He is kind, she reminded herself fiercely. Mr. Morton is kind. If the trap sprang, he would not let her bleed.
But the guilt returned to her anyway. A door somewhere closed. Her pulse found her throat. Maria crossed the carpet and tucked herself behind the painted screen, where the cranes looked disapproving.
The handle turned, and then the door opened. She watched through a thin seam of light, hiding herself behind one of the panels.
A gentleman entered the room. She squinted her eyes to make sure.
That did not look like Peter. This gentleman was taller and had a more rugged appearance in comparison to Peter’s more delicate, boyish features.
Something caught in her throat. Had she entered the wrong room?
She watched as he shrugged out of his coat. Broad shoulders, impatient. His hair looked as if fingers had already been through it. His jaw was roughened by a thin shadow of a beard. She clapped a hand over her eyes.
The move helped nothing. She could still hear him. And as she tried to place the face to a name, she knew who this was.
The infamous Duke of Verwood. Stephen was his name, if she was not remembering incorrectly.
Maria’s heart lurched up and slammed hard against her chest. He is not Mr. Morton.
Somewhere she had made a great miscalculation, and now the only thing to do was make her as small as possible so that she might go unnoticed. Otherwise, trouble loomed above her.
“Come out,” the man said lazily, without turning. He was speaking as though he knew she was there all along. “If you mean to rob me, you will be disappointed. If you mean to stab me, I advise haste. I am very quick.”
Maria bit the inside of her cheek. Perhaps if she kept very still, he would decide the house creaked and she was a dream.
Or a ghost, even. Yes, that would be very much suited to her.
The duke turned then. His blue eyes swept the room and landed on the screen. His mouth did a dangerous, amused thing.
“I can see your shadow on the wall behind you,” he muttered. “Now if I were you, I would suggest a better hiding place the next time around.”
He came toward the screen, unhurried, shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rucked high over strong forearms. When he rounded the panel, she was stupidly there. She looked at his throat first, by accident, and her face went hot. She dragged her gaze up to his face.
“Your Grace,” she said faintly.
“Good evening,” he returned. He examined her as one might examine a puzzle. “I generally keep my women in other places.”
“I am not… I did not….” Words fled in all directions. “Th-this is not…”
“I am not sure if we have made our introductions?” he said, smirking.
A hot flush covered her face, and she stood up.
“Miss... Havenford,” she introduced herself, wanting the ground next to her to open up and swallow her whole.
What was he doing here?He was not supposed to be here.
“Stephen,” he said in return, eyes never leaving her, “Though some refer to me with the title of a Duke, however, my name on its own sits just as well with me.”
Immediately, Maria was taken by the confidence with which he carried himself. Charming was the word that came to her mind, and she found herself biting on her lip.
“Now would you tell me what you’re doing squatting over in my chambers?” the smirk returned on both his face and his voice. “I have to say, not a place one would expect a young lady like yourself to be in. If anything, the bed would be much more comfortable.”
“Good God,” she whispered, mortified.
“Quite,” he said.
“I thought…” She swallowed. “This is Mr. Morton’s room.”