Page 15 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)

B y the time they reached Aylesford, the drizzle had turned into a cold, steady rain that seemed to seep into Rivendale’s very bones.

The lamps of the Pea Pod Inn glowed faintly through the mist, and he felt his jaw clench as he anticipated the ordeal of dismounting.

Every mile had been agony, but he’d be damned if he’d show weakness in front of her .

The carriage drew to a halt in the muddy yard, and he heard Miss Monroe’s voice through the window. “This is a tiny inn. A few miles ahead, there’s a better one—”

“We are staying here.” His voice came out sharp, pain making him irritable. “I sent Roger ahead, and there are free rooms in this one.”

She looked out of the carriage window, dark eyes flashing with annoyance. “Fabulous, but I sent my assistant to scope out the route earlier, and she told me there’s an inn ahead that is more comfortable.”

The throbbing in his leg intensified, and his patience snapped like a brittle twig. “Miss Monroe, if you wish to proceed farther, it is your prerogative.”

“Of course.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “You would send a woman off alone at night to spend the night in an inn by herself.”

“You could have brought an escort with you,” he grumbled.

“I did.” The pause was laced with meaning. “ You are my escort.”

He flinched. She was right, of course. He was with her, and while they were out on the road, he was responsible for her safety. But if so, she had to stay by his side.

He said nothing, focusing instead on the careful process of dismounting. Roger appeared at his side immediately, offering a steadying arm that Rivendale desperately needed. His boots hit the muddy ground with a jar that sent fresh pain shooting up his spine.

Behind him, he heard Miss Monroe let out a long breath before descending from the carriage.

They made their way to the inn, where the innkeeper, a nervous man with thinning hair, looked up from his ledger as they entered.

“Two rooms,” Rivendale said without preamble, his voice clipped with barely controlled pain. “And I assume you have special quarters for the servants?”

The innkeeper’s face grew uncomfortable, his hands twisting together. “Unfortunately, we do not, my lord. Usually, the servants sleep in the barn.”

“In the barn?” Rivendale’s voice rose with disgust. “Where? With the horses?”

“Exactly so, my lord.” The man seemed to shrink further into himself. “And we have straw beds, but only two.” He glanced nervously between Roger and Thomas, knowing full well that drivers were waiting outside as well. “Perhaps the drivers could spend the night in the carriages.”

“Carriages?” Miss Monroe sounded appalled at the suggestion. “I am not letting Mr. Brown sleep in that cramped, uncomfortable carriage. Not after driving through this weather all day.”

Rivendale felt his jaw clench tighter. “It seems we don’t have much choice in the matter.”

“Yes, we do.” She stepped forward. “How large are the two accommodations?”

“One is large enough, miss. With a bed fit for a queen and a chair by the hearth. The other is smaller, with just a narrow cot and not much else.”

“Wonderful,” Melissande grumbled. “I can sleep in the small one, and Lord Rivendale can sleep with the servants in the larger room. As long as you have extra sheets and coverlets?”

“We shall find something, miss.” The innkeeper bowed.

The arrangement seemed reasonable enough, and Rivendale found himself nodding, too tired and sore to argue further. He paid for both rooms and watched as Melissande disappeared outside to speak with her driver, probably making arrangements for their luggage.

The climb to the upper floor was an exercise in patience and humility. Each step was a careful negotiation between his walking stick and his treacherous leg, and by the time he reached the landing, his breathing was labored and his shirt was damp with perspiration despite the cold.

He pushed open the door to what the innkeeper had generously called the “large” room and immediately realized the impossibility of their arrangement.

The space was barely big enough for the bed that dominated it, leaving only a narrow strip of floor beside the bed—perhaps enough room for a bathtub, but certainly not for two grown men to sleep comfortably.

Roger and Thomas appeared behind him, standing awkwardly, knowing they’d have to sleep outside.

“Lord Rivendale?” Melissande’s voice came from the doorway. She poked her head inside, surveying the ridiculous scene, and he saw understanding dawn in her eyes. “I see the predicament.”

She stepped fully into the room, making the space feel even more impossibly small. “I think it is only reasonable that I offer my room to the servants, and we can share this bed.”

“Not going to happen.” The words came out swiftly, but even as he said them, he could see Thomas’s shoulders tense.

“You’d let your men freeze in a carriage because you’re too afraid to share a bed with me? It’s large enough. You won’t even know I’m there.”

He doubted that. His pulse quickened at the very thought.

The idea of spending the night with the queen of the demimonde was outrageous.

His servants would know, of course, though they never gossiped. Still, it was a scandalous arrangement.

But Miss Monroe was right. He couldn’t refuse on that basis alone. And what did he care for scandal? He was a marquess. She wasn’t a maidenly debutante whose virtue he’d be ruining.

Besides, it was he who had dismissed the idea of pressing farther to a more suitable inn.

“Very well,” he conceded at last. “I can sleep on the floor.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” she countered, already tugging off her gloves. “With your leg, you’d never manage to rise again. And we’ve half a day’s travel tomorrow. I need you well rested.”

Thomas and Roger silently left the room, closing the door behind them.

Miss Monroe began unpacking her valise, carelessly tossing items onto the bed: a book, a chemise, a pair of silk stockings… Lord, have mercy.

He seized the book as a distraction. Confessions of a Wanton Woman.

His eyebrows rose.

Well, that didn’t help.

He was well acquainted with that particular novel, or its reputation, at least. The erotic tales of a woman enjoying carnal pleasures in her most scandalous stages of life. The novel had shocked and thrilled readers across Europe, enough to be banned from being sold in England.

How perfectly apt, he thought with dry amusement. Of course, she would travel with such a volume.

“I would like to take a bath, if you don’t mind,” she said, and he gritted his teeth. Was she torturing him on purpose? Showing him her unmentionables, traveling with a scandalous book, and now he had to imagine her in the tub?

“Of course. I would leave the room but—”

“No need. You can sit by the hearth with your back turned,” she said easily.

Thank God. He dreaded the prospect of conquering the stairs again. But also… he didn’t know how he’d be able to sit there solemnly while he knew she was naked, running her hands all over her body, water cascading down her breasts, her skin glittering in the firelight—

He needed a distraction. Perhaps he should go to the taproom, after all, and enjoy a pint of ale.

But the trek downstairs would be sheer torment in his current condition. He glanced back and caught her brushing out her hair, dark waves tumbling over her shoulders. No. He couldn’t stay.

She was fully clothed and already absolutely tantalizing.

“Actually,” he said abruptly, “I think I’ll have some food downstairs.”

“But your leg—”

He snatched up his cane and hobbled for the door, nearly tripping in his haste to escape.