And then she had ruined it. She squeezed her eyes closed. How could she possibly face him this morning—or ever again—when her cheeks burned at the mere memory of his body pressed to hers, and her stomach tightened sickeningly as she recalled her overreaction?
Despite her hunger, she almost turned and fled. The dozen sightless eyes from the busts lining the hall seemed to stare at her.
Coward, they accused.
The smooth white eyes of the generals and Caesars mocked her. She was afraid to enter her own dining room. How had it come to this?
Ridiculous. She inched her chin up a notch. There was absolutely no possibility he would still be in the dining room. He’d have been up and out hours ago.
Jaw set, Francesca stiffened her spine, placed her hand firmly on the door handle, and opened the door.
“Good morning.”
She almost screamed. He was seated directly across from her, paper in one hand, cup of tea or coffee in the other, feet propped negligently on the table.
He looked perfectly at home. Irritating man!
“There’s hot tea and warm apple scones for you,” he said without looking up or lowering his feet. Apparently he wasn’t in the least chagrined that his boots were probably marring the wood of her mother’s expensive beech table.
She had the sickening feeling he’d been waiting for her. “Good morning.” Her voice sounded strained.
Her first impulse was to find the fastest possible escape. She knew it was spineless, but the little pride she’d possessed had been all but crushed last night when she’d made a complete fool of herself in the hospital.
He turned a page of the paper absently, and she wavered, still clutching the door handle. Maybe he’d already forgotten what happened between them last night. He’d kissed many women. She couldn’t expect what they’d shared in the hospital to mean anything to Ethan—Winterbourne. Doubted that the memory ofherlips had kepthimup, tossing and turning half the night.
Her gaze flicked to the sideboard, and she saw the plate of inviting scones. Inhaling deeply, she caught the faint hint of nutmeg Cook used to flavor them. The cook usually added a dash of vanilla to the recipe as well.
Still undecided, she stole another look behind her at the open door, then at Winterbourne, then at the scones. Of course there’d be no clotted cream for them, she told herself—not that she needed any.
“I saved you clotted cream.” He set down his cup and, eyes still directed on his copy ofThe Times, nudged a dish forward.
Francesca’s eyes popped open, and her mouth watered. She loved clotted cream—adored it—but rarely had the chance to enjoy it since it spoiled easily. Somehow, Ethan had managed to save her some of the delicacy.
“Why?” she blurted out before she could stop herself.
His amber gaze rose, slow as honey, from the paper to meet her eyes. He arched a brow in question.
“Why did you save me the scones and clotted cream?” Francesca forced herself to continue, though she was beginning to feel silly.
He grinned—or rather his lips twisted in that sinful way that made her pulse jump. “I know what you like, Francesca.” His gaze held hers then slid down her body before returning to the paper.
Francesca swallowed. She should definitely leave and leave now. But then her eyes fell on the dish of clotted cream in front of Ethan’s paper.
That was it. She was staying—just for a moment. Releasing her death grip on the door, she closed it behind her, then poured herself a cup of tea, took two scones from the sideboard, put one back again, and sat down. She deliberately stirred only two lumps of sugar into her tea. Wouldn’t her mother be proud?
Ethan turned another page ofThe Timesand passed her the clotted cream. The paper hid his expression, but she knew—justknew—there was a smirk on his face. Arrogant man!
He didn’t speak to her again or look at her, and after a few minutes the faint rustling of the newspaper and her fork’s clink against the china as she speared another bite of scone soothed her nerves. He was so casual this morning, so unassuming even, that it seemed almost natural for her to be having breakfast with him, as if they’d done so every day for years.
But that was Winterbourne. He had a subtle way of introducing himself into just about any situation and winning people over, in spite of the reputation that proceeded him. Of course, he’d long ago worked his charm on her, but the attraction she’d felt the past few days, an attraction that floated just beneath the surface of her awareness, ready to emerge if he so much as gave her the hint of a smile, was different than it had been when she’d first seen him. Now it was deeper, more than just a reaction to his undeniable good looks. More than a fascination with the sense of danger that surrounded him. She was beginning to see the man behind the barrage of whispered rumors and gossip. And she began to believe he was not such a bad man after all.
She’d finished her scone and was surreptitiously eyeing another, when Ethan put the paper down and rose. Apparently still taking little notice of her, he strode to the sideboard behind her and poured himself another cup of coffee.
She resisted the pull to swivel in her chair and watch him. She’d felt far more comfortable a moment ago when she could see him.
“Are you finished?” he asked.
She almost jumped at the unexpected sound.
