Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress. Ann Lethbridge
into the front garden, as did the blanket.
He glanced curiously around the room. How he must scorn their poverty, whitewashed plaster bellying from the damp stone walls, sticks of furniture acquired by Martin from who knew where. Lit by a lattice window, the room looked positively dreary. She hoped the shame did not show on her face.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t save the rug.’ He sounded sorry. She hadn’t expected that and she smiled.
He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his teeth flashing white against his soot-grimed face. He looked nothing like the elegant Marquess she’d met earlier. She giggled. ‘You look like a sweep.’
He dragged a sleeve across his brow. ‘No doubt.’
Taking the bucket to the door, she called out, ‘Sissy, fetch water from the well. Bring it back and then come inside.’
She turned back to her rescuer. ‘Will you take tea with us?’
He hesitated. What was she thinking, inviting someone like him to take tea? In her present circumstances, she was far beneath his touch. She tried to hide her chagrin with a diffident shrug.
He smiled and her heart did a back flip. ‘Yes, thank you.’
She knew she was beaming at him, but she couldn’t help it. She dashed for her pitcher of water in the bedroom. She filled a small bowl, setting a cloth, soap and towel alongside it.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Use this to wash. There is a mirror above the sink.’
The Marquess stared at his blackened hands. ‘Good idea.’ He took off his jacket, something no gentleman would do in the presence of a lady, but she couldn’t hold it against him. Not when he’d saved them. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and she saw that his forearms were strong, corded with sinew that shifted beneath his tanned skin as he scrubbed. A shimmer of heat rose up her neck. A little squeeze in her chest made her gasp.
She shouldn’t be looking. She shifted her gaze to his back. It didn’t help. The way his broad shoulders moved beneath the fine cambric of his shirt created more little thrills. Her heart gave a jolt at the weird sensation. What on earth was wrong with her? This man was her enemy.
Do something else. Tea. She’d offered him tea. Set the table. That was it. Gaze averted, she hurried for the dresser. Where was Sissy with the water?
‘Miss Brown?’
‘Yes, my lord?’ She turned.
As he wiped his jaw with the damp cloth, his gaze travelled over her face in a long, slow, appraising glance. Heat rushed to her cheeks.
‘You look quite smutty yourself,’ he said with a smile. He reached out with the cloth and dabbed at her nose. She couldn’t breathe. She snatched at the cloth.
Laughing, he caught her hands in his large warm one and wiped them clean. Such strong hands. She seemed bereft of the will to move.
He stepped back, his head cocked to one side. ‘You know, you have a streak on your chin. If you will allow me?’
Her heart thundered in her chest. Her body clenched with another delicious thrill as the tips of his fingers, feather light on her jaw, tilted her chin towards the light. She held perfectly still, afraid she might do something rash like place her hands on his shoulders for support. Her pulse raced unmercifully as gently, softly, he dabbed her chin, her cheek, her nose, the water delightfully cold on her heated skin.
Long dark lashes hid his eyes as he lowered his gaze to his task. The scent of sandalwood cologne and smoke filled her nostrils. His expression softened, then his glance flicked up and caught her watching.
Amber glowed like sunbeams in the depths of his warm brown eyes. He bent his head and his parted lips hovered above hers. Heat radiated from his body and her heart skipped and thudded.
She struggled to catch a breath, as if something tight restricted her ribs, and feared he would hear the soft pants for air she couldn’t control.
His cheekbone filled her vision, clearly defined above a lean suntanned cheek. A whisper away from her skin, his dark brown hair curled at his temple. She held her breath, while her heart raced wildly. For the life of her she couldn’t move. Didn’t want to.
He brushed his lips across her mouth, warm and dry and soft. A mere whisper of the kiss he’d given her in the dark on a moonlit road.
A lightning bolt seemed to shoot through her body, hot yet pleasurable. She stiffened in shock.
‘I’ve been wanting to do that since the moment I saw you,’ he said, his voice carrying on a warm puff of breath against her chin.
She shivered, her mind a blank to everything except trembling anticipation.
A smile dawned slowly, lazy and sensuous. She could not tear her gaze from his mouth. He slid one hand behind her neck. ‘You are very pretty, Ellie.’
His husky voice seduced her ears. He was the sun and she the moon, pulled inexorably into his orbit. She leaned closer. He dropped the cloth and enfolded her in his arms, his hand spanning the arch of her back, his breath warming her lips.
What was she doing? It felt so right, but was very, very wrong.
The door crashed back on its hinges.
Eleanor jumped back. The Marquess turned away, but not before she saw a glimmer of rueful amusement in those warm brown eyes.
‘Here you are,’ Sissy announced. Water from the bucket slopped over her shoes. She glanced around. ‘Gracious, and after you spent all day yesterday cleaning.’
Eleanor busied herself clearing the table and wiping away the soot, praying that Sissy would not notice her heated face or agitated breathing. ‘Put some water in the kettle and the rest in the sink.’ Her voice sounded different, throaty, rough.
The Marquess grabbed the bucket. ‘Let me. That is far too heavy a load for such a small person.’ He poured water in the kettle and hung it over the traitorously merry fire.
Eleanor laid the table and, while the water boiled, she covered the old wooden table with another threadbare cloth, dusted off the bread and pot of jam she’d dropped unceremoniously on the floor and brought cakes from the pantry. The Marquess helped Sissy move the chair and two stools to the table. Somehow he didn’t fit with Eleanor’s idea of a rake. He seemed no different than her brothers. Well, not quite like a brother, but nice, friendly and fun.
‘Goody,’ Sissy said, ‘cakes. We never have cakes unless Martin comes, and not always then.’
‘Martin?’ The Marquess looked enquiringly at Eleanor, but it was Sissy who replied.
‘Mr Martin Brown, he’s—’ began Sissy.
‘A relative of ours,’ Eleanor put in swiftly. Sissy knew the story they’d woven, but sometimes she forgot. ‘He works nearby on his cousin’s farm.’
‘Please sit down, my lord.’ Eleanor bobbed a curtsy and gestured to the chair. She and Sissy took the stools. Eleanor poured tea and Sissy passed him the plate of cakes.
‘Special cakes,’ Sissy said.
He popped one in his mouth. ‘They are delicious.’ He took another and Eleanor smiled. It was nice to have a compliment from someone like the Marquess.
‘How long have you lived here, Miss Brown?’ he asked in formal conversational tones.
‘Almost one month.’
‘I see.’ He glowered at the hearth. ‘That chimney should be cleaned.’ His gaze roamed the room. ‘The walls are damp.’
‘The roof leaks a little,’ Eleanor admitted.
‘And the stream outside overflows,’ Sissy said, placing her cup in its saucer with a decisive clink. ‘We had water running right through the kitchen. And frogs.’
‘Please