Page 72 of Road Trip With a Rogue

“Likewise,” he countered. “I left London to rid myself of a nephew, not saddle myself with a wife.”

“I’m not going to be your wife,” she growled.

He rose, and she pulled the bedsheets back over her legs, slumping down in the pillows, thinking he was going to come near her, but he merely strode across to a large mahogany linen press that stood against one wall. He selected a clean shirt from within, and sent her an enigmatic smile.

“We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

It was full light when Daisy woke again, and a servant scratched at the door with a steaming bowl of porridge. The girl drew open the heavy curtains, and Daisy blinked in the bright sunlight that streamed through the tall windows. Her head, mercifully, didn’t object.

“Morning, Miss. I’m Jenny. His Grace said you’d be wanting a bath.”

Daisy smiled. “A bath would be lovely, thank you. But breakfast first. I’m famished.”

“I’ll come back up in twenty minutes or so to assist you.” The girl bobbed a curtsey and slipped out the door before Daisy could object.

The porridge was delicious, made with extra cream and a swirl of honey, and Daisy ate the lot, glad that she was feeling almost back to normal. When Jenny returned, clutching an armful of bathing sheets, she gestured to a doorway Daisy hadn’t noticed, set into the wooden paneling.

“The bathing room’s through there.”

Daisy almost laughed when she saw the enormous copper tub set in the center of the tiles. Tess had a similarlyluxurious bath back at Wansford Hall, and it was clear that Vaughan had spared no expense when it came to his own creature comforts. No measly, cramped hip bath in front of the fire for His Grace, the Duke of Cranford.

The tantalizing image of him, steam beading his skin, rippled in her brain like a mirage before she forcibly dismissed it asnot helpful.

An ingenious series of pipes brought both hot and cold water up from the kitchens, and when it was half full Daisy sank into the most welcome bath of her life. She slid under the surface and fanