Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

O h, he was daring, that one. Lovie would have to keep her heart close if she were to avoid falling into his snare, his charm, his wit. His everything. She couldn't help the smile that came after he exclaimed and challenged her with his statement about her wanting to kiss him. She was beginning to believe it herself.

As she watched his inebriated, grinning mouth from a safe distance, she gathered her nerve and pushed the conversation back to something more manageable, like food.

She shook her head as he raised a brow.

"When you kiss me, remember that I told you so." His arrogance outshone his inebriation.

"I would not be so sure. Besides, by tomorrow you will have forgotten today. Or you'll certainly wish you had. Now, let's get you something to eat."

"You do cook, I hope."

"My cooking is not in question. Your concern should be keeping it down and whether that's possible. Point me in the right direction and pray the cook left the fires burning."

Sheets covered the furniture in every room she passed. Whatever staff had stayed on had apparently been sent away by Hawke. From one maze of rooms to another, Lovie eventually guessed correctly and found the kitchens. She also found the ovens cold.

From there, the buttery was not difficult to locate, and she managed to turn up some dried fruit, cheese, and bread. A simple plate would have to suffice, but she did her best to arrange the dismal fare into something that at least appeared appetizing—not that he'd notice. His mind seemed to be clearing, but the aftereffects, the nausea, was sure to last.

The finishing touch was a snowy white napkin with which she covered the plate. Then for reasons she refused to dwell on, she stopped to smooth a wayward strand of hair in place.

Thankfully, the journey back to the drawing room was not as complicated as finding the kitchens by pure trial and error had been.

"Here we are," she said, strolling into the room. No response came from Hawke.

His head hung at an awkward angle, and she stopped to observe his broad shoulders lifting and falling with each shallow breath, which she could hear now that she was listening intently. She put the plate on the tea table and moved to wake him but stalled midway to admire him. Without his waistcoat, his white lawn shirt lay open at the throat, and the skin underneath was tanned by the sun. She chanced a finger along the back of his hand, where it hung lifelessly over the arm of the sofa. When he didn't wake, she rubbed her thumb in his palm, turning his hand over, and was surprised to find the pads of his fingers calloused like a man who worked for a living.

On further inspection, she found an odd scar in the web between his thumb and forefinger that appeared to run straight through. She couldn't imagine how he came by it.

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

Her shoulders jerked, and her body stiffened, causing her to tighten her grip involuntarily like a hand sticking to metal when lightning strikes. She'd read about such a thing and always assumed one could not survive it. But here she was still clutching his hand, as if the room had been charged and he were the metal. She dropped his hand immediately and rubbed her tingling palms together, trying to erase the sensation while she searched for a proper response. Wide-eyed and embarrassed to the roots of her hair, she met his gaze.

His languid stare was in direct contrast to his cocksure smile.

She swallowed hard. "I was worried you had stopped breathing."

"Believe me when I say I appreciate the concern." He chuckled, then winced.

"Your head is already aching, isn't it? I'd say it serves you right, but I fear I'm not certain what you deserve. This had to be a difficult trip for you."

He rolled his eyes shut like someone who wished to avoid such sentimentality.

"It's not for me to wonder." She retrieved the plate. "No fire in the stove, but I managed to find some bread and cheese."

"What is that?" He pointed to the unappetizingly shriveled orange pieces on the plate.

"Dried apricots, I think."

He made a sickly sound in his throat.

"At least try the bread while I fetch some water." She rose and removed his empty glass, hoping to dissuade him from suddenly taking up the decanter where he'd left off.

"I would offer to help, but I can't seem to move."

"Eat." She tore off a piece of bread and placed it in his hand before she left the room for clean water.

* * *

Hawke didn't think he could keep even the bread down, and just the sight of the apricots, which reminded him of something you'd scrape off the bottom of a boot, made his stomach lurch. And he was damned if he would lose his accounts in front of a woman. Especially this one. He hadn't expected her until tomorrow. By then, he would have been sober and well, composed and charming. He tried to smile but everything hurt. And the bread… he stared at it, trying to conjure up the will to take a bite. When he finally did, his throat convulsed around it in protest.

Miss Wright returned with a pitcher and filled a clean tumbler. "Drink," she demanded.

"I can barely swallow this." He held out the bread.

"You need fluids."

He eyed her from under his aching brow and tried for a smirk.

"Not that kind. Surely, you've had enough spirits to hold you over for a few days." She shoved the glass in his hand. "Drink," she commanded again, more forcefully like a determined schoolmaster.

He sipped, gagged, and tried again.

"Small sips until you've finished it all."

