She began to shake her head. “No. You don’t understand.”
He smiled at her. “Are you denying that, Miss Danvers?”
She sighed and closed her eyes, which gave him the opportunity to kiss her again. And kiss her, he did. His mouth explored hers, touching, tasting, nipping, soothing. As much as he wanted to strip all her clothes off and plunge into her warm moistness, he was satisfied with just holding her and feeling her safe in his arms.
Never had he been satisfied with mere kisses, always anxious to take the next step. Miss Danvers was different. An innocent. A sweet gently reared young woman who he was growing more and more fond of every day.
He pulled back and ran his knuckle down her soft cheek. “I care for you, Lottie. Very much so. We have a lot in common, and you know there is a bond between us. There has been since you dumped your wine on me.” He grinned when she smiled. “With your permission, I would like to court you.”
Her sad eyes returned, and she offered him a forlorn smile. “No. I am afraid that is not possible.”
Had she stated that emphatically, he would have stopped, but her reluctance was evident in the sorrow on her face.
“I don’t know what is troubling you, or what happened in your life that is making you so very sad, but can you trust me?”
The carriage came to a slow stop in front of her building. “Lottie?”
She pulled back and shook her head. “No. I-I don’t think it would work. You deserve much more than me.” Before he could respond to that strange remark, she turned and fumbled with the door, jumping from the carriage before he could even assist her. She stumbled and went down on one knee, quickly recovering, and moved forward.
“Lottie!” He jumped out after her, but she scurried up the steps and quickly opened the outside door, slamming it in his face without even turning around as he reached the top step.
What the hell just happened?
Lottie rested her chin on her propped-up hand and stared into the mirror over the dressing table in her bedroom. The Assembly the night before had been a disaster.
She feared Lord Sterling would eventually figure out why she looked familiar. The repeated questions he badgered her with during their dance almost had her walking off the floor. Thankfully, Carter seemed to notice her distress and rescued her.
Once again.
It surprised her that now she thought of him as Carter. After all, how could one continue to call a gentleman, Mr. Westbrooke, when said gentleman had kissed her senseless?
And senseless she had been. After that wonderful—and her first ever—kiss, she felt warm, happy, and contented. That was the sort of thing young girls dreamed of, and some were fortunate enough to have. A man who cared for them and gave them impressive kisses.
And then after he’d saved her from that dreadful man, she’d made a fool of herself by running off when he asked to court her. It was a simple request, and probably one he felt was innocuous enough to certainly not have her fleeing like the hounds of hell were after her.
He must think her a total ninny.
Now she was faced with church service—which she tried to never miss—and running into Carter and having to face him.
Church services in the small chapel, the students had attended in France, were much more elaborate than the services in England, but she still derived a great deal of peace when she worshiped.
She took a deep breath and picked up her brush to fix her hair. She felt as though her safe little world was crumbling. What if she had to flee Bath as she had London?
Despite Lottie’s insistence that she could support herself, Mama had continued to send her money each month. The money was sitting in a bank account in Bath, untouched. If she found it necessary to once again leave her home, she would be forced to use that money. The little bit she earned from instructing young ladies on proper behavior barely kept her fed and a roof over her head.
6
As always, she walked the distance from her flat to the church. It was a lovely day and the brisk cool air felt good on her face. She spoke briefly to the greeters at the door and found a seat near the middle. As was her habit, she picked up the hymnal sitting on the shelf below the pew in front of her.
“Good morning, Miss Danvers.” So engrossed was she in the book, she jumped when Mr. Westbrooke slid in alongside her. She moved over to give him more room, or perhaps to put more space between them.
She felt the heat start in her middle and travel rapidly up her body until she was sure her face was bright enough to direct a ship to shore. “Good morning, Mr. Westbrooke.” She immediately dropped the hymnal, bent to retrieve it, and banged her head on the pew in front of her.
“Allow me.” Mr. Westbrooke touched her arm to keep her from moving. Oh, how she wished she could crawl away and return home, never to show her face again. Why he continued to show interest in her with all her bumbling and running away and generally acting like a fool baffled her.
He picked up the book and handed it to her just as the vicar began the service. She took a deep breath and flipped through the pages until she found the correct hymn at the same time the congregation ceased singing.
She made herself sit absolutely still during the sermon, tithing, and Communion. If she didn’t move a muscle perhaps, she would not make a laughingstock of herself any more than she already had.