No Duke Will Do - Eva Devon Page 0,20
head and observed her. “I think you’re wise.”
“I don’t think I could possibly be wise,” she scoffed. “Look at my life.”
“I’m looking now,” he said. “And you’ve made some very wise decisions in the last few days.”
“Oh, Heath,” she replied. “You are far too full of compliments.”
“I am not. I am not given to compliments,” he stated, a truth. He was not given to gushing or polite pleasantries.
“Well, what should we do here, now?” she asked, taking a turn.
“Whatever you wish.”
She gaped. “Whatever I wish?”
“Indeed. What do you wish to do with your time here?”
“I wish to be with you,” she said firmly.
“Well, you are with me,” he pointed out. “But now, without anyone harrowing you, without anyone bothering you, what would you do?”
“I think I should like to sit by the fire,” she said at long last, as if it had been very difficult to think of such a thing. “And read and enjoy a cup of tea.”
“Then, that is what you shall have,” he said.
And with that, he ushered her into the small parlor where a great fire had already been tended to. He’d had a woman come in, in the morning, to make sure one would be blazing.
“My goodness,” she observed. “This room is so. . .”
He waited for some indication that she was not pleased.
“Inviting,” she breathed. Then her lips tilted in a smile. “It is nothing like you.”
“Is it not?” he drawled.
“No, you are most terse, but this room, this room is full of comfort. Is this what you’re really like?” she asked, her gaze once again trying to make sense of him.
“No,” he replied. “I am not warm and comforting and inviting, but I do like this room very much, and I’m glad that you do too.”
She slipped her cloak off easily and placed it across one of the old wooden chairs. She sat down on the wood bench before the fire and stared into the flames.
After several quiet moments, she said in hushed tones, “I feel at a loss.”
“Why?” Heath asked, unsure.
Her face twisted with frustration. “Because I’ve never been allowed to do just as I please.”
“Then, let us begin with that.” Bit by bit, she would make her decisions and, in the small things, grow her strength.
She nodded.
He gave her a small mock bow. “I shall go get us tea, my lady.”
“You?” she laughed.
He gave another bow with a deeper flourish. “I know quite well how to fetch a cup of tea.”
Leaving her stunned, he went to the kitchen.
Even though he was pleased with her reception, he felt at odds.
It was so strange to be alone with a woman like her.
Most women of his acquaintance were always angling for something, not out of a sort of cliché that most people thought women were like, but because they had no other alternative.
Quickly, he went about boiling water, placing loose tea into the pot, and as soon as the water was boiling, he poured it in a kettle and collected two cups.
He gripped them in his big hands and placed them on a tray.
What the devil was he doing?
It was a question he found himself asking again and again and again. Was this all for him, or was he truly doing this for her?
But he wanted to be with her. There was no questioning that.
Drawing in a long breath, he took the tray in his hands and walked back into the parlor.
“For such a large man,” she said, “you are quite graceful.”
“Graceful?” he repeated, doing his best to look horrified, but feeling amused.
“Oh, yes. You look as if you could maneuver this room with the ease of a hostess or a swan.”
“A swan?” he barked.
“Yes,” she insisted whilst pulling the pin from her bonnet. She shook her curls free and placed the straw affair beside her.
“A black swan,” she enthused, “gliding along the lake.”
“You know what swans are truly doing when they’re gliding along the lake?” he asked.
“I can’t possibly imagine,” she said.
He set the tray down on the small table by the fire. “Their little feet are paddling madly, beneath the surface.”
“That sounds very much like me,” she admitted with a frown.
“It is like most people,” he assured.
She glanced up at him through her lashes. “But most people do not have the magnificence of a black swan.”
“Mary,” he felt compelled to warn. “You are not going to romanticize me.”
“Why not?” she queried lightly. “You are a ruffian that is now a hero of the East End. Why can I not romanticize you?”
He nearly