"Yes, Dr. Wright."

"I wouldn't try the cheese in your state." She took a piece and sat in the chair opposite the sofa.

"I'll hold to the bread, or I vow I'll lose my stomach right here."

"Perhaps I should fetch a bucket." She half rose, but he motioned for her to stay seated.

"I'm a gentleman if nothing else."

"I see. So, a gentleman never gets sick in front of a lady?"

"Never."

"How cunning to have such complete control over one's brain. As I'm sure you always do. Men are so smart." Her words mocked him, and rightfully so.

"Occasionally." He couldn't smile any longer. He just swallowed the rock of bread, put the offensive food aside, and laid his head back, moaning.

She must have left the room as he drifted into silent agony. All his efforts were wrangled into one purpose, one goal, to calm his stomach and stop the merry-go-round that his subconscious had leaped on when he wasn't looking. He heard the unmistakable light tread of her footsteps and then the cold shock of a wet cloth pressed to his forehead. With his eyes still closed, he reached up to hold the rag in place and unexpectedly came into contact with her hand. He raised his lashes and found eyes as green as jade staring at him with more than concern etched across her brow. There was confusion, too. She jerked her hand away like she'd been scorched, and he sighed, letting his head loll until it rested against the back of the sofa, which was conducive to holding the cool cloth in place without help. Although, he was grateful for the nurse whom surely God had sent.

He swallowed down another lump saddling up his throat. "I expected you to call me a drunken sod, or some such, since you keep finding me at my worst."

"I wouldn't do that. Not while you're dealing with personal ghosts."

"How ghoulish of you."

"That is not at all what I meant. My imagination is not subject to apparitions of any kind."

"You leave your ghosts in closets, then?"

"Every last one." He heard a teasing manner in her statement and a bit of truth.

He opened one eye, cocking his head a little to see her. "If you must know, I am quite embarrassed that you should keep finding me this way."

"This is different. You and my cousin were making merry that first day, but this"—her gaze traveled over him—"this is something else. When I set out at noon, I thought we'd stay at a posting inn on our way back, so we wouldn't have to travel at night, but now that I'm here, I don't think I want to move you. I seriously doubt that you'd be able to keep your pledge as a gentleman to keep everything down."

"Forgive me if I don't argue that point. I know how much you like conflict."

She giggled. A genuine sound of lighthearted camaraderie floated toward him. It was more settling on his abused stomach than the tasteless bread.

"You're not afraid to stay with a bachelor?" He smiled unrepentantly. "And an eligible one, at that."

"I think I can handle you, Mr. Hawke."

Even in his sloshed state, he could not hold back the vision of her handling him quite intimately, which made him uncomfortable by half. He pulled off the cloth and sat up because his obvious arousal over her simple statement would surely be visible if she dared to look. The effort hurt on more than one level. And not just his eyes, which felt bruised to the boney recesses of his skull every time he moved them.

"Seriously, is there something I can do for you?"

"I would suggest that kiss you owe me but not under these circumstances."

"I owe you? How so?"

"Because we both know what passion lies underneath your wanton green eyes."

"Do we? You are a marvel, Mr. Hawke." She mocked him but not unkindly. "What if I help you find your room? I can't imagine you're enjoying the company, and you need to sleep until this passes."

"I don't have a room. I slept here close to the brandy." He leaned forward, wearily, with his head in his hands.

"There must be at least two dozen rooms alone in a house this size. Surely, we can find one suitable. And one without brandy." She added the last part with a determined tone. "If you think you'll be all right here for a bit, I'll seek out appropriate quarters and clean linens."

"Not the lord or lady's suite." He didn't look up. It was too much effort. His body was already accepting the offer of comfort. He sighed with relief.

"Understood."

* * *

Hawke must have dozed off because the next thing he knew, she was back, and he was following her to a guest room, his head pounding with every step. To his humiliation, she offered to help him mount the stairs, but his pride would not have it, and so he suffered dizzying consequences of trying to keep his path straight and his feet from tripping him up. Falling did not sound appealing.

The bedding under his hands, the pillowcase against his cheek, felt crisp and fresh with the clean scent of lemon. It was entirely possible she'd made the bedding up herself, but he couldn't know.

"Wait." She touched his calf as his legs hung over the side of the bed. "Your shoes." She slid his shoes from his tired feet, and he sighed into the pillows, forgetting everything else.

