“I was going to say ‘anxiousness,’ but your suggestions are also apropos.” Her words might have stung, if not for the playful twinkle in her eyes. A bit more soberly she added, “A lack of sleep can take its toll on a person.”

He shrugged as though he had only the vaguest sense of what she was talking about. As if his life weren’t a wasteland of paralysis and remorse. The last thing he wanted from Miss Kendall was pity.

She pursed her lips in consternation, then looked up at him and beamed. Her wide, genuine smile was almost blinding, and he recoiled from the unexpected brilliance like a man emerging from a dark cave at high noon.

Oblivious to the effect she had on him, she began rummaging through her reticule. “I may have something in here that will help.” At last, she withdrew a small pouch and held it up, triumphant. “Here we are.”

“What is that?” he asked, not bothering to hide his cynicism.

She held the herbs an inch below her nose and closed her eyes as she inhaled deeply. “Valerian root for your tea. It’s a remedy for sleeplessness.” She naïvely thrust the dainty muslin pouch into his hands like it was the antidote to all that ailed him. She couldn’t possibly know that he was way beyond help—so far beyond it that he might as well have been in another realm.

Reese sniffed the herbs and found them pleasantly earthy and fragrant. Idly wondered whether Miss Kendall’s skin would smell the same and simultaneously chastised himself for the errant thought.

“I don’t drink tea,” he said curtly, handing the pouch back to her.

She looked appropriately appalled. “Well then,” she said slowly, as if still coming to grips with this diabolical confession, “I suppose you could sprinkle some in your soup.” She held out the pouch with a brooking-no-argument expression. The same stern face his own nanny had used when she expected him to swallow a spoonful of castor oil—except that Miss Kendall was approximately one hundred times more lovely.

“I appreciate your concern.” He shoved his hands in his pockets so she couldn’t force the bloody herbs into his palms again. “However, I have no use for quackery.”

She narrowed her eyes at that—as if he’d issued a challenge. She tucked the pouch under her elbow and began tugging at the fingers of her gloves, pulling them off. The sight conjured all sorts of wicked thoughts, which only proved how demented he was.

“Have you a kitchen, Mr. Peabody?” she asked briskly.

Reese blinked. “Here? No. There’s a small stove in the back room.”

“That will do,” she said brightly.