It was a nice-looking office, accommodating, the chairs about the room designed for comfort rather than just utility, so anyone who joined him there would feel at ease—at least anyone but her. Several lamps had been lit, since the day had turned out quite dark and dreary, with snow still falling in short bursts. The rose-colored lamp domes went quite well with the ruby drapes. She was trying to look at anything but him, but that didn’t last long.

He sat behind a large desk. He was reading a newspaper. He didn’t glance up. It was probably no more than a reflection from the lamp on the desk beside him, with its rose shade, that made his cheeks look as pink as hers must be. Wishful thinking, to hope he was embarrassed, too.

“Someone was in my room last night. I thought it was you, but you were sleeping.”

She blurted it out—and realized, too late, that she was admitting to having entered his room in the middle of the night. How else could she have known he was sleeping? Had he not known of her intrusion, he certainly did now.

“It could have been me.”

It took several long moments before that statement broke through her embarrassment, and then she blinked in confusion. “Excuse me? ‘Could have’ implies you don’t know. How is that possible?”

“I’ve never awakened to find myself walking about, yet I’ve been assured that I do just that on occasion, take strolls while I’m asleep. Not often. And I don’t go far, apparently. If I did, I would have to consider having myself locked in at night, which I would rather not do. But it did occur to me that I might wander into your room during one of these strange occurrences, which is why I ordered the locks, to prevent any chance of that happening.”

He was taking the blame on himself, even if he wasn’t at fault. She was relieved by his explanation. Her embarrassment even subsided. He hadn’t seen her. And she had the means to secure the room on all sides now, whether she was in it or not, so she wouldn’t have to worry about thieves either. He had removed her reason to leave.

She should still leave. There was something just not right about her feelings for the baron. She should despise him and nothing more, yet there was more.

She almost said as much, that she would begin immediately looking for other accommodations. But then she remembered her brother, and the new physician who had examined him yesterday, assuring her that he should be up and about in no more than a week—if he continued his present convalescence. And he had stressed, repeatedly, just as their own doctor had, that Thomas was to avoid drafts at all costs, which might cause him a relapse.