The following morning, he woke with a groan, and his mouth felt like he'd swallowed a dishcloth. To his surprise, on the bureau across the room were a pitcher and a bowl, along with a bar of soap and toothpowder. After making use of all the water and wishing he had a razor, he went in search of the little sprite who had thoroughly taken care of him yesterday. On his way to the drawing room, he wondered more than once whether he would find her angry or irritated over his state. The fact they did not leave yesterday could not have sat well with her.

With his hands shoved deep in his pockets, he followed the humbling scent of coffee—humbling because he knew she had made it. The drawing-room doors stood wide, and he stopped at the threshold, tapping his knuckles lightly against the frame. "Am I welcome?" he asked sheepishly.

Miss Wright turned from setting dishes on the tea table, wearing a makeshift apron about her slender waist. She also wore a soothing smile that was neither condescending nor judgmental, both of which he deserved. "That is a silly question since this is your home. Of course, you're welcome."

He walked forward with little confidence. "It's my house, not my home." She ignored his dispiriting statement.

"How is your head today? Does it hurt much?"

"I'm certain it will be better after coffee. Thank you, by the way, for the essentials this morning."

"It was no less than you would do, I'm sure."

"I don't know about that." He motioned for her to sit before he joined her on the settee. It was perhaps too personal to sit so close, but after last night personal was a given. "What I do know is that you've never been intoxicated. That alone makes caring for a blockhead like me that much more difficult."

"I'm afraid your assumption about me is inaccurate." She handed him a cup and saucer.

"A woman who drinks? And what is your pleasure, my lady?"

"Irish whiskey." She did not look up from her task, answering without a scrap of hesitation.

"Now I know I'm in love," he said with mocking relief. He was delighted with her easygoing attitude and her saucy revelations.

She put the back of her hand to her mouth, but it couldn't squelch the giggle. "How many times have you fallen in love, I wonder?"

The question gave him an unexpected pause of self-reflection before he snapped back to the present. "Here? In England?" He gave a sardonic smile. "Just once."

She shook her head at his impudence, still holding the same giggling smile that lit up the room and raised his spirits.

"Act quickly, my lady, because I'm afraid my love can only last until spring."

"Why spring?"

"Because the weather is less violent for crossing the Atlantic. Not to mention, I am more than prone to seasickness, and you can imagine what that must look like after last night. Not pleasant, I vow."

"So, you really did just come to visit, and you're not staying? What will you do with this magnificent house?"

He gazed about the room, turning his head toward the exquisitely decorated ceiling with stunning inlaid tiles trimmed in turquoise and yellow. He focused again on her and shrugged. "Before last night, I might have sold it, but since you've now slept here, I don't believe I could part with it. In fact, I think I'll let you return to London so I may find the bed you slept in and crawl beneath the sheets because I fear that is as close as I'll ever get." The statement was most inappropriate, but she drew a playful side from him that he had buried long ago.

She chastised with a squinting look, but her rosy blush was proof enough of her attraction. "Do you know what I think?"

"I'm dying. Please tell me."

"I believe we've yet to meet the true Remington Hawke because he likes to hide behind his arrogantly outrageous behavior."

"Well, damn it all, you've found me out, Lovie Wright. Are you interested in a bit of truth?"

She nodded eagerly. Her cup jingled the saucer as she put it in its place, and then, bright-eyed and ready, she folded her hands in her lap.

He leaned in. "I prefer the way you say Remington than Mr. Hawke." He held her stare.

She relaxed, angling back against the soft cushion of the settee, draping her arm over the edge like someone who knows her worth. She turned a very proper rouge-colored traveling costume into an erotic garment. The jacket lay open, and her breasts filled out the white bodice, contradicting the conservative neckline. "You'll have to do better than that."

He matched her plucky grin and charismatic pose, angling himself against the other side of the sofa. They watched each other like a dare. "You hide yourself too, Miss Wright, but you cannot hide everything."

She winged one perfect auburn brow at him—a direct challenge.

"You want to kiss me. Admit it."

She crossed her arms, tapping her fingers nervously against her bent elbow. "You are an outrageous rogue of a man. And you're mistaken."

"Am I?"

"Yes," she said emphatically. "This is just another ploy to keep the subject off yourself."

He rubbed a finger behind his right ear, regarding her with narrowed eyes. "True."

"Aha, you see!" She all but pointed at him.

"It does not alter the fact that you want to kiss me. You're wondering about it right now."

"I am doing no such thing. And I do not want to"—she licked her lips and swallowed—"kiss you." She finished the last part in a whisper, like someone might hear.

"Then why do you keep looking at my mouth?"

Her throat worked.

"And now, you're blushing again."

"I think it's getting late. We need to be on the road, and we cannot do that until the dishes are washed and put away."