wonder who our Mr Thomas really is?’
Eleanor paused, her foot on the bottom stair. ‘What do you mean: who he really is?’
Aunt Lucy looked back at the parlour door. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘But there is something...oh, I don’t know...something almost familiar about him. And, just as I think I’m on the brink of grasping it, it slips away again. Never mind. I am sure it will come to me in time.’
They continued up the stairs to the first landing and Eleanor wished her aunt goodnight at her bedchamber door. Lizzie helped her to undress before leaving and Eleanor climbed into bed, exhausted, ready for a good night’s sleep. As soon as her head hit the pillow, however, her mind sprang to life, reliving the fire and the accident, fretting at the attack on that young girl—could it truly be connected to her? Was James responsible? No, she could never believe it of him. Not attempted murder. But the very thought that someone might wish to kill her was too much to bear and she tossed and turned until finally, still wide awake, she decided to go downstairs to see if she could sneak a tot of brandy for herself. If it helped Aunt Lucy to sleep, mayhap it would do the same for her?
Relighting her candle, she found her slippers and wrapped her large woollen shawl around her. Taking up the candlestick, she stepped softly on to the dark landing and crept to the head of the stairs. Stomach churning uneasily, despite Brooke’s promise to post two guards at every external door, she tiptoed down the stairs to the parlour. Surely everyone must have retired by now? She could hear nothing but the distant rumble of snores—a comforting sound, confirming there were people within reach should she need them.
She hesitated a moment at the parlour door, listening, before lifting the latch and pushing the door open.
Her heart leapt into her throat.
Matthew stood before the fire, one booted foot on the fender. He had removed his jacket, leaving him clad in shirt, waistcoat and pantaloons, which clung to his buttocks and muscular thighs. His left hand was propped against the mantelshelf as he stared down into the glowing embers and his right cradled a goblet of amber liquid. Eleanor had not thought for one minute he would still be up, for had he not said he would be retiring soon after them? Thank goodness he had not heard the door open. Her fingers tightened, clutching her shawl closer around her. She must leave. Now. She would be foolish to remain.
Still she hesitated. Something about the way he was standing and staring into the fire tugged at her heartstrings. He looked a little...lost, somehow, and the urge to offer comfort was strong. The memory of his kiss set her lips tingling, despite her confusion over his subsequent reaction when he had said he did not want complications. Eleanor bit her lip, considering.
No. She must go. They had tempted fate once already today. She must not do so again. She stepped back but, before she could close the door, something—a slight noise perhaps, or just the movement—betrayed her. Matthew looked up. She caught a glimpse of loneliness and sorrow before his mask slipped back into place.
She swallowed hard, her nerves in shreds. Why, oh, why, had she lingered? Why did she not retreat the second she saw him? It was too late now. She stepped inside the room and closed the door.
‘I am sorry to disturb you, Mr Thomas,’ she whispered. ‘I was unable to sleep and I thought to come down for some brandy, in the hope it might help.’
His voice was low, but she could hear the steel behind his words. ‘And so you decided to wander around the inn at the dead of night? Even after everything that’s happened?’
‘I was careful! Besides, I knew you had inspected the doors and windows, so nobody can get in.’
His jaw firmed. ‘You place far too much faith in my abilities.’ He lifted his glass to his lips and tipped his head back.
‘Why should I not?’ Eleanor said. ‘I trust you.’
She hesitated. What had she said? That sounded... Matthew was appraising her, brows raised, a knowing smile lurking at the corners of his mouth.
‘I mean,’ she added quickly, ‘I trust your capabilities.’
‘Oh, no,’ he said, ‘don’t spoil it now. I could get very used to basking in your approval.’
Eleanor felt the blood suffuse her face, her insides squirming at his teasing smile. ‘I must go. I bid you goodnight.’ She turned to the door.
‘Don’t go.’
She paused, her hand already on the latch.
Are you going to flee every time a man shows a smidgeon of interest in you? Irritably, she tried to shrug away that insidious voice in her head.
‘Stay a moment, please. I’d welcome the company.’ There was a hint of a plea in those words.
Her awkwardness receded. He had looked desolate. Mayhap she could help. She had come downstairs for brandy... She would not scuttle away as though she had done something wrong. There could be no harm in staying for a minute or two, as long as they weren’t seen.
She slowly faced him, then gestured to the decanter that remained where Brooke had left it on the sideboard. ‘Would you pour me some brandy, please?’
She crossed the room, hugging her shawl even more tightly around her, as he poured out a measure of the spirit. Her doubts reared up again...why did I not go when I had the chance?
Because you want to know, the treacherous voice in her head whispered. You want to know how it feels when a man desires you.
Matthew’s blue gaze captured hers as he handed her the goblet, their fingers brushing. Eleanor all but snatched the glass from his hand.
‘Thank you,’ she said, moving swiftly to stand next to the fireplace.
‘You are most welcome, my lady.’
His deep voice resonated, sending a quiver of excitement darting through her core. Oh, my. Warning bells rang loud and clear but she chose to ignore them. Yes, it was scandalous to be here, alone, with Matthew, but she was in control. Nothing would happen. Mayhap she could view this as practice—to help her conquer the hideous embarrassment that had plagued her during her come-out. If she could learn to converse unselfconsciously with the attractive, but undoubtedly unsuitable, Matthew Thomas, might that not stand her in good stead in London, where there would be attractive, suitable gentlemen to talk to and dance with?
Eleanor fixed her gaze on the goblet cupped in her hands. She swirled the glowing liquid round the bowl, warming it before lifting it to her lips. She sipped, then coughed at its fiery strength. She was aware, without looking, that Matthew had resumed his stance on the opposite side of the hearth, setting the decanter on the mantelshelf.
Feeling emboldened, she said, ‘You know a great deal about me, but I know next to nothing of you. Other than you have a good eye for horseflesh.’
He stared into the dying fire. ‘There is nothing much to know and the details are unlikely to interest you.’
‘Nevertheless...’ She allowed the silence to hang between them. While she waited, she drank again, relishing the warmth as the brandy slid down her throat.
‘Since the age of eighteen I have lived and worked overseas. I am a merchant—my world is far removed from
