“Miss Wren?”
The low, deep rumble of his voice sent a strange cacophony of sensation careening through her. Her wretched mind was busy dredging up thoughts of him from the previous evening when they had unexpectedly found themselves together, tending to his twin nieces. He had been…devastatingly charming. Too charming. He had disarmed her with that smile, those dimples and hazel eyes.
And he had been handsome, too, in a way she had never experienced before. He was not a dandy like Cousin Bartholomew, who was tall and elegant and prided himself on his elaborate cravats and the cut of his coats. Rafe Sutton was masculine and slightly disheveled and he wore sin as if it were a waistcoat. His blond hair was far longer than fashionable, with a curl that had made her long to run her fingers through it. The instinct had been both reckless and foolish, and she had promptly banished it.
“Miss Wren?”
This time, his query was accompanied by a gentle touch. Her shoulder, nothing more. Fortunately, she was tightly swaddled in her counterpane. She was also clad in a prim night rail which buttoned to her chin, but the extra layer of protection, keeping his skin from hers, was much appreciated even as his heat seemed to permeate the barriers, searing her.
“Curse it. You stupid, beetle-headed clod.”
He was muttering to himself again now, and a foreign bubble of laughter suddenly formed in her chest. There was something endearingly silly about this handsome rakehell—for if ever Persephone had seen a rogue, it was he—chastising himself aloud. Beetle-headed. She did not suppose she had ever heard the insult before. And now that she had begun to think about the phrase, the bubble grew larger, clawing its way up her throat before she could stifle it.
Her mirth fled her lips in a most distressing rushing of unladylike sound.
Giving her away.
Oh, Persephone.
“You’re awake.” His grim pronouncement meant she could no longer continue to lie still, ignoring his attempts at gently prodding her from sleep.
She opened her eyes to find Mr. Rafe Sutton hovering over her bedside, a coverlet wrapped around his shoulders in the fashion of a cape. Morning sunlight streamed around the edges of the curtains behind him, catching in his blond hair and giving the impression of a halo.
How foolish. There was nothing at all angelic about this man.
Or any man, for that matter.
She sat up, drawing the coverlet to her chin for modesty’s sake. “You woke me.”
That was a fib, of cour
se. But better to prevaricate than explain she had been lying there, listening to his awkward discussion with the children. Listening to him call her name. Hoping he would simply give up and leave her alone. Or all the reasons why she had done so.
His gaze—an intriguing blend of gray, green, and brown—narrowed on her. “It’s a bleeding miracle you were able to sleep through chattering twins and a barking beast.”
Yes, it had been, but it was indecorous of him to point that out.
She frowned. “Nevertheless, I did.”
He scowled. “Slumber like the dead, you do.”
It was as if he did not believe her. And, well, he had every right to his suspicions. However, that did not mean it nettled any less. Particularly after the panic he had caused in her the night before. She knew she should not have slipped the laudanum into his drink. When he had begun staggering and slurring, she had seen the error in her rash decision. Her situation here in Mr. Sutton’s household was yet new, and she did not doubt he would dismiss her in a trice if he suspected she had given his brother enough opium to lay a horse low.
She clutched the bedclothes tighter to her throat. “It is a fault of mine, sir. One of many.”
Along with drugging him, but there was no need to make that admission aloud. She had felt guilty enough for her actions, and terrified she would lose her position, which she needed quite desperately.
“What ’appened?” he asked, the h notably missing from his speech, when he had previously spoken with an almost perfect, gentlemanly flair.
She supposed he was talking about the night before. Likely, his recollections would be rather…hazy. Best to feign ignorance.
“I have no notion of what you mean, Mr. Sutton.”
His eyes narrowed even more. “I’m Abram. What do you think I’m speaking of, Miss Wren? The goddamn weather?”
Well, at last, she was witnessing a side of him that was not charming.
She blinked. “You are Abram? I must beg your pardon, Mr. Sutton. I thought your Christian name was Rafe.”