garbed in nothing but a quilt and a scowl, he looked about as helpless as a hungry lion.
“Why did you call me darling?” he demanded again, as if the answer to that question was of more import than how he had ended up naked in Lady Eleanor’s bed.
“Just a habit, I suppose,” Laura replied, her expression one of studied innocence. “Would you prefer I call you something else?”
“You might try my name.” His steely tone suggested that she was already trying his patience.
“Your name?” She choked out a rusty laugh. “Well, we’ve never before had to stand on such ceremony, but if you insist…” Laura had always prided herself on her honesty. It was only by picturing herself trying to dig the dirt out from under Tom Dillmore’s fingernails on their wedding night that she was able to softly add, “… Nicholas.”
His bewildered scowl deepened. “Nicholas? My name is Nicholas?”
“Why, of course it is! Mr. Nicholas … Radcliffe,”she added firmly, borrowing a suitably dashing surname from Lottie’s favorite author.
“Nicholas Radcliffe. Nicholas Radcliffe,” he muttered. “Damn it all! I can’t seem to make sense of any of this.” Slumping against the wall, he cradled his brow in his hand. “If I could only stop this infernal ringing in my head …”
Laura started toward him, drawn by genuine sympathy.
“Don’t!” He flung out a hand, glaring at her from between the strands of hair tumbled across his brow. It was almost as if she posed more of a threat to him than a crazed Cockney wielding a pitchfork.
Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror that sat atop Lady Eleanor’s dressing table, Laura realized what a sight she must be. Her feet were bare, her cheeks flushed, her hair piled carelessly atop her head with dark tendrils tumbling this way and that around her face. The damp muslin bodice of her high-waisted gown clung to the gentle slope of her breasts. Torn between smoothing her hair and tugging her skirt down to cover the pale expanse of her ankles, she settled for awkwardly folding her arms over her bosom.
“We seem to have determined who I am. But that still doesn’t explain who
you
might be.” He cocked his head to study her, making her even more aware of her state of dishabille. “Or why you feel compelled to address me with endearments.”
He obviously didn’t recall their first meeting in the wood. Or their first kiss.
Since her folded arms no longer seemed adequate protection against his penetrating gaze, she tried todistract him by plucking one of Lady Eleanor’s shawls from the armoire and wrapping it around her shoulders. “There’s a bit of a chill in the air, don’t you think?”
“On the contrary. I’m finding it rather warm in here. As a matter of fact, I’m not sure I’ll be needing this quilt any longer.”
As his fingers threatened to relax their grip, Laura’s eyes widened. “You most certainly will! At least until Cookie launders your trousers.”
The dimple in his right cheek made a brief appearance, informing her that he had only been toying with her. “Cookie? By any chance, would that be the harridan wielding the bloody hatchet?”
“Oh, you needn’t be frightened of Cookie. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Laura frowned. “A chicken, perhaps, or any other animal that can be baked into a pie … but not a fly.”
“I daresay you can’t say the same for the man who tried to skewer me with the pitchfork.”
Laura waved away his concerns. “You shouldn’t pay any mind to him, either. He was just being Dower.”
“He most certainly was.”
Laura laughed. “Not
dour. Do-wer.
Jeremiah Dower, to be precise. He’s Cookie’s husband and sort of a man-of-all-work about the manor. Cookie has always claimed that his disposition is so sour because his mother nursed him on lemon juice. I’m sure he didn’t intend you any harm. He probably believed you to be in the grip of some sort of violent fit. You’ve been drifting in
“Why did you call me darling?” he demanded again, as if the answer to that question was of more import than how he had ended up naked in Lady Eleanor’s bed.
“Just a habit, I suppose,” Laura replied, her expression one of studied innocence. “Would you prefer I call you something else?”
“You might try my name.” His steely tone suggested that she was already trying his patience.
“Your name?” She choked out a rusty laugh. “Well, we’ve never before had to stand on such ceremony, but if you insist…” Laura had always prided herself on her honesty. It was only by picturing herself trying to dig the dirt out from under Tom Dillmore’s fingernails on their wedding night that she was able to softly add, “… Nicholas.”
His bewildered scowl deepened. “Nicholas? My name is Nicholas?”
“Why, of course it is! Mr. Nicholas … Radcliffe,”she added firmly, borrowing a suitably dashing surname from Lottie’s favorite author.
“Nicholas Radcliffe. Nicholas Radcliffe,” he muttered. “Damn it all! I can’t seem to make sense of any of this.” Slumping against the wall, he cradled his brow in his hand. “If I could only stop this infernal ringing in my head …”
Laura started toward him, drawn by genuine sympathy.
“Don’t!” He flung out a hand, glaring at her from between the strands of hair tumbled across his brow. It was almost as if she posed more of a threat to him than a crazed Cockney wielding a pitchfork.
Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror that sat atop Lady Eleanor’s dressing table, Laura realized what a sight she must be. Her feet were bare, her cheeks flushed, her hair piled carelessly atop her head with dark tendrils tumbling this way and that around her face. The damp muslin bodice of her high-waisted gown clung to the gentle slope of her breasts. Torn between smoothing her hair and tugging her skirt down to cover the pale expanse of her ankles, she settled for awkwardly folding her arms over her bosom.
“We seem to have determined who I am. But that still doesn’t explain who
you
might be.” He cocked his head to study her, making her even more aware of her state of dishabille. “Or why you feel compelled to address me with endearments.”
He obviously didn’t recall their first meeting in the wood. Or their first kiss.
Since her folded arms no longer seemed adequate protection against his penetrating gaze, she tried todistract him by plucking one of Lady Eleanor’s shawls from the armoire and wrapping it around her shoulders. “There’s a bit of a chill in the air, don’t you think?”
“On the contrary. I’m finding it rather warm in here. As a matter of fact, I’m not sure I’ll be needing this quilt any longer.”
As his fingers threatened to relax their grip, Laura’s eyes widened. “You most certainly will! At least until Cookie launders your trousers.”
The dimple in his right cheek made a brief appearance, informing her that he had only been toying with her. “Cookie? By any chance, would that be the harridan wielding the bloody hatchet?”
“Oh, you needn’t be frightened of Cookie. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Laura frowned. “A chicken, perhaps, or any other animal that can be baked into a pie … but not a fly.”
“I daresay you can’t say the same for the man who tried to skewer me with the pitchfork.”
Laura waved away his concerns. “You shouldn’t pay any mind to him, either. He was just being Dower.”
“He most certainly was.”
Laura laughed. “Not
dour. Do-wer.
Jeremiah Dower, to be precise. He’s Cookie’s husband and sort of a man-of-all-work about the manor. Cookie has always claimed that his disposition is so sour because his mother nursed him on lemon juice. I’m sure he didn’t intend you any harm. He probably believed you to be in the grip of some sort of violent fit. You’ve been drifting in
Similar Books
