One Little Sin by Liz Carlyle

at his straw-colored waistcoat, never thinking what a fool she must look.
    “Oh, I am so sorry!” Esmée scrubbed furiously at the silk.
    MacLachlan had drawn back in his chair to survey the damage. “Bloody hell, that was hot!”
    “Oh, have I scalded you?” she asked. “Are you hurt?” Inexplicably, Esmée wanted to cry. This felt like the last straw.
    “I shan’t be scarred for life.” MacLachlan settled a warm, strong hand on her shoulder. “Really, Miss Hamilton, it is quite all right. Stop scrubbing, please, and look at me.”
    Esmée’s gaze trailed upward. “Oh, no!” His cravat, too, was splattered. “Oh, this is ruined!” She plucked desperately at the folds as if drying it would help.
    MacLachlan lifted her hand away and grasped it securely in his. “I’ve suffered worse,” he said, leaning over her, so close his breath stirred her hair. “Now do get off your knees, Miss Hamilton, before someone barges in and draws a bad conclusion—which, given my reputation, might too easily happen.”
    She did not quite absorb his words. “I beg your pardon?”
    MacLachlan sighed, then somehow pushed back his chair and drew her up with him. They were standing mere inches apart, her head barely reaching his chest, and her hand still caught in his. For a long moment, he was perfectly still, his gaze intent on their entwined fingers. “My dear Miss Hamilton,” he finally said.
    “Y-Yes?”
    His mouth curled into a smile. “I think it safe to say you are the most relentless nail-biter I have ever known.”
    Her face already aflame, she jerked the hand from his and thrust it behind her back.
    He seized hold of the other one and held it resolutely. “Indeed,” he said, peering at it, “I am not at all sure these are fingernails.”
    She tried to extract her hand, but the scoundrel just grinned. “You have quite vanquished them, Miss Hamilton,” he said, still looking at her fingers. “They are actually receding, like the French retreating from Moscow.”
    Esmée was still distraught over having doused him with hot coffee. “’Tis a vile habit,” she admitted, tugging at her hand. “I would I knew how to stop.”
    He lifted his gaze to hers and held it for a long moment. “What I would know,” he said quietly, “is what it is that troubles you so much that you feel compelled to chew them to the quick.”
    He would not release her hand, though he held it quite gently. “I just do sometimes,” she said softly. “It means nothing.”
    “Esmée.” The chiding affection in his tone unsettled her. “My dear, you really are troubled. Why? How can I help?”
    Suddenly, she felt her chin quivering. “Do not you dare,” she whispered, tearing her gaze away. “Do not you dare feel sorry for me.”
    His eyes heated. “I just want you to tell me what is wrong,” he insisted. Suddenly, his tone shifted. “Is it me, Esmée? Do I…distress you?” At that, he dropped her hand and stepped back.
    Oh, God. It wasn’t that. Why did he even have to care? Why couldn’t he be the insensitive lout she expected? How could he be so blithe one moment, and so compassionate the next? Suddenly, Esmée couldn’t get her breath.
    “It isn’t you,” she managed, her hand nervously toying with the strand of pearls at her neck. “It isn’t you, and it isn’t anything to do with you. Please, MacLachlan, just leave me be.”
    “I’m not sure I should.” His voice was gentle but resolute. “You put on a brave face, my dear, but I begin to suspect a crack in that brittle veneer of yours. Are you in over your head?”
    “I can manage!” she cried, dropping her hand. “I can, I swear it! Is that why you’re hiring a nurse? You think I know nothing of child rearing? And the coffee—I’m sorry—I was careless.” Her voice was taking on a frantic edge now, but she couldn’t seem to stop. “It shan’t happen again. And I can take care of Sorcha, too. I can!”
    “Miss Hamilton, this is all so