‘More than likely, but I can hardly just wave you goodbye and hope for the best. You’ve already admitted you were lost this evening.’
‘Only because it was dark.’
‘None the less, I’ll escort you. My conscience won’t be easy otherwise. In the meantime, you can sleep in my bed.’
‘Then where will you sleep?’ She shook her head adamantly. ‘No, I couldn’t possibly do that.’
‘But I’m afraid this time I have to insist, especially since you’ve already refused my armchair. Which is surprisingly comfortable, I might add. I won’t suffer at all.’
She looked hesitant for a moment and then gave an appreciative smile. ‘That’s very kind of you and I confess I am tired. I never realised that walking in the snow was so exhausting.’
‘Yes,’ he murmured in agreement, only half-aware of what he was saying as the warm sensation in his chest seemed to escalate by a few degrees and then spread outwards through his body. As smiles went it was extraordinary, lighting up every part of her face and making her look quite exceptionally pretty. Captivating, in fact. In all his thirty-two years, he could honestly say that he’d never seen another smile like it. Not once. Not ever. Not even in his dreams. Back when his dreams had been pleasant ones, that was.
‘Then I hope you sleep well, Just Millie. I’m afraid that I don’t have any women’s clothing to lend you, but feel free to make use of whatever you can find.’ He inclined his head and then coughed as his voice turned unexpectedly husky, stirred by the thought of her in one of his nightshirts.
‘I’m sure I’ll manage.’ She swallowed the last of her port and stood up. ‘Goodnight, Mr Whitlock. Thank you again for opening your door. I do believe that you’ve saved me from myself.’
Millie jolted upright with a gasp, her heart hammering against her ribcage at the sound of a shout, followed by glass shattering downstairs. In another instant, she was out of bed and on to the landing, so disorientated that she was halfway down the stairs before she remembered that she was only wearing her shift and petticoat and her situation was shocking enough without her running around in her underwear. But she still had to hurry. If Mr Whitlock was in some kind of trouble, under attack by the sound of it, then she had to help him as he’d helped her!
Quickly, she returned to her room and fumbled around on the back of the bedroom door for the dressing gown she’d noticed there earlier and then ran down the stairs as fast as the moonlight streaming in through a pane of glass above the front door would safely allow. The parlour door was closed, but there were still noises coming from within. Not shouts any more, but angry, expletive-laden grunts and muttering. She looked around for a weapon, her gaze settling on an umbrella in one corner. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing, enough to give someone a painful jab in the ribs if necessary.
She hoped it wouldn’t have to be necessary.
Gritting her teeth, she steeled her nerve, put on what she hoped was a suitably frightening expression, grabbed the door handle and burst in.
‘What the—?’ Mr Whitlock spun around at once. He was crouching down by the fireplace, picking up pieces of glass as she lunged forward, brandishing the umbrella like a sword in front of her.
‘Oh!’ She looked around the room in surprise. Everything was just the same as it had been when she’d gone to bed. There were no signs of a struggle, no broken windows and, apparently, no one else there.
‘Millie?’ He stood up, his expression almost comically confused.
‘I thought you were in trouble. There was a shout.’
‘Ah.’ He deposited several shards of glass into the coal scuttle and then brushed his hands together. ‘I’m sorry for disturbing you. It appears I flung an arm out in my sleep and knocked the bottle over.’
‘Oh.’ She lowered her arm, belatedly realising that she was still brandishing the umbrella. Now she thought about it, there was a distinct aroma of plums and alcohol in the air. ‘The port?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Can I help?’
‘It’s not important. I’ll deal with the rest in the morning.’ He dropped down into his armchair and pressed a hand to his forehead. ‘You can go back to bed.’
Millie stood where she was. In all honesty, she was feeling slightly ridiculous, but he seemed…different. When he’d first opened his front door he’d looked positively thunderous, his nostrils flaring so wildly that she’d almost turned on her heel and run away into the snow, but now he seemed to have gone to the other extreme. With the candles all extinguished the only light came from the fire, but his features looked unnaturally pale and drawn, as if all the energy had been drained out of him, too. No matter what the impropriety, her conscience wouldn’t let her leave him like that.
‘Are you feeling unwell?’ She put the umbrella aside and advanced a few steps into the room.
‘No.’ He gave an indistinguishable sigh.
‘Was it a nightmare?’
This time he moved his hand away from his face to look at her. ‘I suppose so. Although that suggests something imagined, doesn’t it? This was a memory.’
‘You have bad memories?’ She crouched down on her heels in the same spot she had earlier.
‘One or two.’ His lip curled, though there was no merriment behind it. ‘But I won’t disturb you again, I promise.’
‘Because you don’t intend going back to sleep?’ She tipped her head to one side, seeing the answer in his eyes. They were a bright and piercing blue, the very first thing she’d noticed about him on the doorstep, but now they looked haunted. ‘I doubt I’ll be able to for a while either. It’s hard to calm down after a shock, especially when you’ve been fighting imaginary assailants with umbrellas.’
He looked faintly amused, the barest hint of a smile softening the harsh lines of his face. ‘I do appreciate your coming to rescue me. Nothing scares intruders away like an umbrella, I understand.’
‘Ah, but I was simply creating a diversion. I intended for you to do the rest. Unless you were indisposed, of course, in which case I would have hurled the umbrella at whoever it was and gone for the poker instead. I had it all planned out.’
‘Evidently.’ He actually chuckled.
‘Would you like to talk about it?’
‘About what?’ A shutter seemed to slam down over his eyes, turning the blue into shards of silver, as wintery cold as the snow outside.
‘Whatever it is you were dreaming about. My younger sister used to have nightmares after our father died. We shared a bed so I always knew, but talking about it soothed her.’
‘What happened to your father?’ The shutters lifted slightly, though he didn’t answer her question.
‘Typhoid. There was an epidemic in London ten years ago and he was one of the victims. Lottie was only twelve and it wasn’t easy for her to witness.’
‘Or for you, I should imagine. I doubt you were much older.’
‘No. I was fifteen, but I had to be strong for her and my brother and mother.’ She winced at the memory of that dark time. ‘My parents were devoted to each other, you see. They ran a charitable institution, but after he died, my mother couldn’t bear to face the world for a while. Someone had to be practical and keep things going.’
‘I’m