snuffling sound drew her gaze down. The dog. It sank to its haunches and watched her with its head cocked on one side. It was enormous. ‘What is better?’ she asked, keeping a wary eye on the dog.
‘It is better when you stand up straight, instead of hunching over like a scared schoolgirl.’
As a schoolgirl, she had tried to disguise her ungainly height. It spoke to her discomfort that she had fallen back into that old habit.
She looked up past the wide chest and broad shoulders, past the snowy cravat and strong column of throat, his full mobile mouth at eye level, then up to meet his gaze. Most men were either her height or shorter. This one was taller than her by half a head—he must be inches above six foot tall—and he reeked of danger.
What snatches of conversation she’d heard between him and the dying earl had been positively menacing. And, unless she was badly mistaken, some of the venom shifting back and forth between them had been directed at her.
‘If you will excuse me, I must be on my way.’
‘On your way where?’
‘To my room.’
He shot her a wolfish smile. ‘So that was not your room. The one you just left.’
‘No,’ she muttered, making to step past him.
‘What were you doing in that chamber?’
Did he think she was trying to steal? She stiffened her spine, meeting his gaze full on. Such directness usually sent men running for the hills. On this one it apparently had no effect. Or none visible, though she did sense a sharpening of interest in those wintery eyes.
She huffed out a breath of defeat. ‘I will admit I am a little turned about. My chamber is in the tower at the north end of the house. I thought I would ring for a servant to guide me, but there was no bell pull in the first room I tried.’
‘A clever thought.’
‘I am clever.’ She bit her lip. That was just the sort of quick retort men did not like. A habit of bravado honed in the schoolroom.
He didn’t seem to notice. ‘Follow me.’ He strode past her down the corridor, the dog following at his heels, leaving her to trot along behind as best she might.
He took a flight of stairs down and then passed along a stone corridor that smelled of must and damp. She was sure she had not come this way.
He hesitated at yet another intersection of passageways.
She huffed out a breath. ‘Don’t tell me, you are lost too.’
He gave her a scornful look. ‘I never get lost.’
Doubt filled her mind. ‘Have you ever been to this house before?’
‘North is this way.’ He set off once more with the dog padding beside him.
Hah. Avoidance. He was just as lost as she was. More lost. Because she was quite sure from the increasingly dank feel to the air that they were now in the cellars. The sea growled louder too. Typical. Why would men never admit to being lost?
About to insist they stop, she was surprised when he took off up a circular flight of narrow stairs she hadn’t noticed. At the top, he turned left and there they were, at her chamber door. How irritating. And she still had no idea how she got here. It didn’t matter. She had no reason to learn her way around, since she would be departing at once.
‘Thank you, my lord.’ She dipped her best curtsy and prayed he would not hear the wry note in her voice.
He held his candle high and caught her chin in long strong fingers just like the old man had done. But these fingers were warm with youth and strong with vigour and, while firm, they were also gentle. She jerked her head, but he held her fast.
She stared up at his face, at the beautifully moulded lips set in a straight line hovering above hers. His head dipped a fraction. Angled. She could feel his breath, warm on her cheek, inhaled a hint of cologne, something male, mingled with leather and horse and briny air that made her feel dizzy.
She drew in a deep breath as his gaze fell on her mouth, lingering there, until she thought he would kiss her. Longed that he would to break this dreadful tension between them.
Nervous, she licked her lips.
His eyes narrowed and he raised that piercing gaze to meet hers as if he would read her mind. Stroked her chin with his thumb and, she shivered. He leaned closer and for a wild moment, she thought he really did intend to kiss her and her body hummed at the thought.
Instead, he spoke. ‘Who are you?’ he rasped softly.
‘Mary,’ she managed to gasp in a breathless whisper, her breathing beyond her control. ‘Mary Wilding.’
‘Wilding?’ A brow went up. ‘And what brought you here, Miss Wilding?’
She swallowed. ‘I was invited. By the earl.’
‘The late earl.’
She nodded.
He stepped back, releasing her face. ‘And what is your purpose here, I wonder?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I will be leaving first thing.’
‘I see. Well, Miss Wilding, I bid you goodnight. We will talk before you go.’
She remained frozen as he disappeared back down the twisting stairs and she was left alone, in the silence, not hearing even his footsteps and feeling strangely giddy.
Breathless, from … fear? The fluttering in her belly, the tremble in her hands, could be nothing else. Though what made her fearful, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps her reactions? To him? Would she have actually let him kiss her, had he wanted to do so?
Could she have stopped such a powerful man taking whatever he wanted? A little thrill rippled through her. Perverse. Unwanted.
All he had wanted was to question her.
She pressed cold fingers to her hot cheeks and hauled in a deep breath before stepping inside her small chamber. While thanking her benefactor had been one of the less pleasant experiences of her life, meeting the new earl had been something else entirely. Disturbing and exciting. It might be as well to avoid him before she left.
Coward.
The maid Betsy, assigned to help Mary dress, arrived at nine the next morning.
Mary didn’t needed help dressing. Just as always, she’d been awake and dressed by six, before light touched the grey wintery sky. At school, it was her task to see that the girls were washed and dressed before they came to breakfast. The maid had to content herself with drawing back the curtains and putting coal on the fire. ‘This room is always cold,’ the girl announced cheerfully. ‘Will there be anything else,
