While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(52)

The hour was late. She’d hoped he, along with the others, would have retired for the night by now. She’d done an estimable job avoiding him since she arrived at Autenberry Manor. It wasn’t too difficult. She was here as the Duke of Autenberry’s fiancée. It made sense that she should want to sit with him as he convalesced. No one questioned it. Even if Struan Mackenzie’s gaze watched her darkly when she joined them for meals, he dared not voice disapproval. It wasn’t his place. Despite what had happened between them in Town, and in the carriage . . .

Good heavens. That was sordid. Her face burned as it did whenever her thoughts roamed in that direction. How did she go from the overlooked sister, grateful for the attention of the village baker, to this? A female who engaged in wicked trysts with smoldering, unacceptable gentlemen?

She knew this hiding was cowardly of her. She clung to the farce so that she could avoid Struan. Also, so she could hide from the overwhelming evidence of wealth and opulence that made up Autenberry Manor. It daunted her and made her feel all the more a fraud. Her sister might be utterly at home in this world, but she felt like an interloper. Any moment she would give herself away.

He strode toward her with effortless grace. It was odd. For a man his size, he moved like a predator strolling at ease through the jungle. “Are we still exercising formalities, Poppy? I’ve heard you use my Christian name. On more than one occasion.” The slight smirk to his lips told her he was remembering how she had uttered his name. When and what they were doing.

She inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment of that truth and glanced up and down the length of the corridor, confirming they were well and truly alone. Not the best idea.

“You are up late,” she went on to say, turning in the direction of her bedchamber on the opposite side of the house in the opposite wing. It was several corridor turns and rooms from here—unfortunately. She couldn’t escape him so easily. Blast, why did this house have to be so colossal?

She began walking, pausing when he fell into step beside her.

“The same could be said of you,” he returned.

“I was checking on His Grace.”

“Yes, very attentive of you. And how does your beloved fare?”

She did not mistake the mockery in his voice.

“There has been no change,” she replied, sliding him a cautious look.

“I am certain with you sitting vigil at his bedside there soon will be.”

She eyed him, attempting to assess whether he mocked her or not. It was difficult to know.

“I know a thing or two about caretaking.” Her voice rang out defensively.

“Do you now? And how is that?”

“Before Bryony and I moved to Town, I cared for my father for the better part of a year. Before he passed away.”

“Did you? You are a regular angel of mercy, Poppy.”

She stopped and faced him. “I cannot infer if you are toying with me or not, Mr. Mackenzie.”

“I would never toy with you, kitten.” And yet as he uttered this she did in fact feel like he toyed with her. As though she were in reality a kitten and he her tormenter, dangling a ball of yarn before her. “I am most convinced before you relocated to Town you were a devoted and attentive daughter to your ailing father. Just as you are a most devoted sister. That much is obvious. The people in your life are lucky to have you.”

She slanted him a suspicious look. “Thank you?”

“I mean that in all sincerity. You needn’t say ‘thank you’ like a question.”

Not certain what to do with this complimentary Struan Mackenzie, she resumed walking down the corridor. “Bryony requires looking after.”

He stopped her again, placing a hand on her shoulder and turning her around to face him. “And what of you? Who looks after you, Poppy? Autenberry?” Skepticism dripped off the question.

“Why is that so difficult for you to believe?”

“Because so far I’m not impressed. I see little evidence that Autenberry cares for you as a man should care for his woman.”

That is because I am not his. I belong to no one.

It was undeniable. His words sent a bolt of unfamiliar longing through her. Not just to belong to someone . . . but for someone to belong to her. The longing, however, was wrapped up in Struan Mackenzie. As he gazed at her with his green eyes as deep and dark as a night wood yearning seized her.

She shrugged his touch off her shoulder and started forward again. “You shouldn’t say such things.”

“I’ve nothing to gain or lose by speaking the truth.”

“The truth as you see it,” she tossed back.

“Before you moved to Town, you came directly from a small country village, I assume?”

“Yes.” She nodded warily, wondering at the question. “Once my father passed we could not afford to stay on. We had to leave.”

“Then your experience is limited. Allow me to enlighten you. A man provides room and board for his mistress—”

“I’m not any man’s mistress! That is your problem . . . your insistence at identifying me as a kept woman. No one keeps me.”

“Very well.” He sent her a tolerant look that seemed to imply he thought she was in denial. “Fiancée, then.” He shrugged. “You should expect a higher degree of consideration.”