She shook her head, not quite looking at him. She wasn’t trying to avoid him. Well, not him specifically. She would have avoided anyone at that moment. But then he moved. It was just a small thing, really, but she felt the seat cushion adjusting beneath them, and it was enough to remind her that he had rescued her this afternoon. He had seen her distress and saved her without so much as a question until they’d reached the carriage.
He deserved her thanks. It did not matter if her hands were still trembling or her mind was still racing with every dreadful possibility. Lord Winstead would never know just how much he had helped her, or even how much she appreciated it, but she could, at least, say thank you.
But when she turned to look at him, something else entirely popped out of her mouth. She’d meant to say, Thank you. But instead—
“Is that a new bruise?”
It was. She was sure of it. Right there on his cheek. A bit pinkish, not nearly as dark as the ones near his eye.
“You hurt yourself,” she said. “What happened?”
He blinked, looking rather confused, and one of his hands came up to touch his face.
“The other side,” she said, and even though she knew it was terribly risqué, she reached out with her fingers and gently touched his cheekbone. “It was not there yesterday.”
“You noticed,” he murmured, giving her a practiced smile.
“It’s not a compliment,” she told him, trying not to think about what it might mean that his face had become so familiar to her that she noticed a new splotch amidst the aftermath of his fight with Lord Chatteris. It was ridiculous, really. He looked ridiculous.
“Nonetheless, I can’t help but be flattered that you noticed the latest addition to my collection,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “Because personal injuries are such a dignified thing to collect.”
“Are all governesses so sarcastic?”
From anyone else she would have taken it as a setdown, a reminder to remember her place. But that wasn’t what he was about. And he was smiling as he said it.
She gave him a pointed look. “You’re avoiding the question.”
She thought he might have looked a little embarrassed. It was difficult to say; any blush that might have touched his cheeks was obscured by the current topic of conversation, namely, the bruises.
He shrugged. “Two ruffians attempted to make off with my purse last night.”
“Oh, no!” she cried, completely surprising herself with the strength of her reaction. “What happened? Are you all right?”
“It was not as bad as it could have been,” he demurred. “Marcus did more damage the night of the musicale.”
“But common criminals! You could have been killed.”
He leaned toward her. Just a little. “Would you have missed me?”
She felt her cheeks grow warm, and it took her a few moments to muster an appropriately stern expression. “You would have been missed by many people,” she said firmly.
Including her.
“Where were you walking?” she asked. Details, she reminded herself. Details were important. Details were crisp and dry and had nothing to do with emotions or missing anyone or worrying or caring or any sort of –ing except knowing the facts. “Was it in Mayfair? I would not have thought it so dangerous.”
“It was not Mayfair,” he told her. “But not far from it. I was walking home from Chatteris House. It was late. I was not paying attention.”
Anne did not know where the Earl of Chatteris lived, but it could not have been too far from Winstead House. All of the noble families lived in relative proximity to one another. And even if Lord Chatteris lived on the edge of the fashionable areas, Lord Winstead would hardly have needed to walk through slums to get home.
“I did not realize the city had grown so dangerous,” she said. She swallowed, wondering if the attack upon Lord Winstead could have had anything to do with her spying George Chervil on Piccadilly. No, how could it? She and Lord Winstead had been seen in public together only once—the previous day at Hyde Park—and it would have been clear to any onlooker that she’d been there as governess to his young cousins.
“I suppose I should thank you for insisting upon seeing me home the other night,” she said.
He turned, and the intensity in his eyes took her breath away. “I would not allow you to walk two steps alone at night, much less a half mile.”
Her lips parted, and she thought that she must have meant to speak, but all she could do was stare. Her eyes locked onto his, and it was remarkable, because she didn’t notice the color of them, that amazingly bright light blue. She saw beyond that, to the depths of . . . something. Or maybe it wasn’t that at all. Maybe it was she who had been exposed. Maybe he saw all of her secrets, her fears.