“Miss Flora?”
Realizing how her eyes clung to his broad chest, she blushed to fire. She licked her lips, hoping without great optimism that the dimness concealed the color in her cheeks. “I’ll take you upstairs.” She paused, recalling that she was a maid. “Sir.”
Charlotte hadn’t had this trouble staying in character when she’d played Cinderella. Perhaps because the play’s Prince Charming was Paul Carter, the vicar’s son. A perfectly nice boy, but a nonentity compared to Ewan Macrae. All her life, she’d pushed Paul around. She already knew she didn’t have a prayer of pushing Lord Lyle.
Another reason to reject his suit. Since her beloved mother’s death ten years ago, she’d run the Bassington estate, and she’d discovered that she liked the world to march to her drumbeat. She’d bridle against any attempt to tame her, yet she couldn’t respect a man who let her walk all over him.
Lucky for her, as the only child of a rich man, she could afford to claim her independence. Her indulgent papa always gave her her way, saying he appreciated having such a diligent chatelaine.
Which made this lunacy her father cooked up with Lyle even more inexplicable. She stifled the familiar pang of hurt that struck every time she recalled that cheerful letter disposing of her future.
“Follow me,” she said, turning with a swish of her meager skirts toward the steps. The Cinderella costume was a blessing when it came to a disguise, but it was cursed flimsy. She was starting to shiver. Changing into dry, warm clothing became imperative—especially if this strange other-worldly feeling portended a cold.
“You’re very kind,” he said in a neutral voice, shouldering the valise with an ease that sent an unwelcome thrill through Charlotte.
Goodness. If ever one needed to fight off dragons, this was the man to enlist. Any sensible dragon would take one look at that powerful form and scurry back to its cave.
With Bill at his heels, Lyle followed her up the stone stairs. In the constricted space, she was preternaturally aware of his size compared to hers. She should have kept her clogs on. She’d never thought of herself as a fragile woman, but something about the earl’s large, strong body made her feel ridiculously tiny and defenseless.
They stepped into the great hall, the core of the original medieval building. How vast and empty the manor felt when it contained only he
r and one too-handsome man.
Lord Lyle paused at the top of the steps and glanced around the massive space with its hammer-beam roof sporting angels with the Warren shield—three gold swans on a blue background. His expression was a mixture of awe and amusement. “Good Lord, lassie, I feel like Henry the Eighth.”
She bit back the impulse to say that even if he took six wives, Charlotte Warren still wouldn’t count among their number. “It’s very old, fourteenth century.”
She’d resented Lyle’s constant attention. Now, stupidly, she resented that he forgot about her. He performed a slow turn, whistling in admiration. Those clever eyes took in the ancient patterned tiles and the tall heraldic south window, which even on a grim day flooded the enormous space with light.
“It’s impressive.” His attention settled on the makeshift stage beneath the window. “Cinderella’s parlor, I take it? I’d have thought Sir John’s daughter would play the leading role. I was told she lives here.”
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. “Miss Warren is away at present.”
“While you run the Easter play.”
“I’m a mere participant, sir,” she said. “I do what I’m told.”
The glance he directed at her indicated disbelief. “That must be difficult.”
She lowered her eyes to hide her stirring temper. “I know my place, Mr. Smith.”
The name stuck in Charlotte’s neck. But if she admitted she knew who he was, she’d have to confess her own identity. Her impulsive adoption of an alias sank her deeper in subterfuge by the minute.
Above her, the rows of Warren angels stared down in silent condemnation. They clearly didn’t approve of her leading the noble earl up the garden path.
“I’m sure you do, Miss Flora.” Something in his tone caught her attention. Surely he hadn’t guessed who she was. She wasn’t dressed like the lady of the manor, and he had no reason to doubt her.
“The…the bedrooms are upstairs.” The words vibrated between them like an invitation from a courtesan to a patron.
The light faded fast as evening drew in, but even so, she caught a flash of pure sapphire in his eyes. “Please lead the way.”
In the flurry of activity, settling his horse, and bringing Lord Lyle inside, and most distracting of all, maintaining her disguise, she’d been conscious of him as a man, but not afraid. Now her precarious position, stranded with a stranger, struck her like a blow. When she thought of him as the enemy, she was sure she could hold her own. When she recognized the unwelcome attraction flaring between them, her confidence faltered.
All mockery fled that compelling face with its chiseled jaw and arrogant nose. “What’s wrong?”
What was wrong was that all of a sudden she realized that Lord Lyle posed a genuine threat. Something at her deepest level insisted that physically she was safe—perhaps his kindness to his horse and her dog, or that moment when he’d given her his coat despite being soaked and frozen himself—as far as she wanted to be.
But how safe did she want to be?