I hope you won’t object if I take a mug of ale?’
Without waiting for her reply, he turned away and picked up the blackjack sitting on the table. Charity heard the kettle singing merrily and was a little reassured by the familiar sound. She knew she should keep her eyes averted, but could not resist glancing up under her lashes as her host filled a mug with ale and drank deeply. She watched, fascinated, as he swallowed, watching the muscles of his throat working, noting the strong lines of his neck, the hard, straight jaw and lean cheek. There was power in every line of his body and it seemed to call to her, an attraction so strong she found it difficult to keep still.
As he lowered the mug and wiped his hand across his mouth he met her eyes, holding her gaze with his own near-black eyes. Charity’s heart began to pound and her hands gripped the arms of the chair. The space between them seemed charged, like the heavy air that preceded a thunderstorm. Surely he must hear the thud of her heart, or even see it, since it battered mercilessly against her ribs.
She should say something, but her breath caught in her throat. She was in thrall to that dark predatory gaze, unable to look away. Unwilling to look away. She had to acknowledge that the perilous attraction was all on her side, the man before had not moved or spoken, so how could she blame him for the danger she felt now?
Was it the rattle of the kettle lid and sudden hiss of steam that broke the spell? Or was it the fact that she was no longer subject to that dark stare? He turned to the fire and proceeded to make the tea. With a conscious effort Charity made herself release her grip on the chair arms. She watched as he lifted a rosewood tea caddy from the shelf and spooned leaves into a silver teapot before pouring in the boiling water. She was desperate to break the silence, but when she spoke she almost winced at the inanity of her words.
‘Tea making is more commonly a woman’s role, Mr Durden.’
‘Since my housekeeper is not here it falls to me,’ he said shortly. ‘I could ask you to do it, but I am not in the habit of making my guests work.’
Charity thought his manner suggested he was not in the habit of entertaining visitors at all, but she did not say so. Instead she watched him fetch out of the cupboard a beautiful teacup and saucer.
‘I do not have much call to use these,’ he remarked, as if reading her thoughts. ‘There is sugar, if you want it?’
‘Just a little milk, if you please.’
His strong hands were remarkably gentle with the fine porcelain.
As if he was caressing a beautiful woman.
A hot blush raced through Charity at the thought and she sat back in her chair, away from the direct heat of the fire. She took the cup from him with a murmur of thanks, but did not look up, conscious of an unfamiliar ache pooling deep inside her.
He refilled his tankard and drew up a stool for himself. It was a little lower than her chair, she noted, and thought she would be grateful that he was not towering over her, but when he sat down his face was level with her own, which was somehow even more disturbing. Desperate to avoid his gaze, she looked about the kitchen. The room was large and high ceilinged, big enough to accommodate a cook and at least half a dozen servants. She recalled Lady Beverley’s comment that Mr Durden had no money at all. However, even with a lack of staff, the long table was spotless and on the dresser the copper pans gleamed.
‘I beg your pardon, madam, for bringing you into the kitchen, but it is the only room in the house with a fire.’
‘Oh, no, no, I am very comfortable, I assure you.’ She smiled, forgetting her unease in her eagerness not to be thought critical of his hospitality. ‘I was merely thinking how much work there must be, maintaining a house like this.’
‘It would take an army of servants to do so,’ he replied frankly. ‘Most of it is closed up until I have the funds to restore it. I have an excellent housekeeper in Mrs Cummings, but she can only do so much. She insists on keeping one parlour tidy for me, and my study, but I spend very little time indoors so there is no point in having a fire anywhere but here during the day.’
‘Very sensible.’
Charity sipped her tea. It was good. However poor he might be, her host did not buy inferior bohea. Sitting by the fire, with a hot drink to revive her, she began to relax a little.
‘I enjoyed your performance in The Rivals.’
‘Thank you. It was very well received.’ She gently replaced her cup in its saucer and would have got up to put it on the table, but he forestalled her, reaching out to take the saucer, his fingers brushing hers as he did so.
It was as much as she could do not to snatch her hand away. She was so aware of him that her skin burned at his touch and little arrows of excitement skimmed through her blood. It was like the heady excitement of a first night, only worse, because she had no idea how to deal with this. Nervously she began to chatter.
‘We open in a new play tonight, The Provok’d Husband. Do you know it? I am very much looking forward to it, because I play Lady Townly. Hywel—Mr Jenkin—is to play my long-suffering husband. We have played it together before, but not for many a year. Perhaps you will come and see it.’
‘No, I won’t.’
His response was so blunt she blinked at him, but it also made her laugh.
‘Fie upon you, Mr Durden, I did not expect quite such a strong rebuttal.’
‘I beg your pardon. What I meant was that I rarely go into Allingford, save when there is business to attend to.’
‘Of course, and pray do not think that I shall be offended if you do not come. I am not so conceited as to think people cannot go on quite well without attending my performances.’ Smiling, she rose to her feet. ‘I have taken quite enough of your time and must be getting back. Thank you, Mr Durden, for your hospitality.’
He grimaced. ‘Such as it was.’
Sympathy clenched at her heart. She did not think him embarrassed by his straitened circumstances, but he was most clearly aware of how it might look to others. Impulsively she put her hand on his arm.
‘A warm fire and a warming dish of bohea—I would ask for nothing finer, sir.’
He was staring at her fingers as they rested upon his bare forearm and Charity wondered if he, too, felt the shock of attraction. She could almost see it, a dangerous current rippling around them. Carefully, she removed her hand and began to pull on her gloves. The dog had left his box and was looking up at them, ears pricked expectantly. Glad of the distraction, Charity smiled down at him.
‘Goodbye, Samson.’
Embarrassed by the nervousness that had her addressing a mere animal, she hurried to the door, biting down on her lip as Mr Durden reached past her to open it. He was so close that if she leaned towards him, just a little, their bodies would meet. Stifling the thought and the heady excitement that came with it, she swept past him along the corridor and opened the outer door herself.
Charity was almost surprised to step out into the cobbled yard. Some part of her—the part that remembered her upbringing, she thought bitterly—had almost expected to find the door opened directly into the fiery jaws of hell. She welcomed the chill air; it gave her something to think of other than the presence of the man beside her. She buttoned her pelisse and smoothed her gloves over her
