The Merchant and the Clergyman (27 page)

A light scratch came at the door.

Stewart entered, carrying two empty
containers. One was the vase, which he put on the cabinet. The
other was a flowered chamber pot.

Robbie nodded, and the footman slid it under
the cot.

“It was entirely our fault for forgetting
such an important detail. I hope you will forgive us?” Robbie spoke
in a normal voice, instead of the middle-of-the-night hushed tones
they’d been employing. He watched Stewart, not Charles.

Nice of him to try to remove the blame that
belonged to Charles. “Of course,” Charles said.

“Stewart, please help Mr. Worthington back
into his bed.” Robbie’s smile seemed perfunctory. “Good night,
Cousin Charles. I hope you feel better.” He plunked the ugly flower
arrangement back into the urn, then hurried out of the room.

Ruffled. Like a cat whose fur has been
stroked the wrong way. Crackles and pops of static electricity
prickled his skin and zipped through his bloodstream. Robbie did
not care for the feeling. Nor had he been prepared for a stab of
lust to spear through him when he’d merely gone to offer a helping
hand to the newcomer.

When he’d imagined Worthington’s arrival, at
best he’d hoped to gain a friend, someone to spend an amiable hour
with now and again. At worse, he’d feared an arrogant snob who
would ignore or talk down to him. He had
not
expected
Charles Worthington, with his dark brown eyes so full of pain and
his deep voice rumbling in way that upset Robbie’s equilibrium.

This would not do
, as Aunt Lenore
would say.

The flutter of excitement that ricocheted
around inside him must be exterminated immediately. He’d succeeded
in quashing this sort undesirable attraction before, of course.
He’d simply left any room Uncle Phillip’s lawyer’s assistant
entered. That man, slender and meek, barely resembled Worthington,
but both had smiles that sparked that same swirling fear in Robbie.
He’d easily shed that old infatuation and no longer thought of that
assistant’s hands or smile except of course, at night or quiet
times alone.

He deemed it best to keep his distance from
Worthington for a while. Let the man gain his bearings here on his
own, and, in the meantime, Robbie might find his footing again
too.