Exhaling, she turned to her bedchamber door and reached for the latch.

A large dense shadow swooped in on her left.

Panic leapt. She looked-

“Ahhee!!-”

Recognition hit; she clapped a hand over her mouth to cut off her shriek, but he was faster. Her hand landed over his, pressing his hard palm to her lips.

For an instant, she stared into his eyes, dark and unreadable mere inches away. Acutely conscious of the heat of his skin against her lips.

Of him there, tall and broad-shouldered in the darkness beside her.

If time could stand still, in that instant, it did.

Then reality came crashing back.

Stiffening, she dropped her hand and stepped back.

Lowering his hand, he let her go, eyes narrowing as he searched her face.

She dragged in a breath, kept her eyes on his. Her heart was still hammering in her throat. “Damn you, Charles, what the devil do you mean by trying to scare me witless?” The only way to deal with him was to seize the reins and keep them. “You could at least have spoken, or made some sound.”

One dark brow arched; his eyes lifted to her hat, then lazily traced downward, all the way to her boots. “I didn’t realize it was you.”

Beneath the layers of her drab disguise, a lick of heat touched her cold skin. His voice was as deep, as languidly dark as she remembered it, the seductive power simply there whether he intended it or not. Something inside her clenched; she ignored the sensation, tried to think.

The realization that he was the very last person she wished to be there-within ten miles or even more of there-slammed through her and shook her to her toes.

“Well, it is. And now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get some sleep.” Lifting the latch, she pushed open the door, went in, and shut it.

Tried to. The door stopped four inches short of the jamb.

She pushed, then sighed. Deeply. She dropped her forehead against the door. Compared to him, she was still a squib; her senses informed her he had only one palm against the door’s other side.

“All right!” Stepping away, she flung her hands in the air. “Be difficult then.” She uttered the words through clenched teeth. Tired as she was, her hold on her temper was tenuous-that, she knew, was the very worst state to be in when forced to deal with Charles Maximillian Geoffre St. Austell.

Stalking across the room, she pulled off her hat, then sat on the side of the bed. From under lowered brows, she watched as he entered. Leaving the door ajar, he located her, then scanned the room.

He saw her brushes on the dresser, glanced at the armoire, noting the pair of half boots she’d left under it, then he looked at the bed, confirming it was made up. All in the time it took him to prowl, long-legged, arrogantly assured, to the armchair before the window. His gaze returning to her, he sat. Not that that word adequately described the motion; he was all fluid grace somehow arranging long, muscled limbs into an inherently masculine, innately elegant sprawl.

His black hair grew in heavy loose curls; presently neatly cropped, the thick locks framed his face. A harsh-featured, aristocratic face with dramatically arched black brows over large, deep-set eyes, strong, sculpted nose and jaw, and lips she didn’t need to dwell on.

For the space of ten heartbeats, his gaze rested on her; even through the dimness she could feel it. He’d always had better night vision than she; if she was to survive this interview with her secrets intact, she’d need every last ounce of her control.

Taking charge seemed wise.

“What are you doing home?” All her reasons for believing the Abbey empty, a safe haven, colored the words, transforming question into accusation.

“I live here, remember?” After an instant, he added, “Indeed, I now own the Abbey and all its lands.”

“Yes, but-” She wasn’t going to let him develop the theme of being her host, of being in any way responsible for her. “Marissa, Jacqueline, and Lydia, and Annabelle and Helen, went to London to help you find a wife. My stepmother-your godmother-and my sisters are there, too. They left here enthused, in full flight. There’s been talk of little else in the drawing rooms here and at Wallingham Hall since Waterloo. You’re supposed to be there, not here.” She paused, blinked, then asked, “Do they know you’re here?”

Knowing him, that was a pertinent question.

He didn’t frown, but she sensed his irritation, sensed, as he answered, that it wasn’t directed at her.

“They know I had to come down.”

Had to? She fought to cover her dismay. “Why?”

Surely, surely it couldn’t be…?

