fear. Men of the Earl of Ralston’s ilk did not dine with governesses—not unless they had ignoble intentions.
Had he somehow guessed the unruly flutters excited in her body? If he had, she’d need to be on her guard. Against him. And more importantly against her own inclinations.
‘A tray in my room will suffice.’
He curled his lip. ‘Don’t the servants have enough to do without running trays upstairs as well as attending me in the dining room?’
‘Oh.’ She sounded quite as stupid as she felt, and the heat rushing to her cheeks didn’t help. Here she was thinking he had wicked designs, and he was thinking about his staff. Surely the dip in her stomach was not disappointment? ‘Thank you, then, my lord.’
He rose and held out his arm.
Wordless for once, she rested her fingers on his sleeve. Lightly. The knowledge of muscle and bone beneath the fine cloth of his coat scorched the tips of her fingers. Fires sparked in her blood. Breathing seemed out of the question with her heart hammering so hard against her ribs. Inside, far below her skin, her body shook, fear battling with joy.
She tried not to feel his heat or notice the faint scent of brandy and lemon-oil soap teasing her senses. Five years ago, walking into dinner with a man like Ralston would have been the pinnacle of her hopes. A foolish young girl’s dream, long dead. Until this man crossed her path with his fallen-angel looks and aura of sorrow.
How would she ever keep her distance?
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