up quickly, forgetting all about her aching head, then sank back on to the pillows with a little moan as the pain hit her. ‘Where?’ she asked weakly. ‘I mean, where was this ditch?’
‘In the grounds of my estate.’
‘But how did I come to be there?’
‘I rather hoped you could tell me that.’
‘I don’t know if I can.’ Henrietta put her fingers carefully to the back of her head where a large lump was forming on her skull. ‘Someone hit me.’ She winced at the memory. ‘Hard. Why would someone do that?’
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ Rafe replied. ‘Perhaps whoever it was found your judgemental attitude tedious.’ The hurt expression on her face didn’t provide the usual sense of satisfaction he experienced when one of his well-aimed barbs struck home. On this occasion something more like guilt pricked him. She really was looking quite pale, too. Perhaps Mrs Peters was right, perhaps he should have summoned the local quack. ‘Apart from the blow to the head, how are you feeling?’
The true answer was awful, but it was obvious from the falsely solicitous tone of his voice that awful was not the answer he wished to hear. ‘I’m quite well,’ Henrietta said, striving and failing to keep the edge out of her voice, ‘at least I’m sure I will be directly. You need not concern yourself unduly.’
He had been ungracious, not something that would normally bother him, but her not pointing it out somehow did. Rather too quick with her opinions she most certainly was, but Henrietta Markham was not capricious. Her frankness, when it was not rude, was refreshing.
The memory of her curves pressed against him as he had lifted her from the ditch crept unbidden into his mind. Awareness took Rafe by surprise. It irked him that he remembered so clearly. Why should he? ‘You may, of course, take as long as you require to recuperate,’ he said. ‘What I want to know right now is who hit you and, more importantly, why they abandoned you on my land.’
‘What you really mean is, why didn’t they pick somewhere less inconvenient to dump me?’ Henrietta retorted. She gasped, pressed her hand over her mouth, but it was too late, the words were out.
Rafe laughed. He couldn’t help it, she was amusing in a strange kind of way. His laugh sounded odd. He realised it was because he hadn’t heard it for such a long time. ‘Yes, you are quite right,’ he said. ‘I would have happily seen you abandoned at the very gates of Hades instead, but you are here now.’
He had a nice laugh. And though he might be ungracious, at least he was honest. She liked that. Henrietta smiled tentatively. ‘I didn’t mean to be quite so frank.’
‘You are a dreadful liar, Miss Markham.’
‘I know. I mean—Oh dear.’
‘Hoist with your own petard, I think you would call that.’
The band of pain around Henrietta’s head tightened, making her wince. ‘Touché, my lord. You want me gone, I am sure you have things to do. If I could just have a moment to collect myself, I will get dressed and be out of your way directly.’
She had turned quite pale. Rafe felt a twinge of compassion. As she had so clearly refrained from pointing out, it was not her fault she had landed on his doorstep, any more than it was his. ‘There is no rush. Perhaps if you had something to eat, you might feel a little better. Then you may remember what happened to you.’
‘I would not wish to put you out any more than I have already done,’ Henrietta said unconvincingly.
Once again, he felt his mouth quirk. ‘You are as poor a prevaricator as you are a liar. Come, the least I can do is give you breakfast before you go. Do you feel up to getting out of bed?’
He was not exactly smiling at her, but his expression had lost that hard edge, as if a smile might not be entirely beyond him. Also, she was ravenous. And he did deserve answers, if only she could come up with some. So Henrietta stoically told him that, yes, she would get out of bed, though the thought of it made her feel quite nauseous. He was already heading for the door. ‘My lord, please, wait.’
‘Yes?’ She had dropped the sheet in her anxiety to call him back. Long tendrils of chestnut hair, curling wildly, trailed over her white shoulders. Her chemise was made of serviceable white cotton. He could plainly see the ripe swell of her breasts, unconfined by stays. Rafe reluctantly dragged his gaze away.
‘My dress, where is it?’ Realising that she had dropped the sheet, Henrietta clutched it up around her neck, telling herself stoutly there was nothing to be ashamed of to be found to be wearing a plain white-cotton chemise which, after all, was clean. Nevertheless, clean or no, she couldn’t help wishing it hadn’t been quite so plain. She wondered who had removed her gown.
‘My housekeeper undressed you,’ the earl replied in answer to her unasked question. ‘Your dress was soaking wet and we did not wish you to catch a chill. I’ll lend you something until it is dry.’ He returned a few moments later with a large, and patently masculine, dressing gown, which he laid on the chair, informing her breakfast would be served in half an hour precisely, before striding purposefully out of the room.
Henrietta stared at the closed door She couldn’t fathom him. Did he want her to stay or not? Did he find her amusing? Annoying? Attractive? Irksome? All or none? She had absolutely no idea.
She should not have mentioned his reputation. Though he hadn’t exactly denied it, she could very easily see just how irresistible he could be, given that combination of looks and the indefinable something else he possessed which made her shiver. As if he was promising her something she knew she should not wish for. As if he and only he could fulfil that promise. She didn’t understand it. Surely rakes were scoundrels? Rafe St Alban didn’t look at all like a scoundrel. Rakes were not good people, yet he must have some good in him—had he not rescued her, a noble act?
She frowned. ‘I suppose the point is that they must be good at taking people in, else how could they succeed in being a rake?’ she said to herself. So was it a good thing that he hadn’t taken her in? She couldn’t make up her mind. The one thing she knew for certain was that he was most eager to be rid of her. Henrietta tried not to be mortified by that.
Perhaps he just wanted to know how she had come to be on his estate in the first place? She’d like to know that herself, she thought, touching a cautious finger to the aching lump on her head. Last night. Last night. What did she remember of last night?
That dratted pug dog of Lady Ipswich’s had run off. She’d entirely missed her dinner while looking for it, no wonder she was so hungry now. Henrietta frowned, screwing her eyes tightly shut, ignoring the dull ache inside her skull as she mentally retraced her steps. Out through the side door. The kitchen garden. Round to the side of the house. Then …
The housebreaker! ‘Oh, my goodness, the housebreaker!’ Her mind cleared, like the ripples of a pool stilling to reveal a sharp reflection. ‘Good grief! Lady Ipswich will be wondering what on earth has happened to me.’
Gingerly, Henrietta inched out of the luxurious bed and peered at the clock on the mantel. The numbers were fuzzy. It was just after eight. She opened the curtains and blinked painfully out at the sun. Morning. She had been gone all night. Her rescuer had clearly been out and about very early. In fact, now she had a chance to reflect upon it, he had had the look of a man who had not yet been to bed.
Raking, no doubt! But those shadows under his eyes spoke of a tiredness more profound than mere physical exhaustion. Rafe St Alban looked like a man who could not sleep. No wonder he was irritable, she thought, immediately feeling more charitable. Having to deal with a comatose stranger under such circumstances would have put anyone out of humour, especially if the aforementioned stranger looked like a—like a—what on earth did she look like?
There was a looking glass on top of the ornately inlaid chest of drawers in front of the window. Henrietta peered curiously into it. A streak of mud had caked on to her cheek, she was paler than normal and had a lump the size of an egg