“I see.” For an interminable, golden moment, she searched his face, then stood regretfully. “If I thought you might reconsider, I might attempt to negotiate, but I can see that you’re quite…” She paused, searching for a word.

“Pigheaded?” he provided. “Mulish?”

The grim line of her mouth softened into a half smile. “I was going to say ‘adamant.’”

“Of course you were,” he said smoothly. “But pigheaded fits better.”

“Thank you for your time.” Her eyes shone with a kindness that was damned disconcerting. Especially since he hadn’t been particularly charming. In the short time since she’d arrived, he’d done nothing but swill brandy, behave like a boor, and crush her dream of renting his building. To top everything off, he must look like he’d staggered out of a pub just before closing time. He dragged a hand through his hair, which was already standing on end. And he had no bloody idea where he’d left his jacket or cravat.

He supposed he should say something gracious, maybe walk her to the door. But he didn’t want her to go. Didn’t want to be alone with his dark thoughts and insidious visions. So he continued to sit there morosely, the portrait of an arse.

She took a step toward the door, then turned back. “May I ask you something else?”

He shrugged as though he were indifferent. But on the inside, he was more like a stray dog, embarrassingly starved for a scrap of attention or compassion. “Ask away.”

She tilted her head and frowned. “When was the last time you slept?”

“Last night,” he answered reflexively. It was true enough—he’d drifted off on the sofa in his study for nearly an hour before bolting upright, drenched in sweat and shaking like he’d gone for a midwinter swim in the Thames. Afterward he’d immediately vowed to avoid shutting his eyes again for at least a week.

She leveled an assessing gaze in his direction before asking, “How long did you sleep?”

He thrust himself out of the chair, crossed his arms, and paced the ancient wood floor in front of the counter. “I don’t see why that’s any of your concern, Miss Kendall.”

“You’re right,” she replied—with more gentleness than he deserved. “It wasn’t my intention to pry. But my mother is prone to sleeplessness, and I recognized some of the signs.”

He muttered a curse. Why should he give a damn that this young woman, a complete stranger to him, had just lumped him in the same category with her dear mama? “And what are the telltale signs?” he asked, his tone dry as dust. “What gave me away?”

To her credit, she didn’t shrink in the least. “The shadows beneath your eyes, the slight tremor of your hands, and a general state of…” She hesitated, again perusing her mind for the correct word.

“Irritability?” he offered. “Cantankerousness?”