It sounded facile. But there was something—not defeated, but definitely thwarted—about the set of his shoulders and the tension about his eyes now. She sensed this was someone accustomed to marshaling panache to get through untenable situations, and when confronted with a choice between either death or asking for help he would really have to think about it.
And he’d asked her for help, and oddly, this felt like something a strong man would do.
Wordlessly she fetched his coat and gently handed it to him.
He retrieved a packet of cheroots from the pocket.
“It’s against the rules to smoke in the rooms,” she said stiffly.
He went still. “Ah. I fear I’ve not been apprised of these rules.”
“They’re printed on a little card.”
“A little card you say? I must see it at once lest I be tempted to break another rule.”
She fetched it from the desk and silently handed it to him.
He took it from her gently; his eyes lingered on her face before they dropped slowly to study the card. And she felt that everywhere in her body, in the shortness of her breath, a heat between her legs, as surely as if he’d drawn a finger down her spine.
It was one of the most strangely sensual moments of her life.
She couldn’t speak.
The onslaught of things she felt in this man’s presence confused her. They were as distinct as they wereuntrustworthy. And they were nothing, nothing like anything she’d ever felt for or with Brundage, even when he’d kissed her. Even when, at first, she hadn’t hated his kisses.
For the first time since she’d fled, she felt something other than determined and frightened.
She felt fiercelyglad.
This was the other gift Mr. Hawkes had given her unwittingly.
“And Mr. Gallagher?” he said idly, as he perused the card of rules. “Is he also a guest at this inn?”
He looked up swiftly.
“I am a widow.” She’d said those words aloud a half dozen or so times now but suddenly they echoed woodenly in her ears. This had a bit to do with that penetrating gaze of his.
“I see,” he said gravely. “I am very sorry for your loss.”
She inclined her head graciously. “Thank you. It has been some time since my husband, Thomas, passed away. I am not long out of mourning.”
“Yes. I can see that. Mauve, I believe women are calling that color this year.”
“It’s unusual for men to know the names for colors unless they pay the modiste’s bills. Is Mrs. Hawkes very stylish, then?”
“There is...” he said, quite slowly and deliberately, and paused to light the cheroot anyway, clearly just for the pleasure of witnessing her reaction, “...no Mrs. Hawkes.”
He regarded her coolly and drew in a lungful of smoke. He closed his eyes in ecstasy.
She studied him. She did not one bit like the upward leap her heart gave when he delivered that bit of news.
“Do you do what you want to do simply because you’re a man, Mr. Hawkes?” She waved a hand in the general direction of the cheroot, and managed to wave the smoke away, too.
“Oh, most definitely not,” he said easily. “That is, that’s not the only reason I do what I want to do, typically.”
“All the other gentlemen here obey the rules, and one is a viscount.”
Too late she heard how she sounded: like a prim little girl.