her and began groping for the door handle with trembling fingers. “Forgive me, sir. I had no idea anyone was still up. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
She was still fumbling with the handle—and trying not to drop her candle—when he crossed the room with a swift stride. Turning, she tried to make her escape, but he planted a hand against the door and pushed it shut.
“Miss St. Clare, what a pleasant surprise. Please don’t feel you have to leave on my account.”
Linnet stared at the large, tanned hand resting on the wood panels, caging her in. She’d never thought about it before, but Sir Anthony had wonderful hands. Long-fingered and graceful, yet powerful and utterly masculine. She had a sudden flash of that hand on her body, moving over her skin to settle on her breast. Her breathing fractured and she grew weak behind the knees. She actually started to sway a bit, and for a moment felt light-headed.
“Linnet, are you unwell?” Sir Anthony’s voice held a sharp note of concern as he plucked the candle from her hand. She blinked, barely aware that she had almost dropped it. With his other hand he nudged her around to face him. She had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. The candle cast flickering shadows across his handsome features, his mouth a worried line as he studied her.
She had to admit she felt rather woozy, although she was certain that was from the heat.
She pressed a hand to her chest, where her heart raced fast and light. He was close—too close for her to regain her equilibrium.
“I feel a little dizzy from the heat, but I’m sure I’ll be fine in a moment,” she said, trying to sound like she meant it. “I’ll just go back to my room, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind, and you’re not going anywhere until I’m sure you don’t keel over into a swoon.”
That stiffened her spine. “I never swoon.”
He made a scoffing noise as he put her candle on a table by the door. Then, with one smooth motion, he swept her up into his arms. Given that she was wearing so little—and the fact that he was in his shirtsleeves—the power and warmth of his muscled arms and brawny chest seemed to brand her skin right through her nightclothes. It was so shocking . . . so intimate . . . that it was a wonder she didn’t faint.
As he strode across the room, she managed to find her voice. And her outraged dignity. “Sir Anthony! Put me down this instant.”
“Hush, Linnet. It’s much too hot to put up such a fuss.”
Before she could come up with a suitable retort, he carried her to the deep bay window behind the desk and lowered her to the cushioned seat. Reaching past her, he pushed the mullioned casement fully open, letting in as much air as possible.
“Is that better?” he asked in a low, gravelly voice.
He brushed his fingers across her cheek and forehead. She shivered as sensation trailed from his fingertips to dance along her nerves. When he frowned and reached past her to close the window, she stopped him with a light touch on his forearm.
“You’re shivering,” he said. “I don’t want you catching a chill. Perhaps I’d better fetch something to put around you.”
Lovely. Now he was treating her like an old lady. “I’m not going to faint and I’m not getting a chill. And who is fussing now?”
He smiled again, although a trace of worry lurked in his eyes. “I am. You deserve fussing and you get precious little of it.”
Linnet wanted to protest that silly statement, but they’d had that argument already. And the last thing she wanted to do was refer to their discussion in the garden, or mention any part of the encounter.
Especially not dressed like this.
Predictably, Sir Anthony resumed perusing her garb. His eyes glittered with masculine appreciation as they traveled over her, and a blush burned up her neck to her cheeks.
“You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here.” She pulled her wrapper more tightly around her, struggling since quite a
She was still fumbling with the handle—and trying not to drop her candle—when he crossed the room with a swift stride. Turning, she tried to make her escape, but he planted a hand against the door and pushed it shut.
“Miss St. Clare, what a pleasant surprise. Please don’t feel you have to leave on my account.”
Linnet stared at the large, tanned hand resting on the wood panels, caging her in. She’d never thought about it before, but Sir Anthony had wonderful hands. Long-fingered and graceful, yet powerful and utterly masculine. She had a sudden flash of that hand on her body, moving over her skin to settle on her breast. Her breathing fractured and she grew weak behind the knees. She actually started to sway a bit, and for a moment felt light-headed.
“Linnet, are you unwell?” Sir Anthony’s voice held a sharp note of concern as he plucked the candle from her hand. She blinked, barely aware that she had almost dropped it. With his other hand he nudged her around to face him. She had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. The candle cast flickering shadows across his handsome features, his mouth a worried line as he studied her.
She had to admit she felt rather woozy, although she was certain that was from the heat.
She pressed a hand to her chest, where her heart raced fast and light. He was close—too close for her to regain her equilibrium.
“I feel a little dizzy from the heat, but I’m sure I’ll be fine in a moment,” she said, trying to sound like she meant it. “I’ll just go back to my room, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind, and you’re not going anywhere until I’m sure you don’t keel over into a swoon.”
That stiffened her spine. “I never swoon.”
He made a scoffing noise as he put her candle on a table by the door. Then, with one smooth motion, he swept her up into his arms. Given that she was wearing so little—and the fact that he was in his shirtsleeves—the power and warmth of his muscled arms and brawny chest seemed to brand her skin right through her nightclothes. It was so shocking . . . so intimate . . . that it was a wonder she didn’t faint.
As he strode across the room, she managed to find her voice. And her outraged dignity. “Sir Anthony! Put me down this instant.”
“Hush, Linnet. It’s much too hot to put up such a fuss.”
Before she could come up with a suitable retort, he carried her to the deep bay window behind the desk and lowered her to the cushioned seat. Reaching past her, he pushed the mullioned casement fully open, letting in as much air as possible.
“Is that better?” he asked in a low, gravelly voice.
He brushed his fingers across her cheek and forehead. She shivered as sensation trailed from his fingertips to dance along her nerves. When he frowned and reached past her to close the window, she stopped him with a light touch on his forearm.
“You’re shivering,” he said. “I don’t want you catching a chill. Perhaps I’d better fetch something to put around you.”
Lovely. Now he was treating her like an old lady. “I’m not going to faint and I’m not getting a chill. And who is fussing now?”
He smiled again, although a trace of worry lurked in his eyes. “I am. You deserve fussing and you get precious little of it.”
Linnet wanted to protest that silly statement, but they’d had that argument already. And the last thing she wanted to do was refer to their discussion in the garden, or mention any part of the encounter.
Especially not dressed like this.
Predictably, Sir Anthony resumed perusing her garb. His eyes glittered with masculine appreciation as they traveled over her, and a blush burned up her neck to her cheeks.
“You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here.” She pulled her wrapper more tightly around her, struggling since quite a
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