of building some romantic bond
with him.
She yawned, only just managing to cover her mouth
with her hand in time. Her eyelids drooped. Another
few seconds, and she’d be asleep. Marcus had grown
accustomed to the slight frown she wore in her slumber,
which contrasted with the softening of her mouth. He
was used to the occasional incoherent murmur passing
her lips—clearly, sharing a bed with her, a man would
have no rest from her conversation!
“Perhaps if I looked more imposing, more like a
countess, those women wouldn’t chase after you,” she
murmured sleepily.
“I doubt it would make much difference,” he said
drily. Constance’s appearance had improved in her new
clothes, and her maid was obviously making an effort
with her hair. But she would never look imposing.
“Men might flirt with me if I did,” she said, yawning
around the words and not even trying to cover her
mouth. “I suppose you’d say that was harmless fun?”
Something tightened between Marcus’s shoulder
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blades. “Of course,” he said lightly.
A moment later, her lids settled more firmly on her
cheek; she’d fallen asleep.
The carriage jolted through a rut—this rain would
turn it into a hole by morning—and Constance’s head
banged against the back of the seat. Her frown
deepened in her sleep.
Marcus moved across the seat toward her, close
enough that he could settle her head on his shoulder, so
she shouldn’t be disturbed by any more ruts.
As he half closed his eyes, he realized he’d omitted to
make Constance his usual offer of a trip to Chalmers to
relieve her fatigue.
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Chapter Twelve
Tom had made good use of the time Lord and Lady
Spenford were out. He’d cleaned his lordship’s brushes
and mixed up a batch of his own special boot polish,
which would set him up nicely for tomorrow. He’d need
a good setup, since he’d be tired after another late night.
Tom clasped his hands behind his head, trying to
relieve the aching muscles in his neck. He ached all
over—he hoped he wasn’t sickening for something. A
cup of tea, that’s what I need. The kettle would still be
hot over the remains of the fire.
In the kitchen, deserted except for the scullery maid
sleeping on her cot in her corner, he poured a pot of tea.
Not boiling, but it would do. He waited for it to brew,
then poured out a cup. He carried it through to the
servants’ dining room to drink it…and saw someone
else had the same idea.
Miriam sat at the pine table, a cup in front of her, a
candle guttering in its saucer next to a stack of
periodicals.
She was asleep, her head pillowed on her arms, which
were folded on the table. In the last light of the candle,
her hair looked darker than it was, her face paler.
Tom quashed the familiar stirring of his senses. He
shook her shoulder, aware of the hard ridge of bone
beneath her dark-colored dress. “You’ll burn the house
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down,” he growled.
Miriam jerked upright. “What? Oh, Tom, it’s you.”
The drowsiness in her voice as she said his name
made him want to blow out that flame, take her in his
arms, kiss her.
Deliberately, he pushed the candle beyond her reach,
beyond the pile of periodicals that could easily catch
fire. He glowered down at her—he knew he shouldn’t,
but he couldn’t help it. As always, the mess of feelings
she produced in him couldn’t be accepted with any
pleasure.
Miriam yawned, and pushed her hair back off her
face. She reached up to adjust the position of a hairpin.
“Don’t be daft, Tom. I wasn’t about to set fire to
anything.”
“Better safe than sorry, Miss Bligh,” he said, hearing
the starch in his own voice, seeing how it stiffened her
spine and erased that drowsy softness from her face.
Good.
He busied himself finding another candle on the
shelf, lit it off the remains of hers, then set it on the
table.
When the flame was steady, Miriam leaned forward
and blew out the old candle. Tom schooled himself not
to look at the pursing of her lips. Lips he could still
remember the feel of after so many years. Which made
him a right bufflehead, as his mam would say, should
he ever choose to share that memory with her. Which
he wouldn’t.
He sat down opposite Miriam, too tired to exercise
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144
sense and resist the lure of her presence. Weeks now, he
hadn’t been able to go wherever he pleased in this
house, without having to think first whether she might
be there.
Miriam’s gaze dropped to his jaw—self-conscious, he
ran a hand over the barely visible growth of new beard.
She looked away, yawned again.
“You’ve been overdoing it,” he said. Ever since he’d
suggested she wasn’t up to the job, she’d been
constantly on the go. He felt like a brute.
He always felt like something less