms onto his plate. Angel watched, fascinated, as he ate. He had already demolished a good portion of the pie, a great deal of roast meat, and mountains of vegetables. Still, he was a large fellow who clearly needed a great deal of fuel to sustain him.

“And what happens at Eynsford?” he asked casually.

She was so caught up in watching him inhale his dinner, Angel was less on her guard than she ought to have been. “I must find—” she began and then caught herself.

“Find?” he repeated. “Who is it you are looking for?”

Angel turned away, reaching for the glass of Madeira he had poured her earlier.

He sighed, shaking his head at her reluctance to confide in him. “Come now, Miss Baxter, surely you can see how I might be of help to you? I do only wish to help, you know.”

Angel found herself lost in soulful eyes that brimmed with sincerity. “Stop that,” she chided him crossly.

“Stop what?” he asked, all innocence.

She forced herself to look away from him, trying to muster indignation at the way he tried to manipulate her into trusting him. “Stop trying to turn me up sweet. I’m not a fool, Mr Cleaver. I don’t doubt you are used to ladies falling at your feet the moment you turn your handsome face their way. If you give them a look like that, I don’t doubt they melt into a puddle, but I am made of sterner stuff.”

Angel was rather pleased with the severity of her words and hoped she had put him in his place, though she avoided turning to look at him in case he appeared hurt. The soulful look had been hard enough to endure. Injured puppy dog eyes would be her undoing. Belatedly she wondered if the scolding might have been better aimed at herself, for if she really wanted to get rid of him or to stop him interfering, she would have done so by now.

There was a brief pause.

“You think I’m handsome?”

Exasperated, Angel turned back to him, trying not to find the delighted glitter in his eyes the least bit endearing. It was a forlorn hope. “Mr Cleaver,” she said, holding onto her patience by a thread. “There is not a woman in England who does not think you handsome, as I don’t doubt you are well aware. That does not mean, however, that every woman you meet will swoon the moment you turn on the charm.”

It was uphill work, though, she thought with a sigh, having to force herself not to laugh as he tried to appear chastised, like she had put him firmly in his place. It was all too clear he didn’t care a jot for her scoldings. Indeed, she thought he rather enjoyed them. She wondered if she ought to be annoyed by this but found she was in a sorry way indeed, for she couldn’t muster a shred of indignation.

They fell silent for a while as the servants cleared the plates, replacing them with dishes of fruit and nuts, a platter of cheese, an apple tart, and dishes of flavoured creams.

“Oh, my,” Milly said happily, reaching for the apple tart. She cut a massive slice, which she handed to Mr Cleaver. “Here you go, sir.”

“Thank you, Mrs Pettigrew,” he replied with excessive politeness, as if to say ‘See? She likes me.’

They finished the splendid meal with a glass of port, which Milly thought the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted, before Mr Cleaver insisted on escorting them to their room.

“Actually, I think I’ll pop downstairs and check on Toby,” Milly said, sending Angel an apologetic glance. “I’ll not be a moment.”

Oh, marvellous. Angel glared at Milly. Now she had to bid him goodnight alone. Already images were filling her mind of his large, powerful frame standing before her bedroom door in the shadowy corridor, his big hands snaking about her waist and— Stop it, stop it, stop it!

Angel made her way up the stairs, rivetingly aware of him following behind her. She wondered if he was watching her derriere sway as she climbed and laughed inwardly. Well, he was male and had made no secret of his interest in her, so that answered that.

Still, there was no harm in looking, as she had told Milly, and as he made no move to take a liberty, she could scold him for nothing else. The niggling suspicion that she would be disappointed if he didn’t attempt to take a tiny liberty at least, was rather disheartening.

But when they reached her room, that was the last thing on her mind. She gazed at the door she had so carefully locked earlier, which was now slightly ajar.

Mr Cleaver looked from the key in her hand to the door and did not need an explanation. “Stay there,” he ordered, and slowly pushed the door open. Never one to do what she’d been told, Angel followed him in and gasped at the disorder that met her eyes.