But Mr. Sutton merely followed her, determined to have the answers she had no wish to give. “Yes, we must.”
* * *
Rafe studied Miss Wren closely, wondering why the devil she was being so stubborn. Could she not see that he needed answers? That a man could not wake in a woman’s bed bare-arsed naked, without a bloody inkling of what had occurred the night before, and not have questions?
“Why should it matter so much to you?” she asked, frowning at him in her stern, governess way that made him want to kiss her.
What was it about this wench that made her so comely?
“Five,” Anne declared, running by.
His attempt to distract the twins had worked marvelously. He had the opportunity to speak with Miss Wren alone. And yet, she remained as slippery as ever.
He did not want to force her answer, but she was making it impossible.
“Because it matters,” he responded, being equally evasive in his reply. “Tell me, or I will find it necessary to speak with my brother about that night.”
She went pale, the lovely flush fading from her delicate cheekbones, and he regretted his words. But it was too late to recall them.
Miss Wren glanced away. “You fell into a table as you were disrobing. That is how you struck your head, Mr. Sutton.”
What did not make sense to Rafe, and what had been troubling him ever since he had risen to find himself in her bed, was how the floating hell he had managed to get so thoroughly sotted from brandy. He had not a single memory of drinking to excess that evening. Only the brandy, then a swirling feeling, as if his head were too light for his body. The brandy had been oddly bitter…
“There was something wrong with that bloody brandy,” he grumbled. “There had to ’ave been.”
But what? And how?
For the first time, a rather sinister thought rose in his mind. Now that it had taken up residence there, he was not sure why the possibility had not occurred to him sooner.
“The brandy was drugged,” he said, making the realization aloud.
At his side, Miss Wren had stiffened. “Why should you think so?”
It was the only explanation for his complete lack of recollection. Rafe was no swill tub, though he was hardly a stranger to the drink. “Because I can’t recall a single damned moment beyond brandy and you.”
Had he kissed her that night? Not to have taken those lush lips with his would have been a sin. Rafe would have sworn kissing her was an experience he would not forget, regardless of how soused he had been.
It was difficult indeed to imagine this prim woman welcoming him into her bed. She was so bleeding icy. And despite her undeniable beauty, she was also the last sort of female he would have tumbled. He had never been stirred by ladies with precise well-bred accents and manners. Lusty, knowledgeable widows were his standard fare.
“Six!” Anne cried, her cheeks rosy, her dark hair flying wildly behind her.
The girls looked as if they were losing some of their vigor, which meant he needed to conduct this conversation with haste before his curious nieces would interrupt.
“What was my behavior like?” he asked their governess.
“It is far better for it to remain unmentioned.”
“Hmm.” He leaned nearer, realizing his mistake as he did so. Miss Wren smelled bloody delectable. Winter’s soap, unless he missed his guess, all flowers and sunshine and everything the East End was not. “Did I touch you, Miss Wren?”
Because if he had not, and she had been willing that night, by God, he was a bigger fool than he had believed.
“Not in the manner you are suggesting,” she said, keeping her gaze averted, as if watching a pair of children racing wildly about a small London garden were the most riveting of sights.
“Seven!”
“And what manner am I suggesting?” he could not resist prodding, hoping to watch the color rise to her creamy skin once more.
Scarcely any of it was visible—not enough. He would dearly love to unwrap her himself. Pity she was the twins’ governess. She would have made a wonderful challenge.