Hearts Through Time

SIXTEEN

"Come with me, Nick. I'll show you to your bedroom."

* * * *

The sun peaked through the curtains and woke Abigail. Groggily, she opened her eyes and glanced around the room. She wouldn't see her father today, or ever again. Emptiness filled her and her chest felt like a hollow shell. Would this feeling ever disappear?

As she sat up in bed, her thoughts quickly turned to her houseguest. What had possessed her to invite a total stranger to stay with her without the servants present? He was certainly handsome, but that shouldn't make her lose all common sense.

She forced herself out of bed and toward the water basin. She'd lain awake last night thinking about the man down the hall. He was so tender with his touch, so kind with his words, and so incredibly charming that she'd nearly swooned a time or two. Yet she couldn't become attached to him, because as soon as Harry discovered Nick was staying here, Harry would find a way to get him arrested.

Abigail hurried through her toiletry. She would go downstairs to see her guest, and she would make the best of the situation while it lasted. With any luck, Harry would stay away and not come to check on her today. That probably wouldn't happen, though; he was always intruding, even when her father was alive.

She brushed her hair and began winding it into a fashionable bun. Then she remembered Nick had said he loved her hair long. How would he know? They'd just met. She glanced at her window. He wouldn't have watched her from outside, would he?

Glancing back at the mirror, she studied her hair and decided to leave it down, only pulling the sides back with pearl-encrusted combs. All of her life she'd been proper. Now she didn't need to follow society's rules if she chose. She was an independent woman—or would be as soon as she figured out how to become one. Perhaps the first step to becoming independent was to tell Harry to leave her alone. She didn't need him hovering over her and making her feel like a small child.

Once she dressed in her black mourning gown, she hurried downstairs to start breakfast. It'd been a while since she'd entertained a guest, but since the servants had the day off, she'd have to do the cooking herself. Just before she reached the kitchen, the heavenly scent of griddlecakes and bacon wafted through the air. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and entered the large kitchen. Nick stood at the stove, cooking bacon in one frying pan and griddlecakes in another. Abigail smiled. Most men she knew wouldn't lower themselves to cook a meal, let alone admit they knew their way around the kitchen.

He wore the same shirt and trousers he'd worn the night before, but his vest and jacket were missing. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and Abigail had to force herself not to stare at his muscular arms.

"Good morning," she greeted.

He turned to look at her over his shoulder. "It is a good morning, Abby. And you are certainly giving the beautiful sunrise competition today. You look absolutely breathtaking."

A blush encased her face. Many men had given her compliments, but it had never affected her like Mr. Marshal—Nick's had.

"Thank you." She stepped closer and ran her hand down her black silk mourning dress, wishing she were wearing something prettier. She nodded toward the stove. "Would you like some help?"

"Sure. Which one do you want? Bacon or pancakes?"

"Did you say pancakes? What are those?"

"Uh, what do you call them?"

"Griddlecakes."

"All right then. Do you prefer bacon or griddlecakes?"

"I prefer flipping the griddlecakes."