Sinful in Satin by Madeline Hunter Page B

inconveniences of being a tenant here. Her hope that he would, and would leave as a result, was not bearing any fruit.
    “I need more nails, Thomas. I misjudged how many you will use. Here is some money. Please go and buy twenty more from Mr. Smith.”
    Thomas set down his hammer. He held out his young, calloused hand for the money, then walked out of the chamber with the loose, gangling stride of a colt.
    No sooner had he gone than the boots came down the stairs. Celia directed her mind to what color to paint the shelves. Green? White? She forced her thoughts away from how her blood thrummed with each footfall.
    She had come to look forward to Mr. Albrighton’s rare visibility, she realized to her chagrin. She wanted him gone but also did not. She did not mind nearly enough that he foiled her little plots to encourage his removal. She enjoyed their brief conversations and how sensual and dangerous he looked before dressing for town.
    She laughed at herself. This silly anticipation was the sign of a woman too much alone. She would have to see to hiring a housekeeper soon, if only so she did not grow dependent on such insignificant congress as this.
    “You are building something, I see.” He stood at the threshold, gazing at the two lower shelves. He walked over and lifted the hammer. “Are you doing it yourself?”
    “I hired a boy. I just sent him for more nails. Did the hammering wake you?” She had let Thomas start at dawn, specifically to discomfort Mr. Albrighton.
    “No. I rise early.”
    “And do what?”
    “If you are curious, you are welcome to come up and see. I do not think you have set foot on that level since your first morning here.”
    The memory of that morning flashed in her head, and she felt her face warming. She had not forgotten how badly she had acquitted herself then, or how mesmerized she had been.
    “I have been too busy.” She gestured toward the shelves.
    “Ah. I thought perhaps I had frightened you.”
    “Why would I be afraid of you?”
    He shrugged. “Some women are.”
    Maybe they were afraid because of the way he was looking at one woman right now. Her blood raced faster from how his warm eyes gazed into hers.
    She should not allow him to fluster her. That was his intention. It amused him to tease her about that day. “Perhaps they are afraid because of your hair. It is so unfashionable as to speak of a reckless streak in you.”
    “Do you want me to cut it? I would not want you thinking me reckless.”
    “Of course you would. But do not cut it on my account. How a tenant’s hair is dressed does not signify in my busy life. I daresay even if you did cut it, I wouldn’t notice.”
    “You wound me, Miss Pennifold. Here I was dreaming that you waited to greet me every morning.”
    She felt her face warming again. He left her vexed that he had guessed that, and carried his bucket out the garden door.
    He was correct. She had been avoiding the attic level of the house because he was there. What a conceited man to assume that, however. She would make it a point to go there soon, now that she had settled in. She needed to see what of her mother’s property might be up there, in those chambers used for reasons besides housing Mr. Albrighton.
    She watched him walk to the back of the garden and around a shrubbery, to where the necessary could be found. Then she spied his dark hair at the well. Bucket in hand, walking with a gait so smooth and fluid that the water did not slosh, he came back up the garden path, lost in his thoughts, ignorant of her scrutiny.
    He was a handsome man; that was certain. Dangerous still, somehow, in the intangible depths he seemed to possess. The intimacy of an old friend waited in his warm eyes and playful teasing, however. It beckoned so effectively that she had to remind herself he was really a stranger.
    Nor did it go both ways. For all their warmth and familiar lights, those eyes revealed nothing of the mind behind them.
    Well, not nothing. The male