Page 20 of A Winter Scandal

As he climbed the stairs, she turned back to the mirror, winding her braid into a quick knot at the base of her neck and pinning it with the few hairpins she had managed to retrieve from the tumbled mess of her hair. It was still a wreck, of course, with a number of stray hairs around her face still slipping free and curling. But at least it was a more organized wreck.

The same could not be said for her dress, which was still in the ragged state the baby had left it. She tugged and tucked at the fichu, working it back into its proper place so that it modestly covered most of her chest above the neckline of the dress. Satisfied that she looked vaguely presentable and that her lips and cheeks had lost at least some of their deep color, she returned to the kitchen.

There she found Lord Morecombe, his coat off, seated at the end of the old, scarred kitchen table, a bowl of stew in front of him and a slab of bread, spread with pale, creamy butter, in his hand. A second bowl rested on the table in the place at his right, a slice of bread beside it.

“Well, I see you are staying to eat,” Thea said crisply. She was pleased that she was able to speak without her voice trembling, though she could still not quite meet his eyes.

“Yes, Mrs. Brewster took pity on me. She doubtless saw how I was eyeing that bowl she’d left out for you.”

Mrs. Brewster smiled benignly at Lord Morecombe, and Thea thought sourly that it should come as no surprise he had worked his wiles on her housekeeper. The man was obviously a menace to womankind. Just to prove that she herself was unaffected by him, Thea sat down next to him and began to butter her slice of bread.

“Mrs. Brewster, you are a superb cook. If I was not certain that Miss Bainbridge would stab me through the heart for it, I would steal you away to cook for us at the Priory,” Morecombe went on, earning an almost girlish giggle from the middle-aged housekeeper.

Thea rolled her eyes and stabbed a piece of potato with her spoon, cutting it in two. “I should warn you that Mrs. Brewster is immune to flattery.”

“Ah, but ’tisn’t flattery when it’s true, now, is it?” Gabriel countered, his eyes dancing.

Thea could not keep her lips from twitching into a half smile. “You are far too skilled at cutting a wheedle, you know. It implies regrettable things about your character.”

“Only implies?”

Thea took a bite of the stew to cover her chuckle. It seemed most unfair that the man should be not only as handsome as he was but also possessed of charm; it made it terribly hard to dislike him.

“Well, miss, I’ll just be on my way.” Mrs. Brewster set the big black pot back on the stove, ready for the next day, and reached behind her to untie her apron. “The mister’ll be wondering where I am. I made a bit of beef broth for the babe. Just mash up some of the potatoes in that.”

“I will. Say hello to Mr. Brewster,” Thea told her.

“Aye, I will.” The housekeeper put on her jacket and knitted cap, then wrapped her bright scarlet scarf around her neck.

“Good night, Mrs. Brewster. And thank you for the stew.” Gabriel stood and nodded to her politely.

Mrs. Brewster was actually blushing, Thea thought in astonishment, as the housekeeper sketched a little curtsy back at him before hurrying out into the night.

“Must you instantly win over every female you meet?” Thea asked sourly as he sat back down.

He gave her a droll look. “Obviously I have not succeeded with you.” He pulled a chunk from his slice of bread and leaned back, taking a thoughtful bite. “I wouldn’t say that I must win over anyone, really, but I find life is pleasanter that way. What is your preferred manner of getting through life—charging in and taking the bull by the horns?”

“I don’t believe in ignoring wrongs, no.” Thea lifted her chin.

“And those wrongs include bachelors living too … freely?”

“If living ‘freely’ means fathering children indiscriminately and leaving them about the countryside like old shoes, then yes.”

He smiled. “I have tried never to leave even my old shoes about the countryside, let alone babies.”

“You may laugh at me all you want, but that doesn’t mean I am not right.”

“Never.” He reached out and ran a lightly caressing hand down her arm. “Never would I laugh at you, my dear Miss Bainbridge. But I confess that I find you … interesting.”

Well, that was certainly damning with faint praise, she thought, and her cheeks warmed as she kept her gaze on her bowl. She ate mechanically, very aware that he continued to watch her, and her stomach tightened with nerves. She hated that he could make her uneasy simply by staring at her. She hated even more that she could not help but wonder what he thought when he looked at her.

Thea made herself raise her eyes. She was not one to hide from reality. Gabriel was studying her, absently twirling the crust left over from his bread. Thea shifted under his gaze and cleared her throat. She had to fight an urge to make sure her hair was all in place.

“Have I sprung a third eye, Lord Morecombe?”

“No, not that I see, Miss Bainbridge,” he responded evenly. “Is there a danger of that?”

“I meant that you are staring.”