Rake with a Frozen Heart. Marguerite Kaye

mouth. Eyebrows that simply refused to show even the tiniest inclination to arch. Too-curly brown hair in wild disorder. Brown eyes. And, currently in the hands of the aforementioned Mrs Peters, a brown dress.

      She sighed heavily. It summed things up, really. Her whole life was various shades of brown. It was to her shame and discredit that no amount of telling herself, as Papa constantly reminded her, that there were many people in the world considerably worse off than her, made her feel any better about it. It was not that she was malcontent precisely, but she could not help thinking sometimes that there must be more to life. Though more of what, she had no idea.

      ‘I suppose being thumped on the head, then being left to die of exposure, to say nothing of being rescued by a devastatingly handsome earl, counts as a burst of genuine excitement,’ she told her reflection. ‘Even if he is a very reluctant knight errant with a very volatile temperament and an extremely dubious reputation.’

      The clock on the mantel chimed the quarter-hour, making her jump. She could not possibly add keeping the earl from his breakfast to her other sins. Hastily, she slopped water from the jug on the nightstand into the prettily flowered china bowl and set about removing the worst of the mud from her face.

      Almost precisely on time, Henrietta tripped into the breakfast parlour with her hair brushed and pinned, her body swathed in her host’s elegant dressing gown of dark green brocade trimmed with gold frogging. Even with the cuffs turned back and the gown belted tightly at her waist, it enveloped her form completely, trailing behind her like a royal robe. The idea that the material that lay next to her skin had also lain next to his naked body was unsettling. She tried not to dwell on the thought, but it could not be said she was wholly successful.

      She was nervous. Seeing the breakfast table set for just two made her even more nervous. She had never before had breakfast alone with a man, save for dear Papa, which didn’t count. She had certainly never before had breakfast with a man while wearing his dressing gown. Feeling incredibly gauche and at the same time excruciatingly conscious of her body, clothed only in her underwear, handicapped by the voluminous folds of the dressing gown, Henrietta tripped into the room.

      He didn’t seem to notice her at first. He was staring into space, the most melancholy expression on his face. Darkly brooding. Formidable. Starkly handsome. Her pulses fluttered. He had shaved and changed. He was wearing a clean shirt and freshly tied cravat, a tightly fitting morning coat of dark blue, and buff-coloured pantaloons with polished boots. The whole ensemble made him look considerably more earl-like and consequently considerably more intimidating. Also, even more devastatingly attractive. Henrietta plastered a faltering smile to her face and dropped into a very far from elegant and certainly not, she was sure, deep enough curtsy. ‘I must apologise, my lord, for being so remiss, I have not yet thanked you properly for rescuing me. I am very much obliged to you.’

      Her voice dragged Rafe’s thoughts back from the past, where he had once again been lingering. Be dammed to the precious title and the need for an heir! Who really cared, save his grandmother, if it was inherited by some obscure third cousin twice removed? If she only knew what it had cost him already, she would soon stop harping on about it. He gazed down at Henrietta, still smiling up at him uncertainly. Holding out his hand, he helped her back to her feet. ‘I trust you feel a little better, Miss Markham. You certainly look very fetching in my robe. It is most becoming.’

      ‘I’m perfectly all right, all things considered,’ Henrietta said, grateful for his support as she got up from her curtsy, which had made her head swim. ‘And as for the robe, it is very gallant of you to lie, but I know I must look a fright.’

      ‘Frightfully nice, I’d say. And you must believe me, for I am something of an expert in these matters.’

      His haunted look had disappeared. He was smiling now. Not a real smile, not one that reached his eyes, but his mouth turned up at the corners. ‘I think I’ve finally remembered what happened,’ Henrietta said.

      ‘Yes?’ Rafe shook his head, dispelling the ghosts that seemed to have gathered there. ‘It can wait. You look as if you need food.’

      ‘I am hungry—a dog made me miss my dinner.’

      For the second time that morning, Rafe laughed aloud. This time it sounded less rusty. ‘Well, I am happy to inform you that there are no dogs here to make you miss your breakfast,’ he said. The dressing gown gave Henrietta Markham a winsome quality. It gaped at the neck, showing far too much creamy bosom, which she really ought to have had the decency to confine in stays. She looked as if she had just tumbled from his bed. Which in a way, she had. He realised he’d been staring and looked away, slightly disconcerted by the unexpected stirrings of arousal. Desire was usually something he could conjure up or dispense with at will.

      Helping her into a seat, he sat down opposite, keeping his eyes resolutely on the food in front of him. He would feed her, find out where she had sprung from and return her there forthwith. Then he would sleep. And after that he must return to town. The meeting with his grandmother could not be postponed indefinitely. An immense malaise, grey and heavy as a November sky, loomed over him at the thought.

      So he would not think of it. He need not, not just yet, while he had the convenient distraction of the really quite endearing Henrietta Markham sitting opposite him, in his dressing gown, with her tale to tell. Rafe poured her some coffee and placed a generous helping of ham on to her plate along with a baked egg and some bread and butter, helping himself to a mound of beef and a tankard of ale. ‘Eat, before you faint with hunger.’

      ‘This looks delicious,’ she said, gazing at her loaded plate with relish.

      ‘It is just breakfast.’

      ‘Well, I’ve never had such a nice breakfast,’ Henrietta said chirpily, at the same time, thinking be quiet! She was not usually a female who wittered, yet she sounded uncommonly like one this morning. Nerves. Yet she was not usually one to allow nerves to affect her behaviour. Off balance. He disconcerted her, that’s what it was. The situation. The dressing gown. The man. Definitely the man. This man, who was telling her, with a quizzical look that meant she’d either been muttering to herself or allowing her thoughts to be read quite clearly on her face, that it would be a nice cold breakfast unless she made a start on it.

      She picked up her fork. Was he just teasing, or did he think she was an idiot? She sounded like an idiot. He had the ability to make her feel like one. Taking a bite of deliciously soft egg, she studied him covertly from under her lashes. The dark shadows were clearer now in the bright morning light that streamed through the windows. He had a strained look about his mouth. She ate some more egg and cut into a slice of York ham. He was edgy, too. Even when he smiled, it was as if he were simply going through the motions.

      Clearly not happy, then. Why not, she wondered, when he had so much more than most? She longed to ask, but another glance at that countenance, and the question stuck in her throat. More than anything, Henrietta decided, what Rafe St Alban was, was opaque. She had no idea what he was thinking. It made her want, all the more, to know, yet still—quite unusually, for Henrietta had been encouraged from a very early age to speak her mind—she hesitated.

      A tiny frisson, this time excitement mingled with fear, caused goose bumps to rise on the back of her neck. He was not just intimidating. He was intimidatingly attractive. What was it about him that made her feel like this? Fascinated and frightened and—as if she were a rabbit faced with a particularly tasty treat, though she knew full well it was bait. She was beginning to see Rafe St Alban’s reputation might well be deserved, after all. If he set his mind to something, she would be difficult to resist.

      She shivered again and told herself not to be so foolish. He would not set his mind on her! And even if he did, knowing the type of man he was, being fully aware of his lack of morals, she would have no difficulty at all in resisting him. Not that he had made any such attempt, nor was likely to.

      More to the point, why was she wasting her time thinking about such things? She had much more important matters to attend to now that she remembered the shocking events of last night. Even before that, she must attend to her stomach, else she would be fainting away, and Henrietta, who