Mistletoe Wishes: A Regency Christmas Collection
“Could you…could you tell me why you’re here, sir?” She poured him a glass. “Thorncroft isn’t on the way to anywhere, and we rarely…” Never. “…get visitors.”
“If word gets out about your cooking, that will change.” He’d practically inhaled the soup. She couldn’t doubt that he’d been hungry. Perhaps that explained his boorishness. As he drank some of his wine, she took his bowl and refilled it.
She almost felt in charity with her unwelcome guest, until he leaned back in his plain oak chair and set to watching her again. Her momentary ease disappeared, and she became painfully conscious that they were alone.
It was ridiculous, getting nervous now. They’d managed a polite exchange, and she was treating him like a servant should. Mostly.
“I thought I told you who I was,” he said.
She busied herself making roast beef sandwiches to follow his soup, although under that considering dark gaze—she still wasn’t sure what color his eyes were—her usually deft hands fumbled. Smith, smellin
g the meat, left her comfortable spot and began to twine around her legs.
“You told me your name.”
He raised the half-full wineglass that dangled from one large hand and drank. “I wish you’d have some wine.”
“Why? Is the news so bad that I need to be in my cups?”
His mouth curved upward. Most of him was huge and rugged and powerful. But that expressive mouth hinted at another side to him. An easier, more affable side.
It was a very nice mouth. Sharply cut and with a full lower lip. She’d never been kissed, but…
The knife slipped, luckily mangling the slice of beef, not her hand.
What in creation had her thinking of kisses?
“I don’t think some wine will hurt.” He reached over to catch her hand, making her start. “And you’ve already cut enough meat to feed an army. I know I’m a big cove, but…”
His hand was cool on hers. So why did his touch send heat rushing through her?
“I’ll sit,” she croaked, shifting away. Smith, disappointed at not cadging a treat, strutted back to the rug in front of the fire.
To Maggie’s surprise, Mr. Hale rose and pulled out a chair for her. Then he turned and fetched another glass from the sideboard. She wanted to insist that such courtesy was inappropriate, but the touch of his hand had stolen all her words. How he’d chortle if he knew that.
He sat down to finish his soup and take a last bite of bread with a snap of straight white teeth. While he ate, he eHe studied her under lowered black brows. This seemed to be a characteristic expression.
She was glad she’d taken the time to light a couple of lamps and stoke up the fire. The near darkness before had created an atmosphere that was much too intimate. What they both needed was a strong dose of the mundane. He poured her a glass of wine, ignoring her when she indicated that he should stop after a few drops.
He reached into his black jacket and withdrew a creased letter which he passed to her. “This is my most recent correspondence with Dr. Black. You’ll see he asked me to come here. I’m an architect.”
She remembered Mr. Hale muttering something along those lines when he dragged her downstairs. She’d been too furious to pay much attention. “An architect?”
He burst out laughing at her doubtful tone. “It’s true.”
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected him to do for a living. A soldier of fortune, perhaps. A strongman in a fair. A Bow Street runner.
Architect seemed too…civilized.
Not to mention architects catered to clients who made demands and expected a modicum of deference, when she’d already discovered that Mr. Hale was a man with his own way of doing things.
He went on. “You’re thinking I’m too rude to be an architect.”
“A successful one at least,” she blurted out, then blushed like fire. She wasn’t proving much more courteous than Mr. Hale.
He smiled at her, and her heart stumbled to a quivering stop. Astonishment held her transfixed.
Dear Lord, had she grudgingly conceded that he was attractive? She’d had no idea. When he smiled, the bear-like aspect disappeared, and his face creased into vivid charm.