Tempt Me at Twilight (The Hathaways #3)(20)

“No, thank you,” Miss Marks interceded firmly. “Miss Hathaway does not wish to be recommended. You will harm her reputation by exposing her publicly. If you are indeed grateful for her kindness, we beg you to repay her with silence.”

This produced more discussion and vigorous nodding.

Beatrix sighed and watched as the macaque was carried away in his crate. “I wish I had a monkey of my own,” she said wistfully.

Miss Marks gave Poppy a long-suffering glance. “One might wish she were as eager to acquire a husband.”

Smothering a grin, Poppy tried to look sympathetic.

“Have the food lift cleaned,” Harry told Valentine and Brimbley. “Every inch of it.”

The men hastened to comply, the older man using the pulleys to send the food lift down, while Valentine departed in swift, controlled strides.

Harry glanced at all three of the women, lingering an extra moment on Miss Marks’s set face. “I thank you for your assistance, ladies.”

“Not at all,” Poppy said, her eyes dancing. “And if there are further problems with recalcitrant monkeys, do not hesitate to send for us.”

Harry’s blood quickened as lurid images filled his mind . . . her, against him, beneath him. That smiling mouth, his alone, her whispers curling into his ear. Her skin, soft and ivory pale in the darkness. Skin heated by skin, sensation emerging as he touched her.

She was worth anything, he thought, even giving up the last remnants of his soul.

“Good day,” he heard himself say, his voice husky but polite. And he forced himself to walk away.

For now.

Chapter Seven

“Now I understand what you meant earlier,” Beatrix said to Poppy, when Miss Marks had gone on some undisclosed errand. Poppy had settled in her bed, while Beatrix had washed Dodger and was now drying him with a towel before the hearth. “What you were trying to say about Mr. Rutledge,” she continued. “No wonder you found him unsettling.” She paused to grin at the happy ferret, who was wriggling on a warm towel. “Dodger, you do like to be clean, don’t you? You smell so lovely after a good washing.”

“You always say that, and he always smells the same.” Poppy raised herself on an elbow and watched them, her hair spilling around her shoulders. She felt too restless to nap. “Then you found Mr. Rutledge unsettling, too?”

“No, but I understand why you do. He watches you like one of those ambushing sort of predators. The kind that lie in wait before they spring.”

“How dramatic,” Poppy said with a dismissive laugh. “He’s not a predator, Bea. He’s only a man.”

Beatrix made no reply, only made a project of smoothing Dodger’s fur. As she leaned over him, he strained upward and kissed her nose affectionately. “Poppy,” she murmured, “no matter how Miss Marks tries to civilize me—and I do try to listen to her—I still have my own way of looking at the world. To me, people are scarcely different from animals. We’re all God’s creatures, aren’t we? When I meet someone, I know immediately what animal they would be. When we first met Cam, for example, I knew he was a fox.”

“I suppose Cam is somewhat fox-like,” Poppy said, amused. “What is Merripen? A bear?”

“No, unquestionably a horse. And Amelia is a hen.”

“I would say an owl.”

“Yes, but don’t you remember when one of our hens in Hampshire chased after a cow that had strayed too close to the nest? That’s Amelia.”

Poppy grinned. “You’re right.”

“And Win is a swan.”

“Am I also a bird? A lark? A robin?”

“No, you’re a rabbit.”

“A rabbit?” Poppy made a face. “I don’t like that. Why am I a rabbit?”

“Oh, rabbits are beautiful soft animals who love to be cuddled. They’re very sociable, but they’re happiest in pairs.”

“But they’re timid,” Poppy protested.

“Not always. They’re brave enough to be companions to many other creatures. Even cats and dogs.”

“Well,” Poppy said in resignation, “it’s better than being a hedgehog, I suppose.”

“Miss Marks is a hedgehog,” Beatrix said in a matter-of-fact tone that made Poppy grin.

“And you’re a ferret, aren’t you, Bea?”

“Yes. But I was leading to a point.”

“Sorry, go on.”

“I was going to say that Mr. Rutledge is a cat. A solitary hunter. With an apparent taste for rabbit.”

Poppy blinked in bewilderment. “You think he is interested in . . . Oh, but Bea, I’m not at all . . . and I don’t think I’ll ever see him again . . .”

“I hope you’re right.”

Settling on her side, Poppy watched her sister in the flickering glow of the hearth, while a chill of uneasiness penetrated the very marrow of her bones.

Not because she feared Harry Rutledge.

Because she liked him.

Catherine Marks knew that Harry was up to something. He was always up to something. He certainly had no intention of inquiring after her welfare—he didn’t give a damn about her. He considered most people, including Catherine, a waste of his time.

Whatever mysterious mechanism sent Harry Rutledge’s blood pumping through his veins, it wasn’t a heart.