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“And surely, you have some sort of companionship for those times? A young lady, perhaps?”
He almost ruined the game and his own stoic demeanor by laughing, “No.”
You, Miss Smith, are the first unmarried woman I have kept company with since my return, at least of my own volition.
“Well then…” Something about the tone of her voice made him turn to look at her. Her eyes were sparkling with humor and intent. “Perhaps you might tell me what sort of company you would keep? How would you choose to entertain a lady if you could envision the perfect encounter?”
Heat rushed through him, along with entirely inappropriate thoughts. He felt blood rush south and simultaneously heat the back of his collar and his ears.
He set his tools down, concentration completely dispelled as he made an effort to control his wayward imaginings. It was only when he looked at the clock that he realized they had spent some hours in work and conversation, and it was well past luncheon; it was rapidly approaching dinnertime.
He turned to find Hetty watching him, her eyes wide with uncertainty. Perhaps she could not divine his thoughts, but surely, she realized that such a question was far beyond the bounds of any sort of appropriate discussion between two individuals of such different stations.
He stepped closer, watching her eyes widen further in trepidation. His own heartbeat increased in speed, feeling the heat of her barely covered form as he moved into her space. It took considerable effort not to look down, to stop himself from trying to get a clearer, perhaps unobstructed view of her lithe figure.
He leaned in, hearing the catch of her breath. No doubt she expected some sort of dismissal or punishment for her impertinence. He waited a moment until he was sure his voice would be steady. “It is past time for luncheon. I will have Danvers set out a meal for both of us. Get dressed, Miss Smith, and I shall see you in the dining room when you are ready.”
He gave her no chance to reply. Instead, he removed his smock and carelessly tossed it to one side, gathered his discarded coat and other apparel, and he left the room without a backward glance.
CHAPTERSEVEN
Henrietta stared at the door through which the Marquess had vanished, torn between indignation and relief. She had known as soon as she asked of his company that it was far too soon to prod, to say nothing of the inappropriate nature of such a question from a working girl to a member of the Peerage. But she had been caught up in their exchange, in her own determination to gain an answer of more than two words from him, and she had not thought of the potential consequences of such an indelicate inquiry.
She had expected a reprimand. Possibly a dismissal. But he had done neither.
Not that he had answered her question either. Instead, he had simply mentioned his meal and had left the room, as if she had asked him how he took his tea! As if he was utterly indifferent to her.
Indignation won over as she stepped back behind the screen to redress. How could he have brushed her aside so cavalierly? Should he not have been angry?
Or was it something else? Had she mistaken the sidelong glances he had given her? She had thought he was enjoying the words between them, perhaps even enjoying her company. Certainly, he’d not refused her any answer, even if some of his replies had been frustratingly vague. She had thought he might even have been warming up to her.
But it might have been only an artist’s interest in the subject of his work. Perhaps he had only permitted the questions for some obscure reason of his own and had been as detached from the whole conversation as she had intended to be.
Intended to be, but she could freely admit that, over the course of trying without success to gain a proper answer from him, she had become far more invested in the answers themselves than in her original purpose. Even when she had voiced the last question, it had been a matter of pride, an attempt to overset his composure and coax a more emotional response from him.
But it had failed, and he had retired from the field. Retired, but certainly not conceded.
And what was the worse, she found her own composure had been somewhat disturbed by his parting words and his apparent coolness. And that was most unexpected.
She sighed as she fastened the back of her borrowed dress and tried once more to tame her unruly hair. It was true that the Marquess was a fascinating challenge, one that might test the wit and patience of any woman. But her purpose was to ascertain his match with Eva. She had no business letting herself be overset and distracted, nor disappointed when her plans did not produce the result she wished.
Why then was she so disturbed by his response to her question? And why had her heart seemed determined to remember the heat of his body and his gaze when he’d moved closer to her?
Surely, she was long past any sort of tendencies toward attraction or infatuation? She had not entertained any serious thoughts of a relationship with any man since the breaking of her betrothal all those years ago.
Why then did her heartbeat quicken at the brief thought of those smoldering eyes and the stern expression he had turned on her?
She pushed the thought aside, tucked the last strands of uncooperative dark locks into some sort of order, and checked herself in the mirror. Satisfied she was presentable, or at least as presentable as he might expect Hetty to be, given her supposed station, she made her way to the door.
She wondered how she would find the dining room. It was true that she had some idea of where it might be, given the style of the house, but it was equally true that she could not be certain she was correct. And Hetty could not be expected to know the more common layouts of country estates or the townhouses of the wealthy.
Fortunately, the butler—Danvers, the Marquess had called him—was waiting when she emerged from the solar, and he guided her politely to the correct door, which he then held open for her.
Inside, an elegant repast had been spread. Light foods mostly, biscuits and sandwiches and—she noticed with a bit of delight—fruit tarts. Teacups were set up, a fresh pot of tea gracing the table.
The Marquess was standing to one side when she entered. At her arrival, a footman drew out a chair. “Please, have a seat, Miss Smith.” He gestured.
Panic filled her for a moment. He had said that he would have a meal laid out for both of them, but...well, this was hardly the sort of table Hetty Smith would be comfortable at! Henrietta Stanton would have no compunction in joining the Marquess at table, but she could not react as Henrietta.
