Miss Amelia's Mistletoe Marquess. Jenni Fletcher

of his chest and a dusting of pale golden hair beneath. Her gaze continued downwards, as if drawn of its own volition, certainly against her own better judgement. He must have woken up in a sweat because his shirt was stuck to his skin in places, making the stomach muscles beneath as visible as if he were naked.

      She ran her tongue nervously over lips that felt bone dry all of a sudden. Their close proximity was utterly inappropriate, even more so than her being there was already, but his hand was still holding hers, his fingers warm and strong, and she felt an almost irresistible impulse to stroke the inside of his palm with her thumb.

      ‘I’m very real—’ she cleared her throat instead ‘—but I don’t deserve your admiration. Sometimes I feel trapped, too, not in the past, but in the present. I don’t compare my situation to yours, of course, but there are days when I want to scream at the very top of my lungs. If I hadn’t found your house this evening, I might actually have done it, just to see how it feels.’

      ‘Go ahead.’

      She looked up in alarm. ‘I’m not going to scream, Mr Whitlock.’

      ‘Why not? It’s the perfect opportunity. There aren’t any other houses within hearing distance, just a lot of trees. You might frighten a few badgers and squirrels, but we can live with that.’

      ‘I still can’t scream.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Because I don’t do things like that. It’s not who I am. Once maybe, but not any more.’

      ‘Then who are you, Just Millie?’

      ‘Who am I?’ The very question made her feel reckless. ‘I’m Miss Amelia Fairclough, teacher of sewing and housekeeping at the Fairclough Foundation. I’m practical, virtuous and self-sacrificing.’ She drew her fingers away from his to tick the qualities off one by one. ‘Which I know because everyone tells me so.’

      His lips twitched as he lifted an eyebrow quizzically. ‘Aren’t they supposed to be positive qualities?’

      ‘They are, but put all together like that they just sound so utterly boring.’

      ‘Surely people don’t tell you that?’

      ‘Not to my face, but it’s implied. Self-sacrificing, as if I don’t have a self!’ She dug her nails into her palms in frustration. ‘It’s not that I’m unhappy, at least not exactly. My work is very rewarding and it pleases me to know that I’m doing something useful and helping others, but I want to be more than just practical and virtuous! I used to be, only those things have become habits and now everyone expects them of me. I feel so…’

      ‘Trapped?’

      ‘Exactly! And boring. I feel as if I’ve become someone I didn’t want to be, someone I’m not even sure that I like. My sister and brother are both far more interesting than I am.’

      ‘Are you the eldest?’

      ‘Only by half an hour. Silas is my twin.’ She drew in a deep breath and then sighed it out again. ‘It sounds ridiculous, but I was trying to be different and rebellious tonight and look what happened! I got lost in a snowstorm and ruined your evening.’

      ‘You haven’t ruined anything. I’m glad to have met you, Just Millie.’

      ‘You are?’

      ‘Extremely.’ He sounded surprisingly genuine. ‘You’ve made me feel better.’

      ‘I’m glad.’ She peered up at him. ‘Although in that case I probably shouldn’t tell you the most boring thing of all.’

      ‘But now I’m curious.’ There was a hint of a smile in his voice. ‘Tell me.’

      ‘All right…’ She sighed again. ‘It’s that at this precise moment, what I’d like more than anything else in the world is a cup of tea.’ She screwed her mouth up apologetically. ‘That’s not something an exciting woman would say, is it?’

      ‘I don’t know. It sounds like a quite genius idea to me.’ He pushed himself out of his chair, started towards the door and then stopped, turning around to bob down beside her. ‘For what it’s worth I don’t think you’re boring at all. In fact, I think you might be the most intriguing woman I’ve ever met.’ His gaze dropped. ‘And my dressing gown suits you, by the way.’

      ‘Oh!’ She pressed a hand to the throat of the peacock-green-and-blue garment self-consciously. It swamped her slender shoulders and trailed several inches along the floor, looking more like a ceremonial robe than a housecoat, but it was soft and surprisingly comfortable, so much so that she’d forgotten she was wearing it. She even liked its musky smell. ‘I was rushing to get downstairs, but I didn’t want to do it in my unmentionables and this was the first thing that came to hand.’

      ‘Well, that’s certainly a relief. We wouldn’t want any unmentionables on display.’ His gaze drifted to her mouth and then back to her eyes, his own glowing with some indefinable emotion. Only it brought the word smouldering to mind. ‘Now wait here and I’ll see what I can find in the kitchen.’

      Millie waited until the parlour door had closed before swallowing hard. His face had been so close to hers that for the space of a few unsteady heartbeats she’d thought that he was going to embrace her. To kiss her. The idea ought to have been shocking, but it wasn’t. On the contrary, it had been quite decidedly tempting.

      She pressed her hands to her furiously blushing cheeks, feeling as if his gaze itself had scorched her. Ironically after her evening’s adventure in the snow, now the whole room felt too hot. She stood up and moved away from the fire, trying to distract herself from the fact that she’d just poured her heart and soul out to a man she’d only just met. It was outrageous! Though on the other hand, it had felt good to talk to someone about her feelings for once, and it wasn’t as if she’d done anything very wrong. She’d only told the truth and it was an unusual night, after all, a break from her real life of virtue and self-sacrifice, a snow-covered secret that no one else ever needed to know about.

      And he’d called her intriguing. That was the best secret of all.

       Chapter Four

      ‘Tea is served,’ Cassius announced, lifting the pot and pouring out two cups of steaming amber liquid.

      ‘Thank you.’ Miss Amelia Fairclough, as she was apparently called, clasped her hands around the rim with a pleased-sounding sigh.

      ‘Sugar?’

      ‘Two lumps, please.’

      ‘Two lumps.’ He dropped them into her cup and stirred. ‘I’m rather good at playing mistress of the house, don’t you think?’

      ‘Very proficient.’ Her lips—perfect, bow-shaped, rosy-red lips—spread into a smile. ‘All you need now is an apron.’

      He chuckled and sat down on the hearth rug beside her, leaning against the armchair for comfort. It was strange how relaxed he felt in her company now. Positively serene, in fact. Since returning to England, he’d barely spoken about his time in Afghanistan and India to anyone, no more than was necessary anyway. He preferred that nobody knew how much the experience had affected him. Part of the reason he chose to sleep in the gatehouse was so that his staff, never mind Sylvia and her daughters, wouldn’t overhear his nightmares. He didn’t want anyone else to know that he had them at all, only Miss Fairclough had somehow guessed the truth. As to why he’d chosen to tell her the details, he had no idea. It wasn’t simply because she’d been there in a moment of weakness. It was her. She’d made him want to talk, to be listened to as well by someone who’d seemed like she might understand. She’d truly made him feel better. So much so that he wanted to help her, too.

      ‘Now I have a question for you, Just