"I have never been more truthful in all my life."

Color bloomed on her face, and Peter's gaze went to her mouth. Her lips were slightly full, and her chin perfectly pert. He hadn't had time to become attracted to Dannelle before she homed in on him to be the one to manipulate her father. Sitting against the wall, next to Lila's door, every detail of her features was new to him. What she would do if he leaned over and kissed her? Slam the door in his face? Confess to her aunt?

He really needed to put some distance between himself and Lila. Peter made a move to stand, when Lila said, "Oh no. You must tell me your story."

Her face grew even pinker. "I-I mean, I shouldn't pry, but I just bared all of my terrible secrets to you."

Peter hesitated. If he knew what was good for him, and what was good for her, he should leave this instant and be gone in the morning before she awoke. Instead, he settled back on the floor, and said, "It sounds like Mrs. Payne told you about Dannelle."

Chapter Eight.

The deepness of Peter's voice made Lila want to curl up next to him and listen to him talk all night, even about things that weren't so pleasant. He'd been cruelly tossed aside by his fiancee and had discovered devastating things about his father, a manager at a bank.

As it was, she sat on the floor with her robe tucked around her, as she listened to him. She wondered if their fathers knew each other, then decided it was better not to ask yet. She wasn't exactly well-versed in the business world, but if there was a sullied reputation out there, she suspected her own father would put plenty of distance between himself and the situation.

As Peter talked, his expression was calm, but she sensed the anger and pain in his black gaze. She wanted to reach across the s.p.a.ce that separated them, to hold his hand and comfort him. To let him know not all women were cruel and calculating.

It seemed they had quite a bit in common.

Peter went back to the topic of his father. "I'm sure his failures reached every bank in the country-I wouldn't be surprised if your father knew all about it." She could almost see him shaking his head. "If my father had lived, he might have been able to explain the bad investments. But as it stands, he's become the scapegoat for the bank's failure. I will never know the truth."

Lila again had the urge to grasp his hand. "Perhaps things aren't as they seem, and my father could look into it-clear your father's name."

His chuckle was low. "I wish that it were so easy. It's too far gone, and I'm sure a man like your father wouldn't want to involve himself in such a mess."

Peter was right, but Lila's heart tugged for this man who was suffering for a situation not of his own making. She cracked the door open so she could see his face more fully. Her breath caught as their eyes met, and she chastised herself for even allowing herself to unlock her door.

His black eyes bore into hers, and she wished she knew what he was thinking-exactly what he was thinking when he looked at her.

"I'm sorry," she said, wrinkling her brow. "I'm sure Yale will give you the chance to redeem everything that was lost by your father."

"It's my last hope," he said in a quiet voice.

Then, before she could stop herself, she lifted her hand and reached across the s.p.a.ce that divided them. He clasped her hand, his warm fingers encasing hers, and a shiver trailed up her arm. She hadn't realized how cold her hands were.

"You're freezing again," he said, his voice low and strangely rough. "You must get up off the floor. I'll stoke the fire in the parlor if you want to come down."

She stared at him, thinking how they were in the house together, entirely alone.

The sound of her aunt's arriving buggy snapped Lila back to reality. She was almost breathless with thoughts of Peter tumbling through her mind. Clinging to his hand wasn't making matters easier.

She pulled her hand abruptly away and held it safely on her side of the doorway. "Forgive me," she said. "I can be too impulsive for my own good."

Peter rose to his feet, looking down at her, his eyes glimmering. "I don't mind impulsiveness."

Before she could reply, he strode down the hall. Lila scrambled to her feet, watching until he turned toward the staircase, before shutting her door and locking it. Leaning against the door, she exhaled.

What is wrong with me?

First Roland, now Peter. I'm acting like a tavern girl who entertains a different man each night. But something deep inside her had stirred, and she knew that Peter was nothing like Roland. She felt that Peter had truly seen her and cared about what she'd been through.

He had a sad tale of fate, one that could certainly be repaired, at least she hoped. If not, she couldn't imagine her father being pleased with someone like Peter capturing her affections.

