tude for his survival into the hellish present.
At Sir Gideon’s side, Charis crossed a dark corridor and entered an even darker room. She drew her first unconstricted breath since she’d arrived. Thank goodness she was no longer the cynosure of all eyes. She loathed knowing the servants thought she was no better than she ought to be. In spite of Sir Gideon’s gallant efforts to insist she wasn’t his mistress. Her bruised face only increased speculation.
She waited uncertainly as he flung aside a heavy set of blue velvet curtains. Choking dust flew into the air. Sudden light dazzled her. She closed her eyes and opened them on a wall of windows facing an overgrown terrace poised above the sea.
For a long moment, Gideon stared at the magnificent view. Charis sensed sadness and curiously, for a man who returned home, a deep loneliness.
Was he grieving for his dead brother and father? Or did something else trouble him?
His essential isolation prompted her to touch him, offer comfort, remind him he was part of the human race. She curled her hands into the coat and stifled the impulse. The journey had taught her he wouldn’t welcome her overtures.
His rejections hurt, but not as much as it hurt to witness his brooding unhappiness. More sign that she was dangerously vulnerable to this man who was little more than a stranger. But she’d already fallen off the precipice. It was too late to try to save herself.
Eventually, he turned, brushing dust from his hands. His expression was neutral, the brief vulnerability hidden.
“I’ve brought you to a hovel, I’m sorry.” He moved across to help her take the coat off. He draped it over a set of mahogany library stairs. Like everything in the room, they were covered in thick dust. But no amount of dirt could conceal the impressive walls of leather-bound books or the elaborately carved furniture and plasterwork. This was a beautiful room, but nobody had cared for it in years.
“Hardly a hovel.” Gingerly she perched on an upholstered chair, sending up a puff of dust that made her sneeze. She was weary to the bone, and every muscle ached from the beating and the hours in the coach. She’d sell her soul for a hot bath and a bed and the chance to sleep for a month. She’d sell her soul twice over to see a glimmer of joy in Sir Gideon’s dark face.
“How are you feeling?” He surveyed her with an impersonal concern that made her want to shrivel up in the corner.
“I’ll be glad to stay put for a little while,” she said. “How are you?”
He frowned as if the reminder of his illness rankled. “I’m perfectly well, thank you.” He swung away, discouraging further inquiries after his health. “You should rest and regain your strength. I’ll send Mrs. Pollett to you after we’ve eaten. She’s not Akash, but she knows most of the country remedies.”
“Thank you.” She had no right to mind his eagerness to consign her to other people’s care. Frightening how much power a glance or a word from him had over her emotions. She tried to set up self-protective barriers, but they crumbled to rubble the moment she looked at him.
She sneezed again and muttered her thanks as she accepted the handkerchief Gideon extended in her direction. Through watery eyes, she watched him prowl the room, lifting items seemingly at random and inspecting them.
How curious he was so ill at ease in his own house. Why was his homecoming so strained? He’d dropped hints of a clouded family history. Did old memories torment him? Something did. Tension stiffened his back, and deep lines bracketed his expressive mouth.
The door opened to a girl carrying a tray. The cups didn’t match. One was Meissen, one was Sèvres. Both were exquisite. Once, someone at Penrhyn had had taste and money to indulge it.
Sharing the tray was a plate of roughly hewn cheese sandwiches. To Charis’s embarrassment, her stomach growled. She flushed. Great-aunt Georgiana would be mortified at such a faux pas.
Sir Gideon replaced a small marble bust of Plato on the windowsill and turned to the maid. “What’s your name, lass?”
The musical baritone worked its usual magic. Even Charis, who should by now be inured to its allure, shivered in sensual reaction to that deep, musical sound. The girl’s thin shoulders relaxed, and she sent Sir Gideon a shy smile as she slid the tray onto a dusty rosewood side table.
“Dorcas, Sir Gideon.” She curtsied. “I be Pollett’s granddaughter. Ee mightn’t remember me, sir, but I remember ee, though I were only a ween of five when ee left.”
“You used to churn the butter for your mother.”
“Aye, sir.” The girl flushed with surprised pleasure. “Fancy ee remembering that.”
Gideon tilted his head toward Charis. “Miss Watson needs a maid. Would you be interested in helping, Dorcas?”
The girl curtsied to Charis. “Oh, aye, miss. But I bain’t never been a lady’s maid afore.”
“I’m sure you’ll be splendid, Dorcas,” Charis said. Again, she had reason to be grateful for Gideon’s thoughtfulness. She was wicked to want more than he offered.
The girl grinned with gap-toothed delight. “Thank ee, miss. Thank ee.”
When Dorcas had gone, Gideon glanced across at Charis. “She’ll be clumsy at first, but she was a quick child. I imagine she’ll learn fast.”
“There’s no need to make excuses. You’re kind to think of my convenience. My step…my brothers…” Dear heaven, the false intimacy of being alone with Sir Gideon in this beautiful, neglected room made her forget she lived a lie. She needed to watch her tongue, or she’d reveal her true identity. “My brothers deprived me of my maid over the last weeks.”
It infuriated her to recall Felix and Hubert’s petty tyrannies. As though lacking a servant’s attentions would convince her to marry the foul Lord Desaye.