Francesca averted her eyes and tried to pull her hand away, but Ethan didn’t let go. “I’ve never seen the appeal of hunting. I don’t need to knock something—or someone—down to build myself up.”
Her hand still in his warm palm, Winterbourne rounded the edge of the table, stopping before her. But he was too close. She could feel the warmth of his body, his solid presence. Too close in more ways than one.
With his free hand, he reached out and stroked her cheek, bringing her gaze back to his. “You’re tired.” She nodded, her mind a whirl of emotions, fatigue, and the overwhelming experience of being near him. “I brought you dinner. Where do you want me to put it?”
Her gaze darted about the room looking for the trick. “Y-you brought dinner?”
He nodded to a wicker basket on the other side of the table. “From your cook.”
She eyed the basket suspiciously. It looked ordinary enough. “But shouldn’t a footman have seen to that?”
He was still holding her hand, and she pulled away. Amusement flared in his eyes. “I offered my services.”
“Why?” she blurted out.
He rounded the table and picked up the basket. “How about in front of the fire?”
Before she could agree or disagree, he’d opened the basket and was pulling out dishes of food wrapped in clean white linen to keep them warm. She saw almond soup, cheese, what smelled like fresh bread, dried currants and gooseberries, and wine. With a pang of disappointment, she noted the absence of pastries. She’d been hoping Cook might send any remaining chocolate tarts. She peered into the basket as Winterbourne took out the last wrapped dish, but he snapped it shut before she could see inside. The basket appeared empty anyway.
She kept only one chair in the hospital—the building was small and she liked to keep it free of clutter—and Francesca offered it to Winterbourne.
“Let’s sit on the floor.” He gestured to the wide space before the hearth.
Francesca’s mouth dropped open. “Like a picnic?”
“Why not?”
Francesca found herself smiling despite the awkwardness of being in such close quarters with him. She hadn’t expected him to have any sense of humor, and his infrequent quips both surprised and amused her. Of course, wit and intelligence weren’t all that attracted her.
He removed his tailcoat, baring broad shoulders that stretched the fabric of his lawn shirt, and Francesca couldn’t stop herself from tracing the outline of his muscled back with her eyes. Almost too late, she realized he meant to lay the tailcoat on the floor for her to sit upon.
“No!” She snatched the coat from his hands before it touched the floor.
He gave her an odd look.
“You can’t put your coat on the dirty floor,” she explained. “We’ll use one of my blankets.”
To her dismay, as she fetched a blanket from the cupboard, she noticed he didn’t slip into the coat again, merely laid it across the back of the chair. Being alone with him, especially when he wore only shirtsleeves, seemed wildly inappropriate. He had a way of making even the smallest act a seduction. Even the way he casually draped the clothing over the chair implied a familiarity she knew was improper.
And now, with his arrival, the once comfortable hospital seemed far too small. Like the bunny, sleeping curled in the far corner of her small cage, Francesca was crowded, swallowed by his mere presence.
He moved to take the blanket from her, spreading it before the fire. Motionless, she couldn’t help but watch him. He moved like a cat—sleek, silent, and not without something of a swagger. His voice pulled her out of the seductive spell he’d woven.
“Your hospital is spotless,” he said as he lowered himself onto the blanket and turned to her. “My coat was in no danger.”
“It’s hardly spotless.” She willed her legs to move, to carry her closer to him, to bend and seat herself next to him on the blanket. “There’s straw from the kennels floating around,” she added awkwardly. Their closeness, the fire, the blanket—it was too much intimacy. She felt her pulse quicken.
Winterbourne, as usual, appeared unaffected. He handed her a bowl and, opening the tureen of fragrant almond soup, ladled a heaping spoonful into it. “I should do that,” she protested.
“Let me.” His gaze met hers and the protest died on her lips. How was she to resist those eyes?
He filled her bowl, their fingers brushing as he handed it to her. She felt a tingle of pleasure skirt up her spine, but she also felt confusion. Why was he doing this for her? Twice now he’d brought her food, served her.
He was not a nice man. So why wasn’t he acting his part? What did he want from her?Reallywant? She didn’t believe he was staying at Tanglewilde solely because he wanted to protect her. There had to be another reason—an ulterior motive. But if Winterbourne had a hidden agenda, she couldn’t begin to guess what. Unless, of course, he really was a spy. Francesca almost laughed. She really must stop imagining such ridiculous scenarios.
“You’ve saved me from a long, dull lecture from my valet on the vices of straw and the danger it presents to wool coats.” He spooned soup into his own bowl. “The least I can do is serve the soup.”
Francesca laughed. She’d heard from Peter that Winterbourne’s fussy valet had taken up residence at Tanglewilde—though Peter hadn’t put it quite so diplomatically. She took a sip of her soup. “Your valet sounds as though he’s a force to be reckoned with.”