A murmur of voices came from downstairs, but instead of descending to greet her aunt, Lila turned off her light and climbed beneath the cold covers of her bed. She missed her luxurious sleigh bed and piles of damask quilts. She imagined Peter lighting a fire in the parlor and waiting for her to join him. But that would never happen now, not with her aunt in the house. And it shouldn't happen with her aunt absent, either.

Lila closed her eyes, as her body heat slowly warmed the blanket covering her, with thoughts of Peter making the process faster.

When Lila next opened her eyes, her room was filled with winter morning light. Somehow she sensed that Peter had left early, and she didn't blame him. The confessions in the dark hallway the night before seemed too personal in the harsh light of day.

She climbed out of bed and quickly dressed in the near-frosty air. What she wouldn't give for a fireplace in her spa.r.s.e bedroom. Peter was right; it was freezing. The water in the washbasin had a thin coat of ice on it, and her heart pinged at the thought of the heated water that came through pipes directly to her bedroom back in New York. The farmhouse might have electric lights, but her aunt was a stickler for spending anything on "luxuries," including heated water.

Lila tapped the ice coating, cracked it, then dipped her fingers in and scrubbed her face as quickly as possible. By the time she made it down to where her aunt was waiting expectantly, she was shivering.

"There you are," Aunt Eugenia said. "I expect you up by first light. What happened? It looked as if you went to bed early enough."

How could Lila tell her aunt that she'd been awake well into the night, thinking about her other boarder?

"Pull on your coat; you'll be cleaning the horse stalls today."

Lila stared at her aunt. "What?"

Eugenia bustled past her into the kitchen. "I've saved some porridge for you. Don't want you to be skin and bones when your father comes for you."

"Don't you have a man for the carriage house?"

"Humph. A carriage house? You're not at home anymore, Lillian." Her aunt pulled a bowl from a cupboard. "We have three stalls with barely a roof overhead. Had to sell two horses last summer. Can't very well keep a man to care for just one horse all winter. Only have Barnes around now, and he's away for the holiday."

Lila's mouth fell open. Did her aunt really expect her to clean out a horse stall? What about her son-in-law or Peter? Wouldn't that be more suited to man's work?

She'd ridden horses aplenty when her family had visited her mother's sister in Newport, Rhode Island. But she'd never done anything beyond riding.

Her aunt crossed her arms over her chest, waiting.

"I haven't the faintest idea of how to get started," Lila said, then fell quiet.

The look on her aunt's face told her that she'd learn soon enough. After she gulped down the porridge and pulled on her thickest coat, she followed Eugenia out to the stalls behind the house.

Although the day was clear, the wind was cold and biting.

Her aunt handled the horse and moved him to one of the long-empty stalls. "The pitchfork is propped against that wall."

Lila followed where she pointed, and grabbed the splintered wood handle.

"And you'll find gloves on top of the side table."

The leather gloves dwarfed her hands, but she needed the protection. She took up the handle again and approached the stall.

"Scoop it all out and carry it outside to pile against the outside wall," Aunt Eugenia ordered. "There's more hay in the bin. When you're finished be sure to move Smokey back in."

Lila looked from her aunt to the benign horse; the smell coming from his stall was making her stomach queasy. She was grateful she'd only had a small bowl of porridge.

Her aunt left, and Lila gripped the handle of the pitchfork. The work was slow and freezing. She should have layered two dresses today. She turned up her coat collar to make a barrier between the smell and her senses.

A whistling sounded behind her, and Lila turned. Peter was walking up the road to the house. She took a step back in the shadow of the overhang so he wouldn't see her-she suspected she smelled horrible by now and probably looked even worse.

But instead of turning when he neared the house, he continued along the side of it, coming right toward her. One hand was shoved in a coat pocket, and his other gloved hand carried a satchel, most full of University books and papers.

"Lila?" Peter said, his eyes apparently having no trouble spotting her where she stood inside the old horse stall.

She stayed where she was-there was not much lighting in the middle of the stall. Maybe he'd greet her, then go inside.

