“After Twelfth Night, if everything goes well.”
“It means a rum kind of Christmas for you, though.” He glanced around with a frown. “You don’t decorate for the season? I notice you haven’t put up any greenery.”
Maggie cringed to think he saw her as pathetically sad and lonely. With a sinking feeling, she realized that she didn’t want this large, unconventionally attractive man viewing her as a charity case.
She wanted him to see her as beautiful and proud and brilliant. Equal to the sophisticated ladies she had no doubt he flirted with in London.
“I make a little…” A very little. “…more effort when Jane’s here.”
A knowing spark lit his eyes. “A vase of holly in the hall.”
She blushed. He really had guessed how paltry her Christmas celebrations were these days. “Actually we bring it down here, seeing this is where we spend most of our time on cold days.”
“And I bet Jane cut it.”
Her lips twitched. “I can’t remember.”
“If you like, I can help you collect a bit of greenery. I hate to think of moving on and leaving the house so dull.”
Sitting here, sharing breakfast, she hated to think of him moving on at all. It was nice having someone close to her own age to talk to, and while she knew she was playing with fire, she liked the way he looked at her.
As if, by heaven, he found her almost as interesting as she found him.
He’d emptied his plate, so she rose and started to clear the table. “Don’t you have work to do?”
He lifted his coffee, keeping those deep-set eyes glued to her every movement. She still couldn’t tell their exact color. Given his night-dark hair, she guessed they must be dark too.
Odd she’d thought him so gruff and grim when he arrived. Now she looked into those rugged features, and while he was definitely rough-hewn, she saw beauty of a kind. Intelligence. Humor. Spirit.
Maggie blinked. She was staring at him like a moonling. What must he think?
Except Mr. Hale stared back. For no particular reason, her cheeks heated, and the plates in her hands started to shake.
“I’ve made plenty of notes so far.” He sounded disconcertingly normal, while their eyes seemed to conduct another conversation entirely. “We could go out this afternoon.”
She should say no, invent some task, although at this time of year, there was never a huge amount to do. But the truth was she wanted to go with him and pretend that Christmas was something to look forward to, instead of dread.
If only mistletoe grew this far north. Then perhaps he’d…
One of the dirty plates tumbled from her hand and shattered on the flagstones.
In an instant, he was on his feet and fetching the broom. “Don’t move. I’ll clean it up. If you’re pitching crockery at me, it’s time you got some fresh air.”
She mustered a smile, even as her heart started to gallop with anticipation. Living here with Jane, she often forgot she was young. It was impossible to forget when she was with Mr. Hale.
“Very well.”
Vivid pleasure lit his expression, as he leaned on the broom handle. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Well, that’s capital. I’ll meet you out the front at one.”
With impressive efficiency, he swept up the shards. She should tell him to stop, that this was her job, but there was something very nice about having a handsome—there, she’d admitted it—young man fussing about her welfare.
When he got the dustpan and kneeled at her feet, she had to fight not to bury her hands in that thick mop of hair. Was it crisp or soft? Warm or cool?
She bit her lip against the surge of curiosity and made herself speak. Silences were becoming a little too meaningful. “You seem to know what you’re doing.”