of her staff into giving him a bottle of wine, so help her . . .
“Nothing,” he said with a nervous laugh. He smiled wide, and her suspicions deepened. He knew what effect his smile could have on a woman.
“I saw you put something under the bedclothes,” she said as she reached his side. “Show it here.” She put out her hand.
His smile fell. “Lady Sabrina, it is nothing.”
“Then you won’t mind showing me.”
“I would prefer not to.”
“I’m sure that is true.” She reached over and pulled back the covers, revealing . . . a skein of pink yarn, a square of stitches, and wooden knitting needles. After a moment, she reached forward and stripped the covers all the way from the bed as she had the night she’d found the brandy just in case there was something more.
His nightshirt was high on his legs, exposing a portion of the lingering bruise on his left thigh, but there was nothing else hidden beneath the bedclothes. Sabrina stepped away from the bed as Mr. Stillman leaned forward and pulled the coverlet back over himself, restoring some level of decency. He then extracted the yarn and needles and set them on his lap.
“Knitting?” she asked after a few seconds.
“Therese has been teaching me,” he said with a touch of defensiveness as he squared his shoulders. “She claims I am a quick study. I was hoping to surprise you, but apparently you still distrust my assertion that I am a new man capable of more noble pursuits.”
Sabrina blinked. “Knitting?”
He gave her a wounded look. “You said I needed to find constructive things to occupy my time.”
“Well, yes, reading and . . . whittling perhaps.” Wood shavings would be intolerable in a bed, however.
“Appropriate male pastimes, you mean?” He raised a single eyebrow in reprimand. “You are the one who says a woman should have the same opportunities as a man, so why can’t a man knit? Especially if he is inclined toward the skill of it, for it most certainly takes skill to do well.” He paused his work to look at her, then lifted his chin defiantly.
It seemed he had listened to her rant about the inequality of the sexes with greater attention than she’d expected.
“I owe you an apology, Mr. Stillman,” she said once she’d swallowed her pride. “Well, two, now, I suppose. I became rather . . . energized last night and left abruptly; I am sorry for the rudeness. I am also sorry for assuming the worst just now.”
He grinned in obvious triumph.
“Apology accepted—for the knitting. But I earned your overall displeasure last night so there is no need to apologize for that. Would you please call me Harry?” he asked.
The invitation took her off guard and sent a shiver through her. To call him by his Christian name was an invitation for a more casual connection. “I fear that would be undignified, Mr. Stillman.”
“I am wearing a nightshirt and knitting,” he said slowly. “Dignity is no longer an option. Also, you remind me of a schoolteacher when you address me as Mr. Stillman, though that is better than ‘Young Stillman,’ I suppose. However, if you continue to refuse, I must press my suit. As the reigning champion of our chess matches, I ask that you satisfy this demand and call me by my name.”
She pressed her lips together in an attempt to maintain some dignity of her own, but she could not seem to keep her serious attitude when he was so very light in his. “You demand I call you by your Christian name as the prize for having won our matches? Though I use that term loosely due to the fact that you distracted me in order to win both games.”
“Yes,” he said. “When you are champion, you can make a demand of your own, and I will comply so long as it is within the same boundaries of propriety.” He winked and smiled, and she felt it in every nerve of her body. What did he mean by it?
She cleared her throat. “I do not think it proper for me to call you by your Christian name, Mr. Stillman. I am your caretaker.”
He set his work in his lap and looked at her pointedly. “Therese is my caretaker, and Joshua assists. You are my chess partner and . . .” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Well, since you are mistress of the house I can’t really tell you what to do, so let me go