Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

L ovie wanted to deny it, but the man was right, and she was heart-thumpingly flustered by his too-accurate intuition. She'd been curious from the start, admittedly from the moment she'd met him at Rochester's. Her nights had been filled with wondering, fruitlessly, what a kiss from the roguishly handsome devil would feel like. She imagined a rough cheek, with the daring shadow of afternoon stubble, sliding along hers, seconds before his provocative mouth seized her with a kiss. The thought alone produced gooseflesh. She licked the tingle from her lips.

With the cups and saucers washed, she removed her apron and rehearsed mock conversations in her mind hoping to head off a blush before it began. It wasn't likely to work, but it certainly couldn't hurt.

By the time she returned to the drawing room, it was deserted. Mr. Hawke had apparently draped the remaining furniture with white sheets, reminding her to check the rooms they'd slept in and ensure they were tidy. There was no need to bother with her room since she'd straightened the bedclothes before coming down, but if Hawke were like most men, he would have left his room a disorderly mess. That was her experience living with bachelors. At least Hudson, at any rate.

With no trouble at all, she found Hawke's room. The door was left ajar, thank goodness, because she feared the proverbial knock and hearing his deep, commanding voice inviting her in. But it didn't matter. He wasn't there. His bed, however, was made up, which caused her to ponder his upbringing. Was he used to having his life lived for him, or did he take responsibility for his own happiness? Did he make his own decisions about what comes next? She rather preferred self-made men. It was one reason she appreciated what her brother and her cousin were trying to do with billiards. Hudson was convinced the game would come to some renowned appreciation and would soon be a sport. With Rochester's nearly unmatched talent, the two were a marvelous team.

Perhaps if Hawke lived here, he could supplement his livelihood with billiards as well. According to Rochester, he was an excellent player. He could stay in the house he'd inherited and never return to America. Before she realized what she was thinking, her pulse ran away with the imagery, and she brushed a hand down her blouse, trying to press her nerves back into their cage of indifference.

The only other place she could think of to look for Hawke was the room she'd stayed in last night. Perhaps he'd had the same idea. His bed had been made. It stood to reason that he might inspect her room.

The door to the bedchamber in question was closed. Should she knock? He couldn't possibly be in there.

She turned the latch. The well-kept room she had left this morning was now in some disarray. The bed was no longer made, nor was it precisely unmade.

"What are you doing?" she asked Hawke, who was lounging like a man of leisure with his hands behind his head, and his body stretched out over the bed where she'd slept.

He inhaled deeply, a silly, playful grin on his face. "Citrus and lavender. Just like you."

"You're irredeemable."

"You wound me, sweet." He laid a hand over his heart. "Can you blame me?"

"Emphatically, yes."

"For what exactly?"

"Are you serious? Because you have mussed my bed when I'd already made it up."

"I am relieved. I thought you might be angry to find me lying on your pillow and drinking in the scent of you."

She had never met anyone so obnoxious in her life. She was exasperated with his antics and strangely flattered, too— that she could not deny. No one had ever wanted to smell her, not that she recalled. "Was it necessary to tussle the bedclothes?"

"I was denied the thing I'd rather tussle. So yes. It was necessary."

"I believe I'm starting to hate you, Mr. Hawke."

He sat up, his smile disappearing behind a mask of genuine concern. "I apologize. Sometimes I go too far. Don't hate me, please, Miss Wright. I admit that it has been awhile since I've had so much fun teasing anyone. But I've failed to see the signs of offense."

She felt guilty for ruining his game because, in truth, she rather enjoyed his banter. It kept her on her toes. It refreshed her communication skills, which she sorely lacked. "I'm not offended." She removed her gaze from the bedding.

He cleared his throat and stood, smoothing the bedsheets as he went.

"Does my pillow really smell like citrus and lavender?"

"Yes," he said simply, without turning to look at her. She watched as he pulled the comforter into place and fluffed the pillow.

Lovie moved to stand beside him, offering assistance with a task that he seemed to be handling perfectly well on his own. She bumped his arm and apologized nervously. "Mr. Hawke."

"Just Hawke."

The sincere invitation to drop the formality of mister soothed her spirits and her guilt. "Hawke," she said again. "You are not the problem."

He turned to face her, giving her his full attention. "I've caused undue stress to you, and that's a problem. You've already guessed more about me than most, Miss Wright."

She folded one hand over the other, trying to maintain eye contact. "Lovie, if you wouldn't mind."

He smiled a little. "Do I dare?"

"Oh, yes. Please do." She dipped her head away, trying to hide the immediate smile his words could produce. "You see, although I'm accustomed to living with men—and bachelors, at that—I am not used to the banter of real gentlemen."

"Me? A gentleman?"

"You see?" She laughed, her stomach giving a little flip. "I would normally say something curt and ill-mannered because my responses have been honed on the family stone."

"You're perfect. Do you know that?"

She shook her head. "I'm a bit of a shrew."

"Whoever told you that should be shackled in the town square."

Sliding her fingers coyly over the marigold counterpane, she glanced at him sideways. "Did you really come in here to smell my linens?"

"No. I came to check on the bed and make it if needed. Then I couldn't resist provoking you a little, but the citrus and lavender were a nice surprise." He reached out to touch a loose curl.

She leaned in, a whisper away. "Do you smell citrus and lavender in my hair?"

He closed the gap, and she felt his breath move the auburn strands when his nose nuzzled her ear. "Very much," he whispered.

She licked her lips. "And that's a good thing?"

"Lovie, are you seeking compliments?"

"Shamefully, yes. You have no idea how long it has been since I've had one. At least one that meant something." She realized what she said and corrected, "Not that your opinion should mean anything."

"Ah, but it does." His hands, those strong, sinfully warm fingers, brushed down her arms, and she achingly wished she was wearing a summer gown without long confining sleeves.

She turned her face mere inches from his. "Perhaps." Then she smiled, tilting her head. "But it doesn't mean I want to kiss you."

"Thank the mother of nature that we are back on that subject." He ran a knuckle along her cheek and gave a small chuck of her chin. "Shouldn't we be on the road?"

"Oh, yes." She shook herself, backed up a step, and took one last look around the room.

The coach ride began with nervous silence, but unlike the trip there, she'd become familiar with his demeanor, and they fell into a comfortable camaraderie. She watched him under her lashes.

"Do you know why I invited you to escort me to my family home? Because I thought I'd have a chance to be alone."

"I could take a seat on the roof."

She smirked. "I knew you couldn't remain silent, but I had expected to easily ignore you."

"You are very bad for my manly ego."

"Do you see what I mean? It's those comments that keep me from quiet solitude long after you've stopped talking."

"So, you think about me at night when you're alone?"

"And there you have it again." He had hit too close on that estimation. She had been inundated with mock conversations with him in her waking dreams. "Outrageous."

"But you're smiling, so I believe your tactic is false modesty."

She gasped, slapping her hand against her breast. "I never lie."

He folded his arms.

"Never," she said with more emphasis, widening her eyes, which drew a grin from him.

"Do you mind if I test your statement? I don't wish to offend you again." He said it in jest, so how could she take offense when she knew for certain he would insist that some day she'd kiss him of her own volition?

Despite all her practice to keep her pulse in check and her cheeks warmed, she braced herself for a battle of wits.

He scrutinized her, tilting his head this way and that like he was sizing her up. "How many summers have you seen, Lovie?"

Her gaze snapped back to his, and suddenly she regretted allowing him her name.