One Night with an Earl by Jennifer Haymore Page B

am very angry. I am furious with myself for not realizing you were walking into danger. I should have seen the puddle and directed you around it.”
    â€œBut”—she frowned—“you’re not angry with me?”
    He pulled her tighter against him. “Of course not.”
    â€œAre you sure?” She couldn’t quite believe it.
    He gave her an odd, indecipherable look. “Yes. I’m sure.”
    â€œThank you,” she whispered, and she slipped her arms around his neck.
    â€œThere is nothing to thank me for. I am responsible for your injury.”
    â€œNo, you aren’t. How could you know I would walk into a puddle?”
    He didn’t answer, but his lips pressed into a flat line. He glanced around, as if taking in their exact location for the first time. “We are over a mile away from Madame Lussier’s,” he told her, “but my house is approximately a quarter of a mile away. I will take you there; then my man will arrange transportation back to the ball.”
    â€œI can walk back to the ball,” she said. “It’s not that bad, I assure you.”
    â€œIt is that bad,” he corrected. “You can barely stand. I’ll carry you to my house.”
    And with that, he began to take long strides away from the park. Beatrice buried her face in his shoulder. He smelled so good, like soap and the clean lawn of his shirt.
    He’d mistaken her fear for pain. But how could she correct him? Oh, my ankle is not so bad, really. I was just afraid for a moment that you might beat me like my former husband would have.
    She couldn’t say that. She couldn’t .
    Instead she wrapped her arms around him as he walked with strong, determined steps away from Hyde Park and in the general direction of Grosvenor Square. Five minutes later, he ascended the steps of a very fine white stone town house.
    He stopped at the top of the steps. “I must set you down for a moment. Balance on your good foot and use my shoulder to support yourself.”
    She smiled at his tone…it was rather domineering but at the same time caring. He released her, and her body slid down his—taking in all that masculine hardness—before she came to her feet. She gazed up at him through her mask, still holding on to him as he held her, his hands firm around her waist.
    â€œBalance on your good foot.” The command was soft and gruff. He slid his hands around her body as if he couldn’t get enough of touching her before he let her go.
    She held on to his shoulder for support with one hand as he produced a key and unlocked the door to his house.
    â€œMy man is asleep, and I only employ him, a cook, and a maid while I’m in town,” he explained. He pushed the door open and swung her up into his arms again. He entered, and she looked around the dimness in curiosity, though she could see little more than basic shapes. Everything she saw, though, appeared clean and in perfect order.
    He mounted a set of stairs, then entered a room at the front of the house—clearly a salon or drawing room, given the furnishings. He set her gently on a silver-and-black silk-upholstered sofa, then went to stoke the fire. In a few minutes, he had it going and went around the room to light a few lamps.
    The room was masculine, with dark furnishings that were elegant but free of any frippery: two sofas, an armchair, a table, a sidebar, and a card table. He saw her studying the furniture. “I arranged the furniture in exact specifications so that each seated person could receive the full benefit from the heat of the fire.”
    â€œThat’s very thoughtful,” she murmured, glancing at the walls. Instead of the portraits she would usually find in such a room, there was a single row of framed drawings of plants and trees, some in color, some black-and-white pencil drawings of plants with parts labeled.
    â€œYou must like plants,” she observed.
    Finished