She stood, and he did too. “I must get some rest before I take up my servant duties again. You must leave now.”

He did not want to leave. He wanted to talk all night, or better yet not talk at all but investigate her in all kinds of ways. Of course that was impossible, for many reasons, not the least being she would never have it.

He followed her to the chamber’s door and out into the little reception hall. The small space caused a closer proximity to each other. She opened the door to usher him out.

“Do not walk to and from Whiteford House alone in the future,” he said while he took his leave.

“Do you have any other unwelcomed instructions, Mr. Radnor?”

He stepped over the threshold. “Just one. Do not have male visitors in the middle of the night. They will get ideas. It is inevitable.”

The smallest smile formed in the moonlight while the door closed.

* * *

Minerva felt the smile on her lips. She stood with her back against the door while she reconsidered the last five minutes.

It had not taken her long to recognize the male interest coming her way from this man. She no longer looked for such things, but the power stretching between them was undeniable. The mood had taken on a familiarity that could only be called intimate, and Chase Radnor had clearly been contemplating whether to explore what that could mean.

What had her piecing together her memories was the way she had reacted, not him.

Lively sensations had perked through her. His attention had flattered her. She had wanted more of that, and more of the intimacy. She relived it all while she stood by the door, fascinated. In hindsight it did seem that she had been at least mildly . . . fine, she would call it what it probably was . . . mildly aroused.

She had assumed that Algernon had ruined all of that for her. Destroyed her ability to trust a man enough to have such feelings for him. And Radnor? If ever she should not trust a man, it was he.

And yet . . . She looked down at her hands. Her lovely hands. His touch had not repulsed her or frightened her. Her reaction to Phillip’s hold said her aversion had not disappeared either. For some reason, however, Chase Radnor was not provoking her usual responses.

She would not mind knowing a woman’s emotions again. She hoped she did not grow old still suspicious of every man but guessed that she would. It would be nice to be touched at times, though, or even held in caring arms if any could be found. It would be strange to consider Radnor’s arms appropriate, though. And yet . . .

For a few moments in the library, when that special warmth in his eyes arrested her attention, a fresh breeze had entered her, carrying the promise of spring.

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven