a lady.’
His voice was perfectly serious, but she noticed the disturbing glint in his dark eyes when he looked at her. Again she had a flash of memory, but he was expecting an answer and she must concentrate on that—and the fact that she was alone with him.
‘Yes, tea, if you please. I confess I am a little cold now.’
‘I, on the other hand, am quite warm from my exertions. 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
His voice was perfectly serious, but she noticed the disturbing glint in his dark eyes when he looked at her. Again she had a flash of memory, but he was expecting an answer and she must concentrate on that—and the fact that she was alone with him.
‘Yes, tea, if you please. I confess I am a little cold now.’
‘I, on the other hand, am quite warm from my exertions. 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
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