Hew knew when he’d dug a hole and when to stop digging. “What exactly are you angry about? And do not say that I should know because, as much as it pains me to admit this, I am but an ignorant man, and my understanding is limited.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“I’m being sincere. I truly do not understand.” He tried to move forward, to take her hand, but she gave him a look that sent him out of striking range again. “I apologize for whatever I did, but it would be helpful if I knew what it was so I don’t repeat it.”
“You’ll never have the chance.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he muttered, but she wasn’t listening. She was cursing, shaking her head and seeming to berate herself.
“I’m such an idiot,” she was saying. “Why don’t I ever learn?”
Hew knelt before her, partly as an act of supplication and partly because the thrill of arousal was wearing off and he found himself feeling weaker than he’d expected. Clearly, he had another day or so before his strength would be fully returned. “You are one of the least foolish persons I know, Belle. If I have behaved as anything less than a gentleman—”
But, of course, he had. He shouldn’t have kissed her. He shouldn’t have let her wrap her legs around him in the kitchen of Lady Keating’s home. He shouldn’t have been traipsing about with her in the middle of the night. These circumstances might not be ordinary, but he knew how he ought to behave.
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. You’re far too much a gentleman,” she said.
Hew frowned. He wasn’t about to gainsay her, not when she was already angry with him. He tried to think what to reply to her—was it an accusation of being too much a gentleman?—but failing to conjure any good rejoinders, shook his head in bewilderment. He had forgotten how completely confounding women could be. He was used to interacting with agents for the Saboteurs, and generally that meant attempting to shoot better or decipher a code faster. He’d forgotten what it was to be tossed into the churning whirlpool of female emotions.
She finally sighed at him in exasperation, perhaps realizing—one could only hope—that he really was entirely ignorant. “I know what I look like,” she said. “And I’m not beautiful. I know what people say about me behind my back and even to my face. I suppose I can’t blame you. No doubt you were curious, and that’s why you put your mouth on this.” She touched the left side of her face, the side bearing the scars from a smallpox infection.
Hew refrained from speaking for a long moment, taking in what she’d said, turning it over, and then using all of his training to decode it. “This is about your scars?” he said.
The daggers she shot him with her gaze would have felled a small child. Hew barely managed to keep upright. He really was a dolt. He understood now and understood completely. He jumped to his feet, swayed a bit with the poor judgment of rising so quickly, but managed to keep her from jumping down and running away. “I’m sorry,” he said, putting both hands out in a gesture for her to stay. “It’s I who am the idiot. But, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, you are an idiot as well.”
Her eyes narrowed, and Hew thought that a smarter man would have moved a safe distance away. “Listen to me,” he said quickly, before she could bash him over the head with a blunt object. “I don’t care about your scars. You’re beautiful with or without them.”
She shook her head and made to protest, but he cut her off. “I’ll admit in my youth I kissed plenty of women, but I’m far more selective these days. If I kiss a woman, hold a woman, it’s because I like her. And I like you, Belle. Not just because you’re beautiful, but because you’re loyal and kind—”
She snorted at that, and Hew smiled. “Very well, you’re not unkind. But you’re definitely unpretentious and brave and—”
“How can you not care about my scars? Look at you.”
Hew looked down at himself, seeing the wrinkled shirt and trousers. He didn’t have a coat or shoes, and he could only imagine how his hair looked, or his unshaven face. “I’ve looked better.”
“Even half dead with fever you are the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.”
“Am I?” Well, this was a not unwelcome turn of events.
She put a hand on his chest, pushing him back. “I know better than to think you’d ever want more from me than a tumble in bed.”
Hew didn’t know what he wanted from her, but it was more than that. Still, he thought it best not to point out, again, that he was a dolt who was ignorant of what he wanted. “Perhaps that’s all you want from me,” he said. “Forgive me for pointing out that you kissed me with as much enthusiasm as I kissed you.”
“A gentleman would not point that out.”
“A gentleman would also not have a five-inch knife wound in his side, but perhaps once you see my scar, you won’t want me any longer.”
“That’s different,” she shot back.
“How?”
“My scars are on my face.”
“All that means is mine can be hidden. Does it change how you think of me?” He’d made his point, but he could see that she couldn’t quite trust him. Not yet. Someone had hurt her. Knowing people as he did, knowing his own sex as he did, he could imagine she’d suffered a barrage of unkind remarks and been made to feel ugly and unworthy. His heart ached for her, but he didn’t pity her. How could he when, smallpox scars or no, she was one of the most desirable women he’d ever met?
“It’s late,” she said. “And you shouldn’t even be out of bed.”
“We’ll speak more of this tomorrow.”
