Her pale hand was still on his forearm. He looked down at her bent head, the sweep of dark lashes against her cheek, the faint quiver of her fingers, the tender skin below her ear. The scent she wore, subtle and sophisticated and unexpected, teased his nostrils and his pulse kicked in recognition of her unconscious allure.
Or was it unconscious? he wondered. She had the grooming, the elegance, the little mannerisms of a woman used to pleasing men for a living. And yet, there was the apprehension in her eyes when she did permit them to meet his fleetingly, her lack of sophistication with wine, her retreats into shy propriety. A mystery, and Quinn enjoyed a mystery. And one involving contact with a pretty woman was even more enticing. He had six months to tease the truth out of her. As he thought it, he realised that he was not going to just take himself off to London and abandon her here. He wanted her.
He lifted her hand from his arm and raised it to his lips, just touching the tips of her fingers, letting his breath caress her. She stiffened and gave a little gasp, but he kept his attention on the pampered hand, the carefully manicured and buffed nails, the faint smell of expensive hand lotion. Celina cared for her skin like a courtesan, not a housekeeper.
‘Why are you telling me this?’ she asked abruptly. But she did not pull her hand away.
‘You will hear some torrid tales from our respectable neighbours, I have no doubt. I thought it better that I warn you.’
‘I see,’ Celina said. ‘I do trust you, Ashley.’
That was like a jab in the stomach. He did not intend for her to trust him, he wanted to tease and intrigue her for sport, but if she truly trusted him then he should honour that. And perhaps he would—she was under his roof, under his protection. She might even be the innocent virgin she would have him believe.
‘I did not say you should trust me,’ he said, wanting to unsettle her, to pay her back for unsettling him. Her head came up and those wide blue eyes looked into his as though she was inspecting the inside of his soul—always assuming she could find it. ‘I simply wanted to set the record straight over that piece of history.’
‘Of course.’ The intense scrutiny dropped. ‘As always, it is for the woman to take care and it is upon the woman that the shame devolves if she is not vigilant enough of her honour. Excuse me, my lord. Mr Havers will be waiting.’
The brush of her silk skirts across his legs as she turned had Quinn gritting his teeth as a sudden stab of lust took him unawares. He pulled open the front door and strode off to the stables
, more angry with himself for even troubling about Celina than he was at her plain speaking.
Lina had been watching his profile: the flexible mouth, the strong, straight nose that was almost too long, the thin scar that was visible now the stubble was gone, the hooded green eyes, the elegant whorl of one ear. He had seemed relaxed, as though he was telling her the plot of some novel, not his own story of disillusion, disgrace and sin. She did not believe in his detachment. Quinn Ashley was an excellent actor, but he had to be deeply frustrated by what had just happened—any man would be.
Then he had kissed her fingertips and the scent of him, sandalwood and angry, tense male, had filled her nostrils and she had been unable to snatch her hand away. A more experienced woman would have known how to extricate herself, but she had been left there, gauche and enraptured. When Quinn turned back to face her and she saw the look in his eyes she could see he was not relaxed. Not at all.
I did not say you should trust me. The smile had reached his eyes with those words. A smile and something else, something assessing and male and dangerous. In letting him take her hand, in confessing her trust, she had yielded to him and that had stirred some animal instinct in him.
Idiot, she scolded herself as she tapped on the study door and let herself in. He attracted and fascinated her and that was lethally dangerous. One brush of his lips on her hand and she was disorientated, disconcerted and breathless. It was worse than the wine.
‘Miss Haddon.’ The lawyer rose to his feet. ‘Please, be seated. This should not take long.’
Lina sat down and folded her hands in her lap, trying her best to look like a meek young lady and not a fugitive courtesan. With her hair invisible, her eyebrows and lashes, which were naturally darker, gave the impression that she was a brunette. Surely there would be nothing to spark Mr Havers’s suspicions, even if he had read her description in the newspapers?
‘Now, if I may have your first names.’
‘Lina,’ she said, watching him write Lina Haddon in careful script across a document.
‘And which bank would you wish the money deposited in, Miss Haddon?’
‘I do not have a bank account.’ Was it against the law to open one in a false name? Perhaps she would need papers to prove who she was. But surely in six months her name would be cleared. Or she would be hanged.
Lina repressed the shudder. ‘I must organise something. Might I have an advance of cash?’ It would need to be enough to make good her escape if they found her, but not so much that Mr Havers would think it strange. ‘Twenty-five pounds would be excellent.’
‘I am afraid that the money only becomes available at the end of six months, Miss Haddon.’ He made another note. ‘But all your costs will be met and that would include a reasonable clothing allowance and pin money.’
‘Oh.’ But she could not leave and find herself a new hiding place without cash in her hand. If she had a thousand pounds, she could hire an investigator, an agent to contact her aunt, a lawyer, flee abroad if necessary; but now, with no money, she must stay here or her aunt would not know where to find her.
And she needed to help Aunt Clara fight Makepeace, she could not just run away and abandon her. ‘Of course. I did not quite understand.’ She would have to stay here under the protection of a man who might turn out to be no protection at all, but thoroughly dangerous himself. ‘Thank you, Mr Havers.’
‘Thank you, Miss Haddon. Would you be so good as to ask Trimble to come in next?’
Lina delivered the message, then found herself staring rather blankly at the front door, at a loss what to do next. Cook would prepare luncheon and needed no further instruction, the house was as orderly as any that closely resembled a chaotic museum could be, and the thought of hemming yet another worn sheet was intolerable.
On impulse she ran upstairs, changed into stout shoes, found her cloak and told Michael, ‘If anyone wants me, I have gone for a walk up to Flagstaff Hill.’
‘His lordship says we’re to have a guest bedchamber made up for Mr Gregor,’ the footman said. ‘I’m confused about him, I must confess, Miss Haddon. I thought he was a servant to start with, but he sits down to dinner like a gentleman.’
‘I think he likes to tease us,’ Lina said, ‘to confound our expectations. Give him the red bedchamber.’