He stopped beneath the roof and took one look at the pitchfork she held and reached for it. "What does Mrs. Payne have you doing now? Can you even lift this thing?"

Lila raised her chin. "I've been working here for hours."

"Hours?" A smile touched his mouth.

"Well, maybe one hour, or more likely a half," Lila conceded. She didn't protest as he took the pitchfork. Just his presence alone made the job seem small and menial.

"You look half frozen," Peter said with a shake of his head. "You should be inside like other ladies."

Lila detected a note of sarcasm in his voice. Was he criticizing or concerned? "Thank you, but I should finish what I started." She reached for the pitchfork, but Peter moved so his back was to her. With a half-dozen swift strokes, he'd finished the job.

"I'm most grateful." She peeled off the heavy work gloves and shoved her hands into her coat pockets, but not before Peter noticed the redness of her hands.

"Those gloves were much too large to do you any good," he said, coming to stand in front of her. He dropped the pitchfork and lifted her arms until her hands came out of their pockets. He pulled off his own gloves and grasped her hands.

His skin seemed almost too hot to Lila, whose fingers had little feeling left. Her heart skipped as he brought her fingers to his mouth and blew warm air on them.

"Are you ever warm?" he asked.

Lila laughed. "I'm afraid I'm doomed as long as I'm living here."

Peter slowly rubbed warmth back into her hands, though it wasn't nearly enough in the cold air. But Lila wasn't going to complain.

"How did your exams go today?" she asked, trying to keep her mind off of his touch, which was sending darts of warmth through her entire body.

"Quite well, I believe." Peter lifted his eyes to meet hers. "I think baring my soul last night helped clear my head."

Lila hid a smile. Nothing he'd said last night had been the least bit amusing, but she was grateful that their conversation had helped him in some way. Relief shuddered through her. Peter didn't seem the least bit put off by her tale either. In fact, he was practically staring at her.

"I'll get the hay replenished, then get you back inside." He shrugged off his coat and set it over her shoulders.

"I'm fine," she started.

"Your teeth are chattering."

"No, they aren't." Her teeth clicked together, quite involuntarily, and he laughed.

Well, maybe they are a little.

It took Peter only a few moments to put the horse stall back to rights; Lila didn't want to think about how long it might have taken her, or how much more frozen she'd have felt. Peter insisted she keep the coat as they walked back to the house. She wondered if she'd ever feel completely warm again.

Once inside, Peter ushered her into the parlor. Aunt Eugenia sat at the writing desk, and she looked up with surprise when Lila entered.

"Finished already? Did you-" Her words died when Peter came in behind Lila.

"Peter helped me with the last little bit." She tried to keep a straight face. Peter was standing very close to her. "Oh, your coat," she said, realizing she still wore it.

Peter took it from her shoulders with a smile then turned to Eugenia. "Miss Townsend was out in the cold a bit too long. She'll require hot broth and warm socks."

Aunt Eugenia opened her mouth, then shut it firmly.

"I'm sure her father wouldn't care to see her indisposed when he returns to fetch her."

Eugenia set down her pen. "O-of course not. I'll get the broth and the..."

"Socks," Peter supplied.

When she left, Peter turned to Lila. "Let's get you out of those shoes."

"She's going to be livid," Lila whispered. "You're coddling me too much, and you're a man, you know, so you shouldn't be touching my feet."

"I know that very well," Peter said, leading her to the chair by the fire. He knelt down in front of her and unlaced her boots.

Lila thought she might stop breathing, but miraculously she stayed alive as Peter's deft fingers removed her boots. Even though her feet were practically numb, she felt his touch as if she'd been scorched.

"Better?" He looked up at her with those intense eyes.

She smiled down at him. "Much."

"I only have these wool socks," Eugenia's voice cut in between them.

Peter quickly stood and took them, holding them next to the fire. "These will do fine. And now for the broth."

"Of course," Eugenia said, then disappeared.

When her aunt was gone again, Lila said to Peter, "You're doing too much, you know. It's plain she doesn't like it one bit."

His gaze grew serious. "Someone has to watch out for you, Lila."