Charles wished the light were better or the chair closer to the bed; he couldn’t see Penny’s eyes and her expressions-the real ones-were too fleeting to read in the dimness. He’d chosen the safe distance of the chair to avoid aggravating their mutually twitching nerves. That moment in the corridor had been bad enough; the urge to seize her, to have his hands on her again, had been so strong, so unexpectedly intense, it had taken every ounce of his will to resist.

He still felt off-balance, just a touch insane. He’d stay put and make do.

She appeared as he remembered her, tall, lithe, and slender, a fair sylph who despite her outward delicacy had always had his measure. Little about her seemed to have changed, but he mistrusted that conclusion. As a gently bred nobleman’s daughter, the thirteen years between sixteen and twenty-nine had to have left their mark, but in what ways he had no clue, except in one respect. He would take his oath her quick wits hadn’t got any slower.

“I’m here on business.” True enough.

“What business?”

“This and that.”

“Estate business?”

“I’ll be attending to whatever’s on my study desk while I’m here.”

“But you’re here for some other reason?”

He could sense agitation building beneath her words; his instincts were awake, alert, and suspicious. His mission here was to be open, overt not covert. For once there was no reason he couldn’t cheerfully tell all, yet the very last person he’d expected to tell first-if at all-was her.

But if she was asking, then his most direct way forward was to tell her, and see how she reacted. Yet he wanted quid pro quo-what the devil was she doing traipsing about the countryside at midnight, let alone dressed as a male? And why the hell was she there and not at her home, Wallingham Hall, a mere four miles away? Come to that, why wasn’t she in London, or safely married and living with a husband? Oh, yes, he definitely wanted answers to all those questions, which meant the distance between them wasn’t going to work. If she lied…if he couldn’t see her face, her eyes, he might not pick it up.

Unhurriedly, he stood; his gaze on her, he walked, as unthreateningly as he could, to the bed and propped one shoulder against the post at its end. Her gaze hadn’t left him; he looked down into her eyes. “I’ll tell you why, exactly why I’m here, if in return you’ll explain to me why, exactly why you’ve arrived here at this hour, dressed like that.”

Her grip on the edge of the bed had tightened, but otherwise she hadn’t tensed. She stared up at him for a finite moment, then looked at the door. “I’m hungry.”

She rose, walked to the door, and without a backward glance went through it.

Lips lifting, he pushed away from the bedpost and followed, closing the door behind him.

He caught up with her on the stairs and followed her to the kitchen. She marched in and went straight to the kettle, left sitting to one side of the hob; taking it to the pump over the sink, she started filling it. Crossing to the stove, he hunkered down, opened the furnace door, and riddled the grate until the coals glowed red. He piled in kindling, then a few split logs, conscious of the sharp, assessing glances she threw him as she moved about the room.

Once the fire was blazing, he shut the furnace door and rose. Reaching across, she set the kettle to heat and placed a teapot into which she’d ladled leaves on the bench alongside. Glancing at the table, he noted the cups and saucers she’d set out, the plate of Mrs. Slattery’s almond biscuits she’d fetched from the pantry. Not once had she hesitated in assembling those things. She knew where everything in his kitchen was stored better than he did.

He studied her as she sank into the chair at one end of the table. Mrs. Slattery, the Abbey’s head cook and housekeeper, would never allow her to help herself, which meant she’d learned all she knew on forays like this, long after his staff were abed.

She’d set his cup and saucer halfway along the table, the plate of biscuits between them, beside a single candlestick. The plate was as far from her as she could reach, and equally far from his designated place. He drew up a chair to that spot without comment. The candle flame was steady in the well-sealed kitchen; he’d achieved what he’d wanted-he could see her face.

Picking up a biscuit, she nibbled, over it met his eyes. “So why are you here?”

Leaning back, resisting the lure of the biscuits for the moment, he studied her. If he answered simply, succinctly, what were his chances of getting anything out of her? “My erstwhile commander asked me to take a look around here.”

Where to go from there? He could see the question in her gray-blue eyes, could only wonder why she was being so very careful.

“Your commander…” She hesitated, then asked, “What arm of the services were you in, Charles?”

Very few people knew. “Neither the army nor the navy.”

“Which regiment?”

“Theoretically one of the Guards.”

“In reality?”