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“Aye.” Around noon outside Winchester, he’d stopped for beef and ale. He hadn’t eaten since.
“I’ll see what I can find.”
“You can cook?” he asked, genuinely curious. London’s delicate ladies looked like they lived on dew and nectar. Prepared by someone else.
“Of course I can cook.” She paused on her way out and cast him a smile that was pure friendliness. What in Hades was she playing at now? She acted as if he’d never held her in his arms. Perhaps he should remind her. He smothered the urge to tumble her onto the bed until she was his dazed darling again. For a while there, he’d had the upper hand. But somewhere she’d clawed back the advantage.
Exhilaration bubbled in his blood. Exhilaration and the determination to win this lassie. He’d always enjoyed games. This one promised champion fun.
Devilry made him smile. “That’s an excellent skill in a wife, my love.”
She laughed, the wee baggage, and left the room with a confident swagger that made him itch to kiss the insolence out of her.
* * *
“Can I help?”
Charlotte looked up from the omelet that started to firm on the stove top. Lord Lyle was fully dressed in a dark blue coat that brought out the rich color of his eyes. She suffered a spurt of naughty disappointment that he covered that superb torso with clothing, however elegant.
“Can you make toast?” She gestured to the loaf on the table. He said he wanted a managing wife. She’d show him the error of his ways.
“I can try.”
“You’ll need the toasting fork, and then…” She stopped and studied his suspiciously interested expression. “You’re teasing me.”
“Just a wee bit, lassie.” With eye-catching efficiency of movement, Lord Lyle set to his task. Every gesture set her foolish heart racing. From the first, she’d thought him an impressive figure of a man. But now she had firsthand experience of what a splendid physical specimen he was. She’d touched that strong back and felt the powerful embrace of those long, sinewy arms.
He produced several perfect golden slices, then turned his attention to loading a tray with the cold ham, cheese and dried fruit she’d found in the larder. Competence invested his every action.
Including his kisses.
She killed the traitorous thought before it could go any further. The only way to weather their unavoidable togetherness was to act as she would with an acquaintance. Dinner and polite conversation, with an embargo on topics like kissing and weddings, would get them through the evening.
Then if heaven had any mercy, tomorrow the rain would stop, the river would subside, and the earl would ride away on his magnificent horse and forget the unsuitable woman who had briefly caught his fancy.
Her foolish heart smarted at the thought of him forgetting her. But her head had taken charge, and her head insisted that if she kept the tone pleasant but impersonal, she’d escape unscathed.
She cut the omelet in half, served it, and placed the plates on the tray.
“Let me take that,” Lord Lyle said.
She didn’t argue. He might as well use those muscles for something useful, instead of beguiling silly girls who should know better. “Thank you.”
Snatching a bottle of her father’s best claret, she followed the tall man up the steps, then directed him to the drawing room.
“The dining room is too big for two and as cold as charity,” she said cheerfully, pointing to the table where she ate when she was on her own.
She stood back and let Lyle arrange the food. Amazing how graceful he made the everyday movements. Then she reminded herself of her plan. Jolly. Uninvolved. Polite. That was Charlotte for the rest of Lyle’s visit.
But this enforced intimacy inevitably recalled lying in his arms, when she’d been far from uninvolved. With shaking hands, she set two wineglasses from the sideboard on the table and lit the candelabra that provided a centerpiece for their makeshift meal.
Charlotte was grateful that Lord Lyle didn’t comment on her jumpiness. She wasn’t optimistic enough to imagine he hadn’t noticed. Those deep blue eyes didn’t miss much at all.
As if to prove her right, he stepped back from the table and stared at the Reynolds hanging over the mantelpiece. “Your mother?”
“Yes.”
“She looks like you.”
