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beneath her glove.
    She jerked spasmodically away; his grip tightened in reaction. He raised his head, met her eyes, and became very still.
    She could count his breaths. She could feel her pulse thrumming in her wrist, encased in his fingers.
    Slowly, he let go.
    “My apologies,” he said. “I was not thinking. I was going to take off your gloves and rub some sensation into your fingers. Can you do it on your own?”
    She fumbled with her own glove, but the material clung to her skin and she could scarcely feel what she was doing.
    “Will you let me?” he asked.
    Serena met his eyes. He’d dropped his air of menace, and—even knowing full well how wrong the notion was—that same sense returned to her. Safe. Safe. This man is safe.
    Ridiculous.
    Nonetheless, Serena held out her hands to him.
    He took off one glove and then the other, touching her only long enough to work the fabric down her fingers.
    The air was cold against her bare skin, but the sensation lasted only a few seconds. He set her gloves aside, wrapped her hands in a towel and rubbed them vigorously.
    The touch should have felt intimate and invasive. His hands engulfed hers. And he’d practically disrobed her—well, maybe dis gloved her. But he was so matter-of-fact about it that his touch felt…normal.
    Safe, the back of her mind whispered.
    He left her hands wrapped in the towel, like some oversized muff, and then picked up the metal flask. It looked like the sort of container in which gentlemen stored gin—flat and thin. But he unscrewed the cap and a curl of steam escaped.
    Serena sighed in longing. He poured the contents—a glorious golden-brown—into the teacup, and then held it out to her. “I don’t know how you take your tea,” he said, “and I had no way to bring the cream and sugar out here. I added both. I can only hope the result is palatable.”
    She maneuvered a hand out of the towel and took the cup. Her hand was still shaking; he watched her with narrowed eyes. But the cup was warm—so warm that it seared her skin. And the tea… Oh, it was lovely. Strong and sweet, with a generous dollop of creamy milk.
    The first sip seemed to thaw the ice in her fingers.
    “Why are you doing this?”
    “I told you,” he said. “I don’t hurt women.”
    “You’re hardly responsible for my presence here. I’m here by dint of my own willful stubbornness.” She took another gulp of tea.
    “Semantics,” he returned. “You’re here. Who is to blame, if I am not?”
    “The Duke of Clermont comes to mind. You’re his charge, not the other way around.”
    Mr. Marshall snorted. “Is that what you think?”
    She took another swallow of tea rather than answer the question. “This is the best tea I have ever had,” she said. “Thank you.”
    “Don’t thank me.”
    Her gaze locked with his, and she found herself unable to look away. His eyes were brown—light, like the color of sunlight filtered through autumn leaves. He was so focused on her, the entire world seemed to melt away—the dark clouds overhead, the puddles underfoot. There was nothing but him.
    It had been more than three months since she’d felt even the mildest hints of sexual attraction. She’d thought it had been burned from her for good, stolen by fear and the cold, clutching hands of dark memory. Apparently not. Her better sense could be swayed by two swallows of tea and an umbrella.
    Safe. He is safe.
    But no matter that he’d brought her shelter and warmth, there was nothing safe about him.
    Mr. Marshall smiled at her—not the easy smile of a mild acquaintance, but a smile with a sharp edge. Still, he stayed on his half of the bench. Rain collected on the brim of his hat and dripped over the edges, but it did not make him look in the least disheveled.
    “You could have sent another servant out with an umbrella. You didn’t have to come yourself.”
    “I assumed it would unsettle you more if I fed you in person,” he answered.
    “Feed me? You