Page 70 of While You Were Spying

“Oh,” she said. Her voice sounded small and fragile.

He nodded at her gingerbread and tea. “Eat it. You’ll feel better.”

She could hardly resist, especially since she was still hungry, and it didn’t appear he was planning on leaving anytime soon.

She took a sip of her tea, savoring its fragrance and sweetness. She’d often thought there was almost nothing a cup of tea couldn’t make right in the world. Winterbourne nodded at the gingerbread, his eyes never leaving her face. She lifted the warm gingerbread and took a bite, licking the sweet, sticky cinnamon from her fingertips as she did so. At that moment the gingerbread was the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted. She took another bite and another. The cake was so moist it almost dissolved in her mouth. She savored the combination of tangy and sweet then, leaning back to sip her tea, looked up at Winterbourne.

“Would you like some?” She indicated the half-loaf of bread left.

“No. You’re enjoying it too much. Besides, you need to eat something.”

She huffed. “No, I don’t. My mother always says I need to eat less.”

“Why?”

She was becoming familiar with his frown of confusion. Did he really not understand? “Because men don’t like fat women.” She decided to be blunt. ”And my figure isn’t Lucia’s—lithe and willowy.”

He gave her an incredulous look. “Is that what women think?”

“Of course,” she said, taking another bite of gingerbread.

He pushed away from the table and put his hands on the table, leaning close to her. “Not all men prefer skinny women. I want to feel curves and softness beneath me when I—”

Francesca couldn’t take her gaze from his face. Her fingers were paused in front of her parted lips, a bite of gingerbread between them. She was half-mortified at what he was implying, half-hoping he’d go on. His mouth curved in a slow, wicked smile.

Her stomach fluttered and she felt her legs go weak. She was glad she was seated. She knew she shouldn’t, but she lowered the gingerbread “When you?”

“Take a woman to my bed.” His hand reached out and cupped her jaw. He had long, aristocratic fingers, tanned and strong. But there was nothing soft about Winterbourne. She felt the roughness of a callus as he rubbed two fingers over her chin, and she trembled, infused with molten heat.

“Cinnamon.” He licked his fingers and stepped away from her. She didn’t move, savoring the tingle of her skin where his fingers had touched her.

He leaned against the edge of the table again. “You’re not fat.” The whisper of his gaze skated over her, light but penetrating. “You’re—voluptuous.”

She blinked. Voluptuous? She glanced down at herself, messy and unkempt in her faded yellow muslin gown. A mental picture of how she must look popped into her mind and almost sent her running for home and Helen’s skill with a brush and comb. Her hair was probably falling lopsided down her face; indeed, she’d been tucking stray curls behind her ear all day.

And if she had smudges of cinnamon on her chin, it only stood to reason that dirt and dust were smeared across cheek and forehead where she’d casually wiped away perspiration. She need only peek down at her dress to see the stains of blood and alcohol from her earlier surgery. And he was calling hervoluptuous?

“I think bedraggled would probably suit me better right now,” she told him.

His stare seemed to say otherwise. She couldn’t imagine what he saw to make him look at her so. The heat threatened to rise to her cheeks from her belly, and she averted her eyes to her teacup, lifting it for another fortifying sip.

“Francesca.” His voice floated over her like the last whispers of steam from the cooling tea.

“Hmm?” When she dared glance at him again, she found his gaze still on her. The heat from his body warred with the heat of the tea, shooting through her, making her tingle. He reached out and cupped her jaw, and she fought to steady the tea cup in her trembling hands.

“We need to set a few things straight.”

Her gaze flicked to his. “Please don’t ask me why I behaved as I did,” she whispered. “I-I can’t explain it.”

“I think you can.” His finger traced the curve of her cheek. “Trust me.”

Francesca’s breath hitched, and she felt her insides tearing apart. Again, she was at war, wanting to trust him and afraid at the same time. Once, she’d trusted Roxbury...

“Francesca—”

A brisk knock on the door made her jump.

Ethan, unflappable as usual, dropped his hands and stepped away from her. “Come.”

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