He was grinning as well, those dimples taunting her. “Thank you. I fancy myself reasonably clever on occasion. Not clever enough the night before last, ’owever.”
There it was, the hint of his true background slipping through like sunlight in the cracks of closed curtains. Along with the reminder of what had transpired. She had deliberately evaded his questions.
She should have known he would not have simply allowed the matter to slip away. “I am afraid I do not know what you are speaking of, sir.”
That was a lie. She had been doing rather a lot of that since she had run from Cousin Bartholomew’s odious clutches. And she expected to continue to do so until…well, for as long as necessary.
“The knot on my knowledge box, Miss Wren,” he elaborated.
Oh. He was concerned about the knock he had taken to the head?
“You injured yourself,” she supplied, turning her gaze back to the gardens, where her charges were currently running rampant.
“One!” the girls cried as they completed their first tour and continued on.
“Injured myself,” he repeated, his tone suggesting he did not believe her.
“Yes.” Remain calm, Persephone. Above all, be polite.
“How?”
I gave you too much laudanum, and you pitched headlong into a table.
“You were a trifle disguised that evening,” she said calmly, still avoiding his gaze. “It is to be understood, of course, given the events of that day, poor Lady Octavia having been attacked… You need not worry. I shall not judge you or carry a tale, and I trust you will return the favor.”
Heavens, if he told her employers he had been naked in her bed, she would be gone in the blink of an eye. As damning as the loss of her position would be, the damage such a tale would inflict upon all future situations would be nearly irreparable.
“That ain’t an explanation, my dear.”
He had moved closer. His voice was nearly at her ear, the low baritone an undeniably pleasant sound. She turned toward him at last.
“Two,” called one of the girls as the sound of small feet running returned.
Thirteen more rounds? Surely Persephone would perish of mortification first.
Or longing.
The unwanted thought lingered as she studied Rafe Sutton’s handsome countenance for any hint he knew what she had done. “What do you recall, Mr. Sutton? Perhaps we should begin there.”
She was blustering. Delaying. But she could not bear for him to continue prodding her in this fashion. What if he remembered something? Slipping the laudanum into his brandy had been foolish and dangerous. If her employer were to learn she had drugged his brother, the consequences would prove dire, she had no doubt.
She shivered, for whilst Mr. Jasper Sutton was a benevolent man, he was also fiercely protective of his family. And if he dismissed her, where would she go? Falsifying another letter to recommend her for a future placement would be reckless, and she needed more time.
“Did you knock me on the idea pot?” he asked, stroking his jaw.
There was a slight hint of golden whiskers on that strong angle, as if he had
not shaved that morning. For a reason she did not dare investigate, she found herself wondering at the texture. If she ran her fingertips over it, would it feel prickly to the touch?
“Of course I did not assault your person, Mr. Sutton,” she answered.
“Four,” announced Elizabeth, sounding a bit breathless from her exertion.
Four? Goodness, had Persephone been so caught up in Rafe Sutton that she had missed the third circumnavigation, or had Elizabeth made an error in her counting?
“Then how did I end up with an aching nob?”
“Must we discuss this?” she hissed, taking a step to her right, putting more distance between herself and his maddening presence.