He turned back to the fire, finishing tending to it. The flames were hot and high now, casting off so much warmth that it suffused her face. Then again, perhaps that was just her body’s reaction to Rafe’s proximity.
When he rose to his full height and turned back to her, she had to clench her fists in the skirt of her gown to keep from reaching for him.
“Warmer now?” he asked.
Too warm. And most definitely not all from the fire.
“Yes.” She summoned a smile. “Thank you. Did you slip into my room merely to tend to the fire for me?”
“Of course.” He offered her the same courtly bow he had given in the gardens when he had tricked Anne and Elizabeth into proving their running prowess so he could speak with her alone. “Ever at your service, milady.”
When Rafe chose to charm, he was magnetic. And like before, she found herself drawn to him. Moving nearer so that she might catch a hint of his scent. To her shame, she had been seeking it in the cravat he had left the morning after she had slipped the laudanum into his brandy. It remained hidden beneath her pillow, more treasured now than it had been that first day. The scrap of linen was the only bit of him that could truly be hers, and she had no intention of parting with it.
“Why have you come here this evening?” she asked him.
He raised a brow, magnificently rakish. “I am spending the night while I tend to The Sinner’s Palace II on the morrow.”
“I meant to my room,” she corrected softly.
“Am I not welcome here?” As he posed the question, he reached out, guiding an errant curl from her cheek and tucking it beneath the mobcap she still wore. “Not another of these wretched things. Why do you hide your glory?”
“For ease and propriety,” she told him simply. An easy answer. But also, being noticed was not the role of the governess. “And you must know you are welcome, although I ought to be made of sterner stuff.”
“I’ll admit to being glad you aren’t.” His grin was in full force now, those maddening dimples appearing. “But may I?”
He gestured to her cap, which was so much a part of Miss Persephone Wren that she often forgot to remove it.
“If you must.”
He had scarcely waited for her response before he plucked the cap from her head. With a teasing air that was at odds with the evidence he had recently given his enemies a drubbing, as he had called it, he made as if to toss it into the fire he had just stoked. With a squeal of horror, she leapt toward the cap, trying to snag it from his fingers and save it from peril.
But he held it out of reach, and instead, the action merely brought her firmly against his chest. His free arm banded around her waist, anchoring her to him. The rise of him, firm and pronounced, made her hotter still. The ache that had never seemed to completely subside since the night she had spent in his bed blossomed into a throb.
Her hands came to rest on his shoulders, absorbing his easy strength. “You still owe me a mobcap from the last one you burned.”
His grin fading, he tossed the most recently confiscated cap over his shoulder instead of consigning it to the flames. “I’ve a confession to make. I didn’t burn your other cap.”
“You didn’t?”
He shook his head slowly, laying the backs of his fingers against her cheek and stroking gently. “No. I kept it. I rather fancy having a part of you for my own, even if it is that hideous little cap you use to hide your beautiful hair from the world.”
She swallowed against a rush of emotion. What could she say? That she had done the same thing with his cravat? Such an admission would cost her too much. She was lying to this man, and she must not forget it.
“You ought to give it back,” she said without any sting.
In truth, she adored the notion of this strong, dangerous man keeping her mobcap simply because it was hers.
“But if I can’t have you, then the ugly cap is second best.” His hand slid around her neck to her nape.
She leaned her head into his touch. “Perhaps you could have me for a time.”
“The trouble is, a time ain’t long enough, lovely.” He regarded her solemnly.
What was he trying to tell her? And why did his words make her heart hurt as if barbs had been sunk into that tender organ?
“Stolen moments are all we can have,” she told him as much as she warned herself.
It would not do to allow herself to grow any more attached to him. The bonds which had been forged would necessarily have to sever. The battle she would need to wage against Cousin Bartholomew when she reached her birthday would require all her efforts, persistence, and determination. But more than that, she heartily doubted a man like Rafe Sutton would forgive her for lying to him.