She liked his version of her, and she liked this directness.
She ventured a smile again.
A moment later he asked, “How much of mehaveyou seen?”
It was increasingly clear that he was incorrigibility filigreed with exquisite manners. And he flirted in such a cleverly adept, subtle way she could feel it, little by little, winding about her like a spell. Or sneaking under a door, like a mist.
“Why, sir? Do you care about propriety or do you wish to catch up on all the blushing you were unable to do when you were ill?” She said it acerbically.
He smiled slowly at this in what appeared to be absolute approbation.
“Blushing,” he repeated, bemused, as if she’d saidsomething quaint. “Refresh my memory, Mrs. Gallagher. Is that the thing people capable of shame do? Not that I’ve anything to be ashamed of,” Mr. Hawkes added, a moment later, wryly, mostly to himself. But very much for her benefit. The corner of his mouth tipped up.
She was silent. If he was referring to how he looked half-dressed, she would have to agree, and she wasn’t about to do that out loud.
“Are you disappointed I’m not a vicar?” he asked more quietly. It sounded as though he genuinely wanted to know.
She shrugged with one shoulder. “Men are seldom who women want them to be.”
He gave a low, impressed whistle. “That worldly, are you?” he said on a hush, all gentle mockery.
How odd that, having nursed him to health, she suddenly felt she’d like to throw something at his head.
“I do not know what you happen to be, if not a vicar,” she added. “Perhaps I will be less disappointed.”
“I’m a gentleman,” he said brightly.
Apparently, her face reflected skepticism.
“And perhaps I’m someone who may one day do you a good turn, as well. Mrs. Gallagher.”
This sounded sincere, if also suspect.
He began to, at last, pull his shirt down over his head.
She turned her head slightly. Transforming from half-naked to clothed seemed more intimate, somehow, than the reverse. It was far too late to do the proper thing, like turn her back or stare at the ceiling or, better yet, leave the room and leave him to it. It seemed ridiculous to pretend virginal modesty. She had, after all, counted the sections on his abdomen. (Six.)
He seemed so unaffected by the fact that he had an audience while he dressed that she was instantly certain he’d done it in front of women any number of times, and for the third or fourth time since she’d formally met Mr. Hawkes, her temperature and probably her color changed.
But it was difficult not to feel proprietary about this man, given that she’d watched over him in the night. She suffered now as his face went determinedly blank and so taut her every muscle tensed in sympathy. Enduring pain with stoicism simply seemed like something he knew how to do, like pulling on his boots or shaving his face.
His hands trembled a little.
Mr. Hawkes was exhausted and either stubborn or foolish or both.
Or simply male.
She’d seen him at what was likely his weakest. Men were dangerous when they felt weak, she thought. Like wounded animals. But there was a difference between a man feeling weak and being weak, and she thought she knew it now, watching Mr. Hawkes.
“I should think, Mr. Hawkes, that someone ought to have a look at your wound and perhaps change your dressing. I shall tell the others the happy news of your survival. Perhaps you should... begin your day with some broth? Some coffee or tea?”
“I want to smoke,” he said abruptly.
Then he surreptitiously took a breath and released it, as if recovering from the effort to put on his shirt.
He glanced toward the wardrobe thoughtfully. He seemed to mull something over.
“Mrs. Gallagher, would you be so kind as to hand my coat to me? I shouldn’t normally ask you to do it, but my dignity might not survive the way I suspect Iwould move across the room in front of you, and my already bruised vanity demands that I appear as virile as possible.”