“Such a meal. They shall be impressed, I am certain of that.”
Had he known she was so nervous? She couldn’t meet his stare, the sincerity in his face too dangerous to tempt further. “You are generous, I’m sure, but…I do hope you are right.”
That pin began to push away again, and she shoved it in deep and firm, grateful for the innocuous distraction. “To own the truth, I’m…I’m nervous.” Somehow the truth found freedom in her voice. A light laugh left her, followed by a mumbled grunt as she held the curl in place, preparing for another go at the disobedient pin.
“May I help?”
Joseph’s head inclined toward her, his finger directed at her struggle.
No.
But her want slipped out, though in silence. She stalled and held out the pin, still unable to hold his gaze.
He neared, standing at her side where the errant pin refused its duty to her curl. He slanted his head to look at her. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Her skin flushed with heat. “You cannot.”
Straightening, he raised the pin. “Where do I put it?”
She tried to answer without the longing depth she knew would coat her words, but it did despite her efforts. “Right here.”
Every nerve, every sense was afire. His scent of clean soap, freshly laundered clothes, and a spice she couldn’t name lured her to breathe deeper. So she did. More to prove she would not be weakened by any such allure than to enjoy the memories that could be made. Yet somehow the ploy seemed only to make her wish they could stand there all evening, talking, laughing—healing.
“I shall have a go then.” Gentle, slow, he smoothed his calloused finger over hers, holding the curl in place as he attempted to force the tiny traitor to submit.
His fingers at her hair, his breath on her ear made her body weightless.
All too soon, he stepped back, lowering his hands. “How does that feel?”
The question stalled her pulse. Like a dream.
A quick breath restored her reason. “I don’t know how you managed it, but it feels very secure. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Stepping back, he spoke more with his gaze as his eyes flitted to her shoulders, up to her neck, and over her lips. With a shake of the head, he cleared his throat, only polite familiarity in his voice. “You look very lovely.”
She studied his eyes, their almond shape, the rich blue of their color, the way they held her. Sighing her smile into place, she turned toward the window. Lord, help me. I cannot give my heart to him a second time.
Out the window, a carriage pulled up to the house, and she leaned closer to the glass to get a clearer look. “They are here.”
She spun back, her heart dipping slightly that he was no longer looking at her but heading for the parlor to let them in. Hurrying to follow beside him, Hannah glanced up with a smile, and he returned one of his own, the kind that twined around her heart, securing it in warmth and strength.
Without waiting for a knock, he swung open the door, putting on an impressive display of hospitality—no false dignity, no force. Inwardly, Hannah grinned. Such a man he was.
“Welcome.” He stood with arm outstretched to the parlor. “Do come in.”
Hannah reached out as Stockton entered. “May I take your cloak?”
He grinned, more than simple gratitude in his expression. “I would not have you serve me, my dear.” He almost winked, taking off his own cloak and hanging it on the hook by the door as the others entered. “Allow me to introduce Major Aldor Pitman and his wife, Mrs. Dottie Pitman.”
Hanna curtsied deep. “We are honored to have you.”
Major Pitman smiled as if he’d lost an inner battle against the expression, but his wife’s eyes were genuine.
She neared, her smile lifting her full cheeks. “You are so lovely, my dear, as is your home.”
Hannah took the woman’s cloak and muff as her compliments continued.
“My goodness, what is that beguiling scent? Aldor, I do believe she has made your favorite. He could eat fried chicken for every meal and not ever tire of it—that is what I always say, isn’t it, Aldor?”