is that they must be good at taking people in, else how could they succeed in being a rake?’ she said to herself. So was it a good thing that he hadn’t taken her in? She couldn’t make up her mind. The one thing she knew for certain was that he was most eager to be rid of her. Henrietta tried not to be mortified by that.
Perhaps he just wanted to know how she had come to be on his estate in the first place? She’d like to know that herself, she thought, touching a cautious finger to the aching lump on her head. Last night. Last night. What did she remember of last night?
That dratted pug dog of Lady Ipswich’s had run off. She’d entirely missed her dinner while looking for it, no wonder she was so hungry now. Henrietta frowned, screwing her eyes tightly shut, ignoring the dull ache inside her skull as she mentally retraced her steps. Out through the side door. The kitchen garden. Round to the side of the house. Then …
The housebreaker! ‘Oh, my goodness, the housebreaker!’ Her mind cleared, like the ripples of a pool stilling to reveal a sharp reflection. ‘Good grief! Lady Ipswich will be wondering what on earth has happened to me.’
Gingerly, Henrietta inched out of the luxurious bed and peered at the clock on the mantel. The numbers were fuzzy. It was just after eight. She opened the curtains and blinked painfully out at the sun. Morning. She had been gone all night. Her rescuer had clearly been out and about very early. In fact, now she had a chance to reflect upon it, he had had the look of a man who had not yet been to bed.
Raking, no doubt! But those shadows under his eyes spoke of a tiredness more profound than mere physical exhaustion. Rafe St Alban looked like a man who could not sleep. No wonder he was irritable, she thought, immediately feeling more charitable. Having to deal with a comatose stranger under such circumstances would have put anyone out of humour, especially if the aforementioned stranger looked like a—like a—what on earth did she look like?
There was a looking glass on top of the ornately inlaid chest of drawers in front of the window. Henrietta peered curiously into it. A streak of mud had caked on to her cheek, she was paler than normal and had a lump the size of an egg on her head, but apart from that she looked pretty much the same as always. Determinedly un-rosebuddish mouth. Eyebrows that simply refused to show even the tiniest inclination to arch. Too-curly brown hair in wild disorder. Brown eyes. And, currently in the hands of the aforementioned Mrs Peters, a brown dress.
She sighed heavily. It summed things up, really. Her whole life was various shades of brown. It was to her shame and discredit that no amount of telling herself, as Papa constantly reminded her, that there were many people in the world considerably worse off than her, made her feel any better about it. It was not that she was malcontent precisely, but she could not help thinking sometimes that there must be more to life. Though more of what, she had no idea.
‘I suppose being thumped on the head, then being left to die of exposure, to say nothing of being rescued by a devastatingly handsome earl, counts as a burst of genuine excitement,’ she told her reflection. ‘Even if he is a very reluctant knight errant with a very volatile temperament and an extremely dubious reputation.’
The clock on the mantel chimed the quarter-hour, making her jump. She could not possibly add keeping the earl from his breakfast to her other sins. Hastily, she slopped water from the jug on the nightstand into the prettily flowered china bowl and set about removing the worst of the mud from her face.
Almost precisely on time, Henrietta tripped into the breakfast parlour with her hair brushed and pinned, her body swathed in her host’s elegant dressing gown of dark green brocade trimmed with gold frogging. Even with the cuffs turned back and the gown belted tightly at her waist, it enveloped her form completely, trailing behind her like a royal robe. The idea that the material that lay next to her skin had also lain next to his naked body was unsettling. She tried not to dwell on the thought, but it could not be said she was wholly successful.
She was nervous. Seeing the breakfast table set for just two made her even more nervous. She had never before had breakfast alone with a man, save for dear Papa, which didn’t count. She had certainly never before had breakfast with a man while wearing his dressing gown. Feeling incredibly gauche and at the same time excruciatingly conscious of her body, clothed only in her underwear, handicapped by the voluminous folds of the dressing gown, Henrietta tripped into the room.
He didn’t seem to notice her at first. He was staring into space, the most melancholy expression on his face. Darkly brooding. Formidable. Starkly handsome. Her pulses fluttered. He had shaved and changed. He was wearing a clean shirt and freshly tied cravat, a tightly fitting morning coat of dark blue, and buff-coloured pantaloons with polished boots. The whole ensemble made him look considerably more earl-like and consequently considerably more intimidating. Also, even more devastatingly attractive. Henrietta plastered a faltering smile to her face and dropped into a very far from elegant and certainly not, she was sure, deep enough curtsy. ‘I must apologise, my lord, for being so remiss, I have not yet thanked you properly for rescuing me. I am very much obliged to you.’
Her voice dragged Rafe’s thoughts back from the past, where he had once again been lingering. Be dammed to the precious title and the need for an heir! Who really cared, save his grandmother, if it was inherited by some obscure third cousin twice removed? If she only knew what it had cost him already, she would soon stop harping on about it. He gazed down at Henrietta, still smiling up at him uncertainly. Holding out his hand, he helped her back to her feet. ‘I trust you feel a little better, Miss Markham. You certainly look very fetching in my robe. It is most becoming.’
‘I’m perfectly all right, all things considered,’ Henrietta said, grateful for his support as she got up from her curtsy, which had made her head swim. ‘And as for the robe, it is very gallant of you to lie, but I know I must look a fright.’
‘Frightfully nice, I’d say. And you must believe me, for I am something of an expert in these matters.’
His haunted look had disappeared. He was smiling now. Not a real smile, not one that reached his eyes, but his mouth turned up at the corners. ‘I think I’ve finally remembered what happened,’ Henrietta said.
‘Yes?’ Rafe shook his head, dispelling the ghosts that seemed to have gathered there. ‘It can wait. You look as if you need food.’
‘I am hungry—a dog made me miss my dinner.’
For the second time that morning, Rafe laughed aloud. This time it sounded less rusty. ‘Well, I am happy to inform you that there are no dogs here to make you miss your breakfast,’ he said. The dressing gown gave Henrietta Markham a winsome quality. It gaped at the neck, showing far too much creamy bosom, which she really ought to have had the decency to confine in stays. She looked as if she had just tumbled from his bed. Which in a way, she had. He realised he’d been staring and looked away, slightly disconcerted by the unexpected stirrings of arousal. Desire was usually something he could conjure up or dispense with at will.
Helping her into a seat, he sat down opposite, keeping his eyes resolutely on the food in front of him. He would feed her, find out where she had sprung from and return her there forthwith. Then he would sleep. And after that he must return to town. The meeting with his grandmother could not be postponed indefinitely. An immense malaise, grey and heavy as a November sky, loomed over him at the thought.
So he would not think of it. He need not, not just yet, while he had the convenient distraction of the really quite endearing Henrietta Markham sitting opposite him, in his dressing gown, with her tale to tell. Rafe poured her some coffee and placed a generous helping of ham on to her plate along with a baked egg and some bread and butter, helping himself to a mound of beef and a tankard of ale. ‘Eat, before you faint with hunger.’
‘This
