“We should talk.”
Still resisting the urge to face him, she tamped down the shiver that coursed through her at the low rumble of his voice. He sounded much closer than she’d imagined.
“Talk?” Her voice came out low and strangled. This was exactly what she’d been afraid of. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
Her cheeks felt hot and beads of sweat moistened her brow. She grimaced, once again faced with the horror of how she’d behaved in the hospital the night before. She turned to look at him and had to stifle a little gasp. He was standing directly behind her. Her gaze flew to his lips.
Please don’t let him mention the kiss.
“I think it necessary.” His tone sounded bland, and she forced her attention away from his mouth to his eyes. But he wasn’t looking at her. He reached for her teacup, and before she could protest, added a dollop of milk. Then he refilled it, stirring in three lumps of sugar—exactly the way she preferred it.
“You haven’t been to the hospital this morning.” It was a statement, unnecessary as they both knew he was informed of her every movement. He picked up her empty plate from the table and turned back to the sideboard.
“No.” She drew the word out, angling her head to try and glimpse his actions.
“I see.” He strode back to the table, and her eyes locked on the thick clotted cream he ladled on the apple scone. Her stomach gurgled noisily, betraying her. She didn’t know how she would stop herself from drooling if he ate the pastry in front of her.
He glanced down at the scone in his hand then at her. Giving her a wicked grin, he picked up a fork, placed it on the plate, and set it before her.
She stared at the pastry like a man who’s been wandering in the desert stares at a lake of fresh water. Somehow, it looked even better than the first one.
“Eat it,” he said. “Something tells me we’ll have a long day.”
“I really shouldn’t—” But she was still staring at the scone.
“Eat it.” He leaned against the table, his stance daring her to argue.
She didn’t.
She took a bite of the scone and forgot everything for a moment but warm dough, moist apples, rich cream, and tangy nutmeg. The scone was half-eaten when she realized he was watching her. She tensed, afraid he might use the momentary lapse in conversation to bring up the topic of her behavior last night. She swallowed a sliver of apple. “I think I’ll go to the hospital now and check on the bunny.” She pushed her chair back and began to rise.
“No.”
His light hand on her shoulder stopped her, and her head jerked up at the uncompromising tone of his voice. Anger flashed through her. “What did you mean,no? You don’t have the right—”
“Francesca.” She felt his thumb rub against the bared skin of her neck. Her legs trembled, and she sat down hard.
“Something happened last night.” His features were taut, and he looked uncharacteristically ill at ease.
She swallowed. That last bite of scone sat like a lump in her belly, and she lifted her teacup, her hand trembling. She clenched her fingers around the delicate handle of the china cup to steady it.
Oh, why couldn’t they just forget about that kiss and her lunatic behavior? It was all so humiliating! So much easier to pretend it never happened, like all the times she and Roxbury pretended he hadn’t struck her. She’d learned quickly that if one didn’t discuss a matter, then one could go on as if it had never happened.
But Winterbourne was obviously not of the same opinion. “Last night after we—”
She jumped up again, stumbling as her knees knocked the back of the heavy beech chair. “Mightn’t we discuss this at some other time, my lord?”
His hand had fallen away from her shoulder, and she edged out from between the chair and table.
He scowled down at her. “No.”
She inched toward the door. “There’s nothing to discuss.”
He stepped in front of her and cut off her exit. She glanced at him, feeling trapped.
“You might feel differently when you find out what’s happened.”
She paused in her retreat. “What do you mean?” A tremor of anxiety rippled through her, and the lump of scone she’d eaten turned to a brick. “What’s happened?”
