Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,49

starving man who could not wait another moment to taste something edible. He lifted his fork—or it might have been a spoon—and began to eat.

“You have a much better appetite than you did yesterday,” she remarked.

“My compliments to Mrs. Blimkin,” he said between spoonfuls of creamy mashed potatoes, savory carrots, and delicious crust.

“The vicar has decided I need a more suitable chaperone. Mrs. Blimkin has agreed to come with me and oversee the kitchen while we work. I promised him our lessons would only take a few days more. If you don’t mind, we might come earlier tomorrow.”

Nash was simply surprised that he only had a few days with Miss Howard. For some reason, he had assumed she might come every day for...well, until he did not want her to come. But he supposed once he mastered the night writing, there would be no more need for her to come.

He set his spoon down, his appetite diminishing somewhat at the prospect of not seeing Miss Howard. “You can come as early as you like. Payne hired a valet and the man will probably wake me up at the crack of dawn.”

“I think Mrs. Northgate will be offended if I do not visit with her and at least attempt to work on my dress.”

“Ah, yes. The dress.” He lifted his spoon to eat more of the pie. “How long does it take to make a dress?”

“A few days, I imagine, but I have never made one and Mrs. Northgate makes me take out half the stitches I sew, so it could be years at this rate.” She sounded more amused than frustrated, so he smiled.

“Wait a moment,” she said, sounding concerned. Nash reached for his pistol. He’d ordered Clopdon to return the ammunition, but he had not loaded it. Now he wished he had.

“I could be mistaken,” she went on, sounding calmer. “But was that a smile?”

Nash let out the breath he’d been holding. There was no crisis, no danger. He’d been overreacting. Again.

“You’ve seen me smile before,” he said, eating another bite of the pie. He would have eaten more, but he feared he would be ill. Instead, he pushed the plate away.

“It’s a rare occurrence,” she said. “But if my poor sewing is the thing to make you smile, I shall recount my failures more often. I like seeing you smile.”

Nash wasn’t certain what to say in response. He would have liked to make a flirtatious remark. The old Nash, the Nash before the injury, would have done so, but he didn’t feel like that Nash any longer. He cleared his throat. “Are you finished? Should we begin the lesson?”

“We should. Do you want to retreat to the library again?”

“No,” he said quickly. Too quickly. He did not want to be reminded of his youth and his father again tonight. “Here is fine.”

“Very well. Let’s see if you remember the chart. Can you tell me what letter is in position one-four?”

She went on this way for some time, making certain he knew the letters and positions of the first row thoroughly. Then she moved on to the second row. Memorizing that row was simple enough. Nash realized at this rate he would be done with the lessons in no time. Then Miss Howard would no longer need to come.

“You’re not holding my hands tonight,” he said, interrupting her.

“You seemed to be doing well enough without me holding your hands,” she said.

“Perhaps I could do even better.”

“Mr. Pope, do you want me to hold your hands?”

He shifted. He’d never had such awkwardness with a woman before. He wasn’t certain how to behave or what to say or do. “Not if you should object,” he said, finally.

Her warm hands covered his and clasped him tightly. “Why should I object?” she said, squeezing his hands. “Now, shall we imagine that third row of the chart or is that too much for one evening?”

It was not too much. Nash would have done anything to keep her there beside him and touching him. “I could learn another row,” he said, but he didn’t want to talk about night writing anymore. Not now that she was holding his hands.

“Are you such a poor seamstress?” he asked before she could bring up the letters of the third row of Barbier’s chart.

He felt her hands tense slightly as though in surprise. “Why should you ask that?”

“I just wondered why the good Mrs. Northgate would make you take out so many stitches. I find it hard to believe