she lied through gritted teeth in an effort to prevent them from chattering. Being some sort of damsel in distress to him was getting a little tiring.
Even if she did like it when he took charge.
No one ever took charge in her life before and she had to admit, there was something nice about it.
But she could not let herself give in. She already revealed herself to be a fool, offering herself up for one kiss then two. He made it clear he did not want her, so she needed to keep herself on guard every hour of the day. If only she were not so bone-tired and cold. It would make being strong a lot easier.
“Do as you are told for once,” Lord Huntingdon ordered.
She allowed herself to sink into the chair, aware of how her feet throbbed in her shoes. The plush cushions settled around her, and if it were not for this ridiculously handsome man in the same room, she could close her eyes and fall asleep with ease. But his furrowed brow and the strong slashes that counted for brows kept her fixated on him.
She’d never been more confused in her life and she did not do confused. Investigating was about looking at the evidence in front of one and coming to a firm conclusion. The trouble with Lord Huntingdon was she could come to no conclusion at all. Did he like her, did he not? Was he involved in something nefarious or was he simply a ludicrously heroic man?
He kneeled in front of her and she frowned. “What are you—”
Taking one hand in his, he pushed the buttons of her gloves through the holes, one by one. Such a simple act yet she found herself captivated by the strong, sure fingers making light work of the fiddly buttons. Then he drew the glove off slowly, set it over the arm of the chair and reached for the other one. He repeated the movement, adding her second glove to the chair.
Finally, he clasped one hand between both of his and she sighed at the warm touch of his slightly calloused hands—hands worn by the work he had been doing on the perambulator, she assumed. She was not privy to many lords’ hands, but she would wager few felt like this, like the hands of a man who actually worked hard. They made her feel less embarrassed by her own scratched, sore and rough hands.
He rubbed his palms over her hers, warming them. “Your hands are like ice,” he murmured.
She nodded, her mouth dry. He massaged her fingers then moved on to her other hand. He kept his gaze lowered, concentrating on warming her hands until they were pink, and all sensation had returned. She watched him, eyeing the dark waves of his hair that glinted with hints of gold in the lamplight and the firm slopes of his face. Her gaze fell to his mouth and she recalled how his lips had felt on hers, how swept away she had been.
This act felt no different. Here he was, taking charge of her welfare, allowing her to stop and cease thinking for a mere moment. It didn’t matter if she was cold because he would fix that, it did not matter that she was tired because he had a solution for that too. She would be fed, warm and rested by the morning.
It was hard to not like it. Hard not to like him. For so long, she had depended only on herself. As her mother had said, depending on another could also be a sign of strength.
Except, he did not want her in that way, and this was temporary.
She snatched her hand back and his gaze shot up. “I’m warm enough now, thank you.”
He rose to standing and placed hands behind his back. “Of course.” He dipped his head slightly. “I’ll see you at dinner then.”
Freya nodded, avoiding his gaze. She had offended him, but it was the only way. She could not let herself sink any deeper into whatever this was.
She stared into the dancing flames of the fire until he left and waited a few moments more to be certain he had gone. Then she made her way upstairs and eased open the door to her mother’s room. Seated upright in bed, an empty bowl sat at her bedside, and she clasped some embroidery in her hands.
“Oh, I have not seen you sew a single stitch in forever,” Freya gasped.
Her mother twisted the sample