Her heart seemed to expand painfully as she looked up at Simon Hunt, who was dressed in a formal scheme of black and white, a lazy smile curving his wide mouth. His deep voice sent a shiver down her spine. “Where do you think you’re going?”

So he had come for her, in spite of the elegant crowd that he should have been mingling with downstairs. Aware that the sudden weakness in her knees had nothing to do with her illness, Annabelle toyed nervously with the end of her braid. “To have a supper tray in the parlor.”

Taking her elbow, Hunt turned and guided her along the hallway, keeping his steps slow to accommodate hers. “You don’t want a supper tray in the parlor,” he informed her.

“I don’t?”

He shook his head. “I have a surprise for you. Come, it’s not far.” As she went with him willingly, Hunt slid an assessing gaze over her. “Your balance has improved since this afternoon. How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” Annabelle replied, and flushed as her stomach growled audibly. “A bit hungry, actually.”

Hunt grinned and brought her to a partially opened door. Leading her over the threshold, he brought her into a small, lovely room with rosewood-paneled walls hung with tapestries, and furniture upholstered in amber velvet. The room’s most distinctive feature, however, was the window on the inside wall, which opened out onto the drawing room two stories below. This place was perfectly concealed from the view of the guests below, while music floated clearly through the wide opening. Annabelle’s round-eyed gaze moved to a small table that was covered with silver-domed plates.

“I had the devil of a time trying to decide what would tempt your appetite,” Hunt said. “So I told the kitchen staff to include some of everything.”

Overwhelmed, and unable to think of a time that any man had gone to such lengths for her enjoyment, Annabelle suddenly found it difficult to speak. She swallowed hard and looked everywhere but at his face. “This is lovely. I…I didn’t know this room was here.”

“Few people do. The countess sometimes sits here when she is too infirm to go downstairs.” Hunt moved closer to her and slid his long fingers beneath her chin, coaxing her to meet his gaze. “Will you have dinner with me?”

Annabelle’s pulse throbbed so rapidly that she was certain he could feel it against his fingers. “I have no chaperone,” she half whispered.

Hunt smiled at that, his hand dropping from her chin. “You couldn’t be safer. I’m hardly going to seduce you while you’re obviously too weak to defend yourself.”

“That’s very gentlemanly of you.”

“I’ll seduce you when you’re feeling better.”

Biting back a smile, Annabelle raised a fine brow, and said, “You’re very sure of yourself. Should you have said you’re going to try to seduce me?”

” ‘Never anticipate failure’—that’s what my father always tells me.” Sliding a strong arm around her back, Hunt guided her to one of the chairs. “Will you have some wine?”

“I shouldn’t,” Annabelle said wistfully, sinking into the deeply upholstered chair. “It would probably go straight to my head.”

Hunt poured a glass and gave it to her, smiling with a wicked charm that Lucifer himself would have tried to emulate. “Go on,” he murmured. “I’ll take care of you if you get a bit tipsy.”

Sipping the smooth, soft vintage, Annabelle sent him a wry glance. “I wonder how often a lady’s downfall began with that exact promise from you…”

“I have yet to cause a lady’s downfall,” Hunt said, lifting the covers from the dishes and setting them aside. “I usually pursue them after they’ve already fallen.”

“Have there been many fallen ladies in your past?” Annabelle couldn’t keep from asking.

“I’ve had my fair share,” Hunt replied, looking neither apologetic nor boastful as he met her gaze directly. “Though lately my energies have been absorbed by a different pastime.”

“Which is?”

“I’m overseeing the development of a locomotive works that Westcliff and I have invested in.”

“Really?” Annabelle stared at him with kindling interest. “I’ve never been on a train before. What is it like?”

Hunt grinned, suddenly looking boyish in his barely suppressed enthusiasm. “Fast. Exciting. The average speed of a passenger locomotive is about fifty miles an hour, but Consolidated is building a six-coupled express engine design that should go up to seventy.”

“Seventy miles an hour?” Annabelle repeated, unable to imagine hurtling forward at such speed. “Wouldn’t that be uncomfortable for the passengers?”

The question made him smile. “Once the train reaches its traveling speed, you don’t feel the momentum.”

“What are the passenger cars like on the inside?”

“Not especially luxurious,” Hunt admitted, pouring more wine into his own glass. “I wouldn’t recommend traveling in anything other than a private car—especially for someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” Annabelle gave him a chiding smile. “If you’re implying that I’m spoiled, I assure you that I am not.”

“You should be.” His warm gaze slid over her pink-tinted face and slender upper body, then sought hers again. There was a note in his voice that gently robbed her of breath. “You could do with a bit of spoiling.”