Averting her gaze from the chair that held last night’s discarded clothes, she stumbled out of bed. The movement made her temples pound so violently that for a moment she was forced to stand with her eyes shut, too dizzy to move.
When the world stopped spinning, she located her clip on the bedside cabinet and fastened her hair on top of her head.
Then, moving more carefully now, both for the sake of her head and her ankle which, though a great deal better, still wasn’t quite right, went into the bathroom to clean her teeth and shower.
While the hot water and lavender-scented gel flowed slickly over her bare flesh, it occurred to her that, in the circumstances, she would have expected her body to look and feel different—a faint redness here and there, a little stiffness, some tenderness perhaps? ‘Fulfilled, more like a real woman,’ would have been Ruth’s poetic way of putting it.
But, apart from a headache and feeling slightly nauseous, which were obviously the effects of too much alcohol, there wasn’t a mark on her and physically she felt just the same.
Only nothing was the same.
It never would be again.
As she dried herself and cleaned her teeth, trying to ignore the fact that in a single day her whole world had somehow been turned topsy-turvey, she made what plans she could.
Richard Anders had promised to get her car fixed so, hopefully, if she gave him Ruth’s address, the garage would let her know when it was done.
In the meantime she would leave Pemberley Square as soon as possible and book into a hotel.
Though her heart plummeted at the thought of walking away from Richard, it was something she had to do. If she looked as if she was making any attempt to cling or prolong things he would only secretly despise her…
She had just returned to the bedroom to find some fresh clothes when a tap at the door sent her scurrying back into bed.
A moment later Richard strode in carrying a loaded breakfast tray. He was wearing a short navy-blue silk robe and, apart from one dark lock that had escaped to fall over his forehead, his hair had been tamed into submission.
He looked clear-eyed and incredibly handsome and, though she tried her hardest to appear cool and composed, her heart picked up speed.
Studying her shiny nose and the damp strands of hair escaping from the clip, he commented gravely, ‘You’ve had your shower, I see.’
Feeling a disturbing mixture of embarrassment and powerful attraction and knowing her hair must look ridiculous bundled on top of her head like this, she wished she’d had time to brush it.
‘How’s the ankle this morning?’
Somehow she found her voice and said huskily, ‘Much better, thank you.’
Having set the tray on the bedside cabinet, he crossed to the window to draw back the curtains. ‘We seem to have our good weather back,’ he observed as the sunshine flooded in. ‘Which should be a relief after yesterday.’
Almost to himself and with a little reminiscent smile, he added, ‘However, rain like that can create some lasting memories…’
She was wondering what kind of memories he had in mind when, returning to the bedside, he stooped to touch his lips to hers before asking, ‘Now, about ready for some breakfast?’
Quivering from that casual little caress, she trapped the duvet under her arms and looked anywhere but at him as he set the tray across her knees.
It held freshly squeezed grapefruit juice and a full English breakfast, including toast and marmalade and a pot of coffee.
‘As I’m aiming for a black belt in cooking and I don’t get a chance to practise while Gwen’s here, I thought I might as well go the whole hog.
‘But, first of all, drink this.’ He handed her a glass containing a small amount of cloudy liquid.
Though the actual taste wasn’t too bad, the concoction had an unpleasant slimy texture and she shuddered as she swallowed it.
‘Pretty revolting, isn’t it?’ he commented cheerfully. ‘But it’s extremely effective; the best cure for a hangover I know. By the time you’ve had something to eat, your headache will be gone.’
He poured the coffee, which was hot and fragrant, and, having divided the sausages, bacon, button mushrooms and grilled tomatoes between two plates, paused to ask, ‘Now, then, how brave do you feel?’
‘Brave?’
He grinned. ‘While everything else is usually eatable, my scrambled eggs have been known to resemble foam rubber, so it’s up to you.’
Raising a well-marked brow, he added quizzically, ‘Are you brave enough to try a spoonful?’
Suddenly liking him a lot, she smiled and nodded.
‘Your courage is only exceeded by your personal beauty,’ he told her and, having added the eggs, put a plate in front of her. ‘There you are, tuck in. You’ll feel a lot better when you’ve eaten.’
He took a napkin and his own plate and sat down companionably on the edge of the bed.
It was all so intimate they could have been lovers for years, she found herself thinking, or an old married couple.
But familiarity brought, if not contempt, a kind of serenity, and serenity was absent. His close proximity, her keen awareness of him, alerted all her senses and made her heart race and her temperature rise like a rocket.
Distracted, her appetite suddenly non-existent, she sipped her coffee and considered telling him that she wasn’t hungry after all.
But, unwilling to hurt his feelings, she finally picked up her knife and fork and began to eat. After the first mouthful or two she found, unexpectedly, that her appetite had returned.
Somewhat to her surprise—most of the men she had known in the past could scarcely boil water—everything was cooked to perfection and the eggs proved to be deliciously light and fluffy.
But then he was the kind of man who would excel at anything he set his hand to.
Glancing up, she met his tawny eyes.
‘Well?’ he queried.
‘You’re awarded a black belt.’
‘That’s good.’ With a small secret smile he added, ‘It’s my aim to please you in every way.’
That smile and the gleam in his eyes made her wonder if the innocent words had a double meaning and, feeling the colour rise in her cheeks, she hastily returned her attention to her meal.
He had put their empty plates on one side and offered her the toast rack before he broke the silence to ask, ‘Feeling any better?’
Starting to butter her toast, she answered, ‘Much better, thank you,’ and was surprised to find it was the truth. Her headache had lifted and the feeling of nausea had vanished.
Smiling at her, he said, ‘That’s good.’
He had leaned forward to help himself to a piece of toast when, glancing up, she saw that a stray shaft of sunshine had fallen across his handsome face, lighting it up.
Fascinated, she stared into his eyes. The irises, dark green and ringed with gold, had flecks of hazel and gold swimming in their tawny depths.
It seemed an age before she could tear her gaze away and return to her toast.
As, somewhat distractedly, she finished spreading it, she got a smear of marmalade on the index finger of her left hand. She was about to lick if off when he lifted her hand and, putting her finger in his mouth, sucked.
Feeling the warmth and wetness, the slight roughness of his tongue, she caught her breath and her stomach