That done, Phil pinched her cheeks to give them some color then lightly descended the stairs and went out the door.
HE HATED HOW HIS HEART sped up when he saw her coming. It wasn’t just because she was beautiful—though she was incredibly beautiful. And it wasn’t because she was rich—though she was almost as rich as she was beautiful. This was more than attraction or greed. This was something he hadn’t counted on and really couldn’t afford.
She spotted him a moment later, and he knew the exact moment because her smile widened and lit up her face. He’d heard that expression before, of course, but he’d never seen it actually happen until he’d met her. Her face actually seemed to shine brighter when she saw him. In those moments, he couldn’t even see her beauty. All he could see was her.
“Sure and ye take my breath away when ye smile like that,” he said when she was close enough to hear him.
It seemed impossible, but her smile widened. “You do have quite the way with words, Mr. Finnegan.”
“I save them all for ye, me lady.”
She stopped to stand under the eaves of the rear of the dowager house. She’d walked the long way around so that she approached from the back, not the front, which could be seen from the grounds of Southmeade Cottage. It always made James smile when he thought of the name of the sprawling country house. It was the largest, grandest cottage he had ever seen. Even the dowager house boasted eight bed chambers.
Lady Philomena wrinkled her nose. “Why so formal? You know I hate when you call me my lady.”
“Then call me James, and I’ll call ye—what did we decide? Mena?”
She shook her head. “Phil. That’s what everyone calls me.”
He could smell her scent. It was subtle, floral and earthy, and reminded him of heather. He wanted to move closer but forced himself to stay where he was. “It’s hardly a name that suits ye.”
“Neither is Mena. That’s for a petite girl with black hair like yours. I’m far too tall and my hair too yellow for the name Mena.”
He would have described her hair a thousand ways before he’d call it yellow; it was more gold than silver, more sunlight than starlight.
He almost made another quip, but he noticed she was shivering. It was a cold day, and they’d met on other cold days. Once or twice, they’d even gone inside the house. Lady Philomena had the key, but he couldn’t be the one to suggest it. “Yer shivering.”
“The damp, I think.” She fished in the pocket of her cloak and pulled out a key. “Shall we go in?”
He took the key from her gloved hand and opened the door, holding it so she could pass through first. The fact that she trusted him enough to be alone with him humbled him. He did not deserve that trust. But then she didn’t know that, did she? She had no reason not to trust him. He’d never done anything she didn’t want, though adhering to that pledge—one he’d made to himself—just about killed him. As many times as he’d met her alone, he had only kissed her a handful of times, and most of those had been as chaste a kiss as a boy gave his grandmother.
He pulled back the Holland cover on the couch and eyed the dark hearth in the sitting room they usually sat in. “Sure and I wish I could light the fire.”
“That would give us away.” She patted the couch cushion beside her. “Sit here, and I’ll be warm enough.”
He did, careful not to touch her. The small distance between them didn’t stop him from feeling her heat.
“Do ye want to talk about it then?” he asked.
She paused in the act of removing her hat. “Talk about what?”
“Oh, so it’s to be that way. I was in the dining room, and though we act like we’re deaf, servants hear everything.”
“I know.” She surprised him by reaching over and putting her hand on top of his. He wasn’t wearing gloves. His gloves were for work. He had two pair, and they had to remain spotless if he was to serve at dinner and other meals. He couldn’t afford to soil them and had left them in his rooms before sneaking out this afternoon. He could feel the heat of her gloved hand on his skin.
“It’s just that I want to forget all of that for a little while.”
“We’ve forgotten it for months. I don’t think we can put it aside much longer. Ye have to marry, Phil. Ye should have said yes to Knoxwood.”
She made a face. “I don’t want to marry him. He’s a decent enough man, but...” She looked at James, and the implication was clear. Knoxwood wasn’t him. James should have been glad she thought herself in love with him. It was what he’d wanted. But he couldn’t rejoice.
“A decent enough man is nothing to scoff at. And don’t look at me like that. Ye know ye can’t marry an Irishman. And even if I wasn’t Irish, I’m a footman. I’m no match for a duke’s daughter.”
“I never said anything about marriage.” She tossed her head in an effort to look unconcerned, but he saw the sparkle of tears in her eyes before she looked away. “I may never marry. I may devote myself to the role of maiden aunt to my nieces and nephew or perhaps I’ll travel abroad and see the grand cities of the world.”
“Without a chaperone?” he asked, his brows raised.
She looked back at him. “You could be my chaperone.”
He laughed until he noticed she wasn’t smiling. “Ye can’t be serious. How would we live?”
“I don’t know. We’d find a way, wouldn’t we?”
They could. They would. For an instant he wanted nothing more than to take her away right that moment, but he couldn’t do that to her. He couldn’t ruin her life. She’d end up hating him for it, and he’d hate himself.
Christ Jaysus. When had he become so fecking noble? It was like a disease he caught when he was near her.
She was still looking at him with hope in her eyes. He shook his head. “Ye were born the daughter of a duke, and I won’t be the man who’s responsible for making ye starve. As much as I want to”—and Jaysus did he want to—“I won’t run away with ye.”
The hope in her eyes faded, replaced with an expression he found more concerning—determination. Her eyes could turn from the soft blue of the summer sky to the hard blue of sapphires in a matter of seconds. The sapphires glittered at him now.
“I wonder if I can change your mind,” she said. He looked down and saw she’d drawn off her gloves, revealing long-fingered white hands that were as soft as clouds.
“Sure and ye can try, but I care too much for ye to do as ye ask.” He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. Now that he’d refused her outright, she’d probably storm out, angry at his rejection. He’d miss these clandestine meetings, but it was for the best. He could never be the man she deserved. He wasn’t even the man she thought he was.
She reached out, but instead of slapping him, she touched his cheek. The feel of her fingers stroking his skin from cheek to jaw made him freeze, even while his flesh heated where her fingers stroked.
“I love the feel of you under my fingertips,” she murmured. “Your beard is rough.”
“I shaved early this morning,” he corrected. Footmen were clean-shaven, forcing him to shave twice some days. He’d always had thick dark hair that grew quickly. Mrs. Johnson, the housekeeper, trimmed his unruly hair every fortnight.