Page 6 of Ten Rules for Loving the Wrong Rake

“Kit what?”

“Just Kit.”

“Well, Mr Just Kit.”

He picked up his cup, blew on it, and took a sip.

“I thank you for your service thus far.”

He ate his toast. Drank his tea.

“I shall pay what my late aunt owed you so you could be on your way.”

The man set his cup down and looked up. “Two hundred pounds.”

“That is preposterous!”

He tossed the last bite of toast into his mouth and chewed.

“I am willing to give you twenty pounds. I believe that is more than fair given that you do not seem particularly skilled at your duty.”

His gaze sharpened on her, and when his gaze sharpened, her hands trembled. She reached across the table and picked up his teacup. If he would not listen to her words, she would confiscate his breakfast piece by piece.

The cup was heavier than she expected. Her wrist buckled and the cup tilted, hot tea lurching towards the rim.

His hand closed around her wrist and steadied the cup, and she felt the heat of his skin and the roughness of his fingers and something jolted through her, sharp and involuntary. His voice was smooth and close to her ear.

“Easy.”

The one word moved through her like warm honey and she hated it. That she noticed at all was bad enough. That her breath had stopped was worse. But his thumb was against her pulse, and they both knew what it was doing.

He held on a moment longer than he needed to. Then he looked down at her wrist, so thin his fingers circled it entirely and overlapped.

“Robin,” he said. Quiet.

“I am stronger than you think.”

She pulled free. He drank the tea in a few gulps, took his dirty dishes to the sink, and washed them. She followed and stood a few feet to his side.

“We cannot reside in the same house. What would people say?”

He said nothing. He dried his dishes, dried his hands, then opened the door. She planted herself between him and the frame.

“You are not walking out while I am speaking to you.”

She put her hands on his chest. Both palms flat, pushing. He might as well have been a wall. He looked down at her hands on his chest and then at her face and his expression did not change.

He took her wrists. Thumbs and forefingers. Lifted her hands off his chest and placed them back at her sides and let go.

"Stay away from the cellar," he said as he stepped around her.

“Why?”

“There’s a hole big enough to swallow you.”

He disappeared toward the stairs, his boots soon thudding on the steps.

Audrey stood in the kitchen, her pulse hammering, the warmth of his fingers still on her wrist.