Page 47 of While You Were Spying

He was already striding for the door, pausing when he opened it, and turning back to her. “If you remember something or if you need me—”

“I won’t.”

“Send for me. I won’t be far,” he promised before shutting the door.

Thirteen

Two hours later, Francescajumped when the door to the parlor opened, jolting her head against the damask couch she occupied. It throbbed in protest, but she schooled her features to hide the stab of pain. Her nerves were still on edge, and she couldn’t seem to make herself believe she was safe now.

She took a deep breath, trying to slow her rapid heartbeat, then gasped and felt her pulse gallop again when Winterbourne strode through the door. His eyes, honey-colored in the afternoon glow of sunlight streaming through the windows, warmed her immediately.

“Miss Dashing.” He shut the door behind him and stood sentry before it. They were alone together—again—and the sound of her rapid heartbeat echoed loudly in her ears.

“Lord Winterbourne.” Her breathy tone failed to emulate his imperiousness as she’d intended. “What are you doing here?”

“If you’d rather, we could talk in your bedchamber.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

“No!” She felt her cheeks grow warm. Lord, no. Thank God he’d found her in this small parlor room. It was pleasant and neutral with no...inappropriate associations. “Please. Do sit down.” She gestured to an armchair across from her.

Instead, he took a seat on the cushion next to her, hand still hidden behind his back. She scooted away, but that only made him grin at her. She furrowed her brow, sniffed, and smelled something sweet and fragrant. She flicked her gaze to his face, but it revealed nothing.

“Forgive me for not inquiring earlier,” he drawled. “I trust you napped well?”

“Yes, quite well,” she lied. No need for him to know that she’d tossed and turned for two hours. The slow smile he gave her seemed to indicate he suspected just that. Arrogant man!

She scooted further into the couch’s corner, wondering how soon she could escape. When he’d entered she’d been thinking about walking to the stables to see Thunder. Her mother and her maid had wanted her to stay in bed, but she’d finally escaped them and only paused in the sitting room to rest for a moment because even the short distance from her bedchamber to the downstairs parlor had made her head ache. And on top of the blinding megrim, exhaustion from her fragmented sleep plagued her.

And now the object of her distress was frustrating her once again. Why was he still at Tanglewilde? She couldn’t begin to comprehend why he’d come last night in the first place. At the time it had seemed right for him to be there. It wasn’t until morning that she’d begun to wonder at his presence.

Now in the light of early afternoon, his continued presence was even more of a mystery. She was nothing to him, wouldneverbe anything to him. Men like Winterbourne didn’t give the Francesca Dashings of the world so much as a second glance. And why should they? She’d never lit up a room when she entered, didn’t delight people with her wit and charm. She was just Francesca—plain, ordinary Francesca. But he would never be just Ethan, and there was nothing plain or ordinary about him.

She chanced a look at him. They shouldn’t even be alone together, she thought. Even in broad daylight with the sounds of the household filtering into the room, sitting next to him, his body mere inches from hers, felt decadent.

His warm gaze rested heavily on her. He seemed unaffected by her discomfort or the growing silence between them. Nothing ever seemed to affect him, whereaseverythinghe did had a heightened effect on her.

“Have you spoken with my father?” she asked abruptly.

---