‘Thank you. I will, of course, return everything afterwards.’
‘Do not be ridiculous, Miss Lytton.’ The heat had gone, leaving nothing but a man confronting an irritating female. ‘What would I do with a pile of female clothing?’
Ellie looked down at the brown gown in her hand and then at the black skirts of her dress. He was right. It was horrible. She knew he was not buying her favours, such as they were, and that it was only her foolish pride stopping her accepting it.
‘Thank you, my lord. I will accept the garments with thanks. Thank you also for buying things for Polly.’
Try as she might to sound grateful, it came out sounding like a sulky child being forced to thank someone for an unwanted gift. Blake did not deserve that.
‘I am sorry—that was ungracious,’ she said, before she had the opportunity to lose her nerve. ‘It is a delightful gown and I fully understand your motives in giving it to me.’
Her smile wavered as Blake looked at her, his face expressionless. Was he going to hurl her apology back at her or simply snub her with a lift of those dark brows? Neither, it seemed.
‘I stand rebuked by your courtesy, Miss Lytton.’
There was no heat now, and no teasing—just a warm smile that turned her insides to liquid toffee. Presumably that ability was something rakes acquired along with an unfair allowance of charm.
‘And I am in awe that you understand my motives. It is usually more than I can do.’
‘I have no wish to rebuke you. I would simply wish to exist on easy terms with you, my lord.’
I have agreed to spend another
day, at least, in a carriage with this man. Easy terms is not what I want. And I fear what I do want.
‘I am back to being my lord, am I?’
His smile did not reach his lips, only his eyes, and it seemed all the warmer, all the more personal for that.
She found she was returning that smile even as she kept her lips primmed up—which was probably what was amusing him. It was so easy to like this man. At least it was until she recalled his outrageous behaviour at his club, his neglect of Francis, his cutting words about her own lack of charms.
‘Very proper, Eleanor. You may “my lord” me all you want when you are wearing my gift.’ He ran the flat of his hand across the folds of the gown that was still in her arms.
My gift. That possessive gesture. Oh, my soul, this man is dangerous.
He would not take advantage of her, she was sure of that, but this intimacy combined with his teasing charm and good looks and wicked informality was like strong spirits to someone with no head for alcohol. Blake probably had no idea that her experience of men, other than family members, was virtually nil. He was used to ladies who played him at his own game, who flirted, fenced with him, setting wits against wits. What he doubtless thought was light teasing was as heady as a caress, a kiss, to her.
‘Are you never serious, my lord?’ she said, exasperated with herself for letting him affect her so.
‘Serious?’ The smile was wry now, almost bitter. ‘Oh, yes, Eleanor. All the time.’
Blake didn’t add anything else, and she had the uncomfortable feeling that she had opened a door onto something he had not intended to reveal—and yet he had given nothing away. The man was composed of layers, or perhaps boxes full of secrets, one inside the other.
‘If you will excuse me I will go and see if Jonathan needs anything,’ Ellie said briskly. ‘Did you find a temporary valet for him?’
‘Apparently the landlord’s nephew acts as a body servant to the gentlemen staying here, so he has undertaken to assist him tomorrow and to drop by regularly throughout the day to make certain there is nothing he needs. Whether he is capable of ensuring he stays on the couch and rests is another matter.’
Despite a sense of lingering unease, she could not help but smile at the mental picture of a confrontation between Jonathan, being stubbornly conscientious, and a dogged valet, paid and under orders from the Earl to make him rest.
Ellie took the gown back to the bedchamber to find Polly had put away all the rest of the new clothing. She had obviously had no doubt about who was going to win that particular argument.
*
‘I said half past eight.’ Blake stood with one foot on the step of the carriage, his gloved fingers beating a silent tattoo on the door’s glossy paintwork.
‘It is half past,’ Ellie said. ‘Listen—there’s the church clock now.’
‘So where is Polly? Why isn’t she here?’ His brows snapped together into a frown, and then he glanced up at the windows of their suite. ‘Is she frightened of the carriage after the accident?’