A wool blanket rested at the foot of the bed, so she gathered the cloth in her hands and shook it out. “Here,” she said, taking the blanket to him. “Use this to cover yourself.”

He took the wool from her. “Why?”

“Because this is improper. I can see your toes.”

He wiggled the appendages in question. “Not a fan of feet, then?”

“I like feet just fine.” Her skin burned, like she’d stood in front of a hot oven for an hour. “But I shouldn’t see you like this.”

His brown eyes searched her face, then he stood. “Forgive me. Allow me a moment, please.” In half a dozen steps, he crossed the floor and disappeared into a dressing room, closing the door behind him.

She exhaled and tried to steady her heartbeat. As she calmed, reality began to set in. She looked around and considered the last five minutes.

You were alone with a beautiful man wearing hardly any clothing . . . and you told him to cover up.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. How stupid. How utterly foolish. No doubt he thought her mad, a silly innocent who deserved a life of spinsterhood. Most women would leap at the chance to see Kit Ward in such a position. Moreover, they’d know how to turn it to their advantage, giving him come-hither looks and inviting smiles.

And what had Alice done?

She’d told him to drape a blanket over himself.

Pinching the bridge of her nose between a thumb and forefinger, she tried not to cry. She couldn’t face him, not now. Perhaps not ever. These lessons were a terrible idea.

She reached into her pocket, took out the recipe for poulardes à la Portugaise, and placed it on the bed. Then she hurried for the door.

“Where are you going?”

Startled, she spun around, her back hugging the wood. Kit now wore navy trousers and a white shirt, and he was affixing a cuff link. She was both relieved and disappointed. “I should go.”

“Alice, wait.” He held up his hands. “Please, allow me to apologize. I made you uncomfortable and that was not my intention.”

She dropped her head onto the wood, feeling even more foolish. “I overreacted.”

“No, you didn’t. What I did was horribly inappropriate. I am entirely in the wrong.”

“Then why do I feel ridiculous?”

“I haven’t a clue, but let’s call this one a draw. I feel like a masher and you feel ridiculous.”

“Nonsense. You never touched me against my will.”

“True, but I was attempting to flirt and caused you discomfort instead. It qualifies in my book.”

She blinked several times, waiting for the rest of the joke, but it never came. Was he serious? “You were flirting? With me?”