Page 42 of The Lady’s No Angel

“Good night, then,” he said, too distracted to say more, to notice whether she opened the door as he walked away, back to his own room.

Chapter 12

Restraint. Sort of…

The George, Wrotham, Kent, 9th April 1816

Angel stood outside the door to their room, watching Mr Cleaver walk away from her.

Perfect, she told herself. It was just what she wanted. He would see them safely to Penenden Heath, keep his distance, then to wherever they chose, then he would go away. No fuss. No bother.

But the devilish light that always gleamed in his eyes, the fire that drew her to him when she knew she ought not to go anywhere near him, had diminished. He’d looked… hurt. Like she’d rejected him, which was silly. He was a big, powerful, handsome man, one who was used to getting his own way. Used to having females lose their wits over him too, she did not doubt.

But not her. Not today. She had behaved just as she ought. For once.

Oh, drat the man.

Angel hurried after him.

She caught up with him just as he pushed open the door to his room.

“Mr Cleaver.”

He turned, his eyebrows climbing as he saw her hurrying along the corridor towards him.

“Miss Baxter.”

“I insist that you stop this,” she said impatiently.

Mr Cleaver blinked and looked around him, nonplussed. “Stop what?”

“You know jolly well what,” she said crossly, folding her arms and glaring at him.

Eyes narrowed, he gave her a dubious frown. “I do?”

“Certainly. It’s obvious that you are—”

Voices farther along the corridor reached them and Mr Cleaver took hold of her arm and tugged her into his room, closing the door. “You are determined to ruin your reputation, you reckless female,” he muttered, letting go of her.

“That’s rich! You’re the one who just shut me in your room.”

His jaw tightened with annoyance. Good. She was cross, she didn’t see why he oughtn’t be too.

“You know very well I did that to stop those people from seeing you standing outside my bedroom door.” He walked away, heading for a tray set on a table by the fire, ready with a decanter of brandy and glasses. “Now, what is it I am doing that so enrages you?”

Angel put up her chin. “You are sulking.”

He choked on the mouthful of brandy he’d just swallowed. “I’m what?” he demanded, bristling with indignation.

“You heard me.”

A masculine scent tickled Angel’s nose. Perhaps cedar, certainly something musky and woody, drifted on the air. He’d taken a bath too, she remembered, aware of the faintly damp quality of the air about her. The room was warm, rather hot actually, a situation not helped in the least by the sudden image that drifted through her mind of his powerful body, wet and soapy, his hand moving over his slick skin....

“Correct me if I am wrong, but I believe I congratulated you on your skill and did not argue that you had won fair and square,” he said tersely.

“You did,” she agreed, swallowing and trying to rid herself of improper thoughts. Her cheeks seemed to have caught fire, and her crossed arms had folded themselves tighter across her chest, as much to stop her hands from trembling as from annoyance. She did not quite understand why she was so het up and out of sorts with him, but she was, and so it must be his fault—and yes, the words, pot, kettle and black were ringing in her ears.

He took another swallow of brandy and set down his glass.