Page 71 of While You Were Spying

The door opened and Peter stuck his head inside. “Lady Brigham is looking for you, miss. She sent me to bid you to come inside.” Though the footman appeared as uninterested as his station required, Francesca saw the assessing look he directed at Winterbourne.

She put a hand to her cheek and tried to compose herself. “We’ll be in momentarily, Peter. Thank you.”

“Yes, miss.” He didn’t take his eyes from Winterbourne, who now leaned negligently against the table, arms crossed.

The footman began to close the door.

“Peter,” Francesca called.

He popped his head in again.

“Have you seen Nat? He was supposed to watch the rabbit for me tonight.”

Peter frowned. “No, miss. Would you like me to go to the stables and ask after him?”

She nodded, concern trickling through her. It wasn’t like Nat to neglect his duties. “Yes, and then get to bed, Peter. You’ve had a long day.”

He grinned at her. “Yes, miss.”

The door closed, and Francesca rose and went to the window. “I wonder what could be keeping Nat.”

“Probably lost track of time,” Winterbourne said. “The boy will fetch him.”

Francesca nodded, but she couldn’t stop a tremor of uneasiness as she stared into the dark night.

Eighteen

“Please God. PleaseGod,” Francesca chanted under her breath, as she stood in the drafty entrance hall outside the door to the dining room, her hand hovering above the handle. “Please don’t let him be there.”

She’d waited as long as she could to come down to breakfast. She hadn’t wanted to see either her parents or Lucia, and she’d especially wanted to avoid Ethan—Winterbourne, she corrected. But now she’d tarried so long, she feared the sideboard would have already been cleared and she’d have to go without even a cup of tea.

Normally it wouldn’t have bothered her—much. She didn’t believe Ethan’s nonsense, calling her voluptuous. She was plump and could stand to lose a few inches. But over the past two days, she’d been so busy that she’d barely eaten anything save chocolate tarts and gingerbread. Now she was starving.

Chocolate tarts, gingerbread, and tea. Her stomach grumbled, but at the same time her insides plummeted. They were all delicacies that Ethan—Winterbourne, she corrected again—had served her.

Her lips tingled as she remembered the feel of his warm mouth against hers in the hospital. Pressed against hers, his lips had been full and firm—sensuous. And the taste of him. He’d tasted better than the tarts she so loved.

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