Lucy was quite possessive of him, certain it was her kiss that had awakened him. And though it was clear he’d had little to do with children, he hadn’t dismissed her childish notions but responded with grave kindness that had the little girl glowing with pride.
He’d ignored his own injuries to protect them from an intruder. He must have known firing the gun would cause him pain, but he never hesitated.
Before, she didn’t know the kind of man he was.
She didn’t know it now, she reminded herself. She still knew nothing about him.
Only that he was kind to women and children. And chivalrous. And stubborn. A gentleman. And there was the rub. He was a gentleman, to his clean and well-tended fingertips.
But also a rake.
Even though she knew little about him, she could tell he didn’t belong in her world. And she didn’t fit in his and probably never had.
He had excellent manners. Was protective, gallant. Funny. Handsome.
Dangerous.
The lure, the lie of Prince Charming, she reminded herself. Women had a fatal tendency to see romance in men and situations where there was none. It was why Grand-mère had made Raoul wait for two years . . . Protecting herself from her own fatal tendencies.
Of course Mr. Rider was nice to her and the children—he had nothing else to do, nowhere to go. His very survival was dependent on their kindness.
He was just a man. But for her, dangerous.
She needed him gone. Her life would be drabber, less exciting, but her heart would be safer.
The door flew open and Maddy put her head in. “Hide! Mr. Harris is coming.”
Who the devil was Mr. Harris? He looked around for a place to hide. There was only the scullery and it was too cold to be cooling his heels out there for who knew how long. He climbed back into the bed and drew the curtains.
He watched through a gap in the fabric. Harris was about forty, solidly built, but his breeches were too tight, his coat too bright, and his thinning hair, once he carefully removed his hat, had been teased and pomaded and trained carefully over a bald patch.
A suitor? He was far too old for her, not to mention too damned ridiculous.
Harris entered the cottage and seated himself at the table without being invited. His confidence, almost an air of ownership, was annoying. He came straight to the point. “I’ve received instructions from the new owner—”
“I thought you said he was out of the country,” she interrupted.
He gave her a tight look. “That’s right, Russia. But he sent instructions to his brother, who has his power of attorney.”
“His brother?”
“The Earl of Alverleigh.” Harris turned his head. “What was that? Is there someone here?”
Behind the curtains, he stiffened. Damn. He must have made a sound. But theEarl of Alverleigh? The name meant something. But what?
“Who would there be?” she asked Harris. “Now about this letter—”
Harris didn’t respond. He stared at the alcove, his brows knotted with suspicion. “Have you got someone in there?”
She made an impatient gesture. “The children sometimes play there. Perhaps Lucy is taking a nap. What does it matter? Did you inform the new owner about the promise Sir Jasper—”
“Five pounds by the end of the week.”
Her jaw dropped in dismay. “Five pounds? But I don’t have five pounds.”
“Then you’ll have to leave.”
“Leave? But I can’t poss—”
