Chapter 11 #3
“Will I live, doctor?” My voice was weaker than I intended.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “It’s too soon to tell.”
He leaned closer to study the wound, and my breath hitched. His face was mere inches from mine. I worried he’d hear the rapid pounding of my heart, but my back was pressed up against the shelves, and there was nowhere I could retreat. Oddly enough, I didn’t want to retreat.
Mr. Hawke brushed the tip of his thumb along my cheekbone, drying a thin trail of blood.
My flesh prickled at his touch, sending a flare of energy rippling through me.
It was such a small touch, merely wiping away a bit of blood, and yet it was as if my body drank in every second of it and multiplied it tenfold.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, searching my face.
It didn’t, not really. But the concern in his gaze made it clear that my physical reaction to his nearness was painfully obvious, so I simply nodded to conceal the truth.
“Here,” he breathed. “My mother used to do this any time I got hurt. It helps.”
Before I could so much as blink, his lips pursed, and he leaned closer to—
A gentle stream of cool air blew on my cheek. It took me a moment to process what his mouth was doing—or, more specifically, what it was not doing. When I realized that he was simply cooling my skin to lessen the pain of the scrape, my cheeks flooded with heat once more.
It was then, as Mr. Hawke’s lips lingered mere inches away from my skin, that the door to the shed burst open.
Mr. Hawke pulled himself off me in an instant. But it was too late. There in the doorway stood the ancient butler, looking pale as a corpse.
“What is it, Grimshaw?” Mr. Hawke ran a hand through his damp hair, making it stand up on end.
“I was just, er, looking for you, sir,” the butler said from beneath the shelter of an umbrella. “Mrs. Sweete said she lost sight of Miss Weston and asked me to locate her.” He looked at me, and his mouth pinched with disapproval. “I’ll report that she is alive and well.”
Heat burned my cheeks, but I assured myself that the butler had not caught us in a compromising act. Mr. Hawke was merely examining the scrape on my cheek. That was all.
I pulled the old coat around me tighter and eyed the butler. Would he keep this to himself? Perhaps I could bribe him… but with what funds? Maybe Mrs. Sweete could uncover something unsavory about him and—good heavens, would I really resort to blackmail?
“Could you prepare some tea for the ladies to warm up?” Mr. Hawke asked the butler. He then turned to me with a smile and placed his hands on his hips. “What do you prefer? Black? Bohea?”
I gawked at his casual tone. But I supposed men didn’t need to worry about their reputations like women did. The thought made me bristle.
“Never mind,” Mr. Hawke said when I didn’t respond. “Grimshaw, be a good man and bring them a whole tray of different teas so they can take their pick.”
The butler glanced between us warily, then let out a long sigh. “Very well, sir.”
“Oh, and Grimshaw,” Mr. Hawke said as the butler turned to leave. “Leave the umbrella, please.”
The butler looked longingly at his umbrella, then relinquished it to Mr. Hawke before shutting the door behind him. Thankfully, the hail had ended. A comfortable drizzle of rain was left in its stead.
As soon as the butler was gone, I released a tight breath. “We shouldn’t be here.”
“You’re right.” Mr. Hawke rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked out the window. The sun was already peeking through the clouds. “You should reunite with your chaperone. I’ll follow a few minutes later, just to be safe.” He held the umbrella out to me. “Take this.”
“But there’s only one.”
He shrugged. “I need a good rinse after working in the garden anyway.”
I almost told him that the rain had already bathed him thoroughly, but the words were unable to escape my throat.
“The others will be arriving soon, but,” he cast me a cautious look, “perhaps you’d prefer I cancel our plans?”
I sniffed. “Do you really think I didn’t come prepared with a change of clothes? Come now, Edmond, it’s like you have no faith in me.”
I froze as soon as the words left my lips. I had just called him Edmond… not because I’d been trying to maneuver him into saying my name, but because it had slipped out naturally on its own.
My eyes snapped to his, and I searched his face for any reaction to my slip up. But there was none. His expression hadn’t changed in the slightest. Either Mr. Hawke was an excellent actor and was sparing my feelings, or he truly didn’t hear my blunder.
Either way, one thing was painfully true: I had bungled my private visit with Mr. Hawke. Not only had I been caught alone with him, but I had prematurely used his Christian name and allowed myself to succumb to whatever feverish dream had made me imagine kissing him.
I needed to pull myself together. And fast.
With what I hoped was great dignity, I opened the umbrella and marched through the door, praying that Mr. Hawke would never discover that I had no change of clothes—or that Mrs. Sweete was about to receive urgent orders to borrow a riding dress from whichever neighboring estate took pity on me first.