Page 8 of The Duke's Christmas Scandal
But the fact that they would never meet again made the idea almost irresistible.
Her mother had taught her that all a woman needed to do was glance in a man’s direction and he would desire her. They were weak creatures, easily tempted, like Adam with Eve. In Tavi’s experience, their interest extended only as far as the bedroom—not all the way to the altar.
But couldn’t women be tempted, too?
That’s what she felt, looking at him. A fluttery sensation in her belly. Heightened awareness of her own skin. Not quite nervous, but alert to his every movement. Her gaze kept coming to rest on his face. Each time she pulled it away, reminding herself not to stare, then found herself studying his features again.
“Will your husband be troubled by his wife sharing a room with another man for an evening, Mrs. Dawson?”
She really needed to drop the fiction that she was married. Tavi licked her lips.
“No.” Changing the subject, she asked, “Is there a place to wash up for the evening?”
“In here.”
Mr. Harkness rose fluidly and led her to a small antechamber. He leaned past her to press the door open with his palm flat to the wood, just as he’d done before when he spared her the cold trek to the barn. Tavi caught the faint scent of freshly cut wood and a hint of smoke. She liked it. Wanted to rub herself in it until—
Enough with that foolishness.
In the antechamber, the frigid air was a bracing reminder that she could not afford to be tempted by him.
“You’ll want this.” Mr. Harkness offered her the lantern.
She took it and made use of her tooth powder, soap, and hand towel, helping herself to the bucket of fresh water. Rough lodgings, but far better than freezing to death in a hedgerow.
“I’ve never seen such cold weather,” she said briskly, returning to the chamber with the single bed. “Not in all my twenty-six years.”
“The Thames froze over a few years ago.” He’d returned to sitting by the fire. “Believe it was 1811 or 1812.”
Beside him sat a thin blanket and a small bundle that could make a poor excuse for a pillow. She frowned at that. Dimly, she recalled reading about the river, but Tavi was distracted by the makeshift bedroll.
“You don’t mean to sleep on the floor tonight, do you, Mr. Harkness? You’ll freeze.”
“I hadn’t noticed an alternative option being available. In fact, I can confirm that the only bed is the one I brought with me.”
“The entire thing?”
“Not the frame. I found that in the storeroom, disassembled. The ropes were rotten, so I used planks to support the mattress. Everything else I brought with me, Mrs. Dawson, for I believe rest cures all ills.”
“You won’t sleep well on the floor.”
“No.”
He turned so his face was in profile. A tense beat of silence passed.
“We could share—” she started.
“I’ll flip you for it,” he said before she could finish that sentence. Embarrassed heat crawled over her skin. He held up a coin. “Heads or tails?”
“Tails,” she blurted. Tavi always chose tails, for it sounded closer to her pet name.
“Heads I take the floor, tails, you take the bed.”
The coin glinted, spinning in the air.
“Wait! That isn’t fair!”
“What do you know, I lose.” Mr. Harkness feigned sadness.
