Yes, there was that. But also, it was foolish how weak she was, even after the years she had spent at the mercy of Cousin Bartholomew’s selfish whims. The realization she could be so moved by Rafe Sutton, whom she had frantically drugged with laudanum two nights before, was humbling indeed.
It was not his looks—pleasing though they were—which drew her to him. It was the way he smiled, the way he moved. It was everything about him. And that was very much a problem.
“Miss Wren?”
Oh, curse it. She had not been attending the conversation, and now Mr. Rafe Sutton was looking at her expectantly, as if he had asked her a question of great import. A question she had not heard since she had been far too busy musing on his irresistible male qualities.
Her face felt as if it were aflame. Thanks to her hair, it likely was. An unfortunate coloring, Cousin Bartholomew had remarked once. I never did care for redheads. They’re always spotted and pink-faced. However, I suppose you shall have to do.
“Yes, Mr. Sutton?” She forced a benign smile to her lips.
“We are in agreement, then,” he said, grinning so deeply, his dimples appeared.
Her stupid heart was beating faster again. Perhaps there was something grievously wrong with her. That was the only satisfactory explanation.
“Forgive me, sir. I do not know what you are saying we have agreed upon,” she admitted, omitting the reason.
It would hardly do to admit the man had somehow absconded with all her wits when he had left her room. But clearly, he had. Nothing else made sense. He was a thief. A handsome and a tempting one.
He winked. “That these two girls are not fast runners. Not at all. Quite slow, they are. Slower than a pair of little moles.”
He had winked at her. The audacity! And why was he here in the gardens anyway? He had come to speak to her employer, and now he was lingering in the same space where she had to be. The girls were in her care. She did not dare let them from her sight, for she had already realized they were quite…adventurous. Yes, that was a nice, proper word to describe the rather unusual exuberance and curiosity of Miss Anne and Miss Elizabeth.
“Young ladies do not run, Mr. Sutton,” she reminded him, despite her determination to avoid chastising them for the very same action before his unexpected arrival.
She sounded far too much like her own dreaded governesses.
A succession of them, in short order.
No one can govern this horrible chit, one governess had said when she left.
Cousin Bartholomew had agreed. And then he had promptly found a governess more adept at killing souls and crushing spirits than the last.
“I cannot believe it.” Rafe Sutton was shaking his head slowly, hands planted rudely on his hips.
Staring at her.
Making her feel even hotter. Surely she ought to be cold. Chilled to the bone. The air was cool today. She did not have a wrap. And yet, she felt quite overheated. As if it wer
e a summer’s day.
“What can you not believe, Mr. Sutton?” she dared to ask, only because the twins were watching her with wide, curious eyes.
She was meant to be an example. To be polite and calm and proper in all circumstances. Increasingly difficult with this troublesome man about.
He was naked in my bed.
No!
Cease this manner of thought at once, Persephone.
“I cannot believe that you would believe such nonsense,” he elaborated. “Of course all ladies can and do run. However, the question is whether or not Anne and Elizabeth are quick enough—”
“We are!” Elizabeth shouted, jumping twice in her exuberance.
“You see, Miss Wren?” Mr. Sutton’s eyes remained fixed upon her, much to her unease. “Anne thinks she is quite speedy.”
“Elizabeth,” Persephone and her charges corrected simultaneously.