Page 18 of Not a Fine Gentleman
Blinking, she dragged a hand over her face and pushed her hair back. “Jackson? What are you doing in my room?” Her words still came out garbled.
“I’m shaving.”
She ran her hand over her mouth. “Did you feed me a pillow last night?”
He gestured to the washbasin. “There’s fresh water in the pitcher.”
She dragged herself out of bed and staggered to the bowl and pitcher. Swaying like a drunk, she poured herself a cup of water, spilling it all over. Connor winced. He must have given her too much of the powder last night.
She drained the cup, turned around, and leaned against the table. Connor glanced at her in the mirror. A tiny droplet of water clung to her full lower lip. Her lips, parted and moist, shone like a candle in a dark room. The parts of him he usually ignored woke up and noticed. He turned abruptly, refusing to enjoy the sensual sight a moment longer.
He busied himself fastening the two shirt buttons under his chin. “The stage leaves in an hour.”
“You’re half-naked.”
He almost smiled at her indignant tones. The upper crust was so stuffy about attire. He could have wandered around the docks dressed as he was in breeches, a shirt, and boots, and no one would have blinked. “I don’t normally wear a waistcoat and cravat when I shave.”
“Do you even own such clothing?” She folded her arms and glared at him as if he were a chimney sweep who’d dared enter a ball.
He nodded. “For special occasions. And somehow, I manage the knot without a valet. Forgive me if I didn’t deem you a special occasion.” He put on his colored stock where she probably expected to see a cravat and pulled on his lightweight coat. He couldn’t help but glance at her reflection in the mirror—just to make sure she didn’t bash him over the head again, of course.
Glaring at him, Lady Margaret pushed again at her hair hanging around her in such a mess that her lady’s maid would probably weep. In an imperious tone, she demanded, “You didn’t sleep in this room with me, did you?”
“Of course I did,” Connor drawled. “I couldn’t risk you slipping away in the middle of the night, now could I?”
She gripped the battered bedpost with both hands. “Did you…?” Her breathing became rapid. True fear shot through her expression—only for an instant—before she replaced it with ice-cold disdain. In a voice so full of controlled fury it might have come from a battle-hardened soldier, she growled, “If you dared to touch me….”
Connor softened. She was imperious and everything he disliked about the beau monde, but she was, after all, a woman. He refused to treat the fair sex shoddily, and she deserved to know that. “I didn’t touch you. I slept on the floor.”
She cast an appraising gaze over him, nodded jerkily, and regained her aplomb. “Good. Because my brothers would cheerfully kill you if you had been un-gentlemanly.”
That was the truest statement she’d made so far. Her brothers were not men to cross.
He gave her a half-smile. “I am no gentleman. Therefore, much of what I do is ungentlemanly.” Sobering, he faced her fully. “However, I assure you that I’d never take advantage of a woman.”
Her words came out clearer. “I’m also an excellent shot—even better than I am with a tree branch.”
How good was she with a knife?
He gave her a cursory glance from head to toe, firmly quelling any lingering desire for the pampered, privileged murder suspect. “Don’t worry, you aren’t the kind of woman to tempt me.”
Something almost… hurt?… flashed in her expression before she turned away. Her posture turned rigid. Though his intention had been partly to reassure her, and partly his own pride wanting to take a jab at her, the thought that he might have truly hurt her feelings left an uncomfortable burr in his conscience. He ignored that thought. No doubt the hoity toity snob could use a bit of a set down.
“I’ll leave you a bit of privacy.” He left the room.
Somehow, he would keep the haughty woman out of danger and then cheerfully wash his hands of her the moment he delivered her to one of her brothers. She would no longer be his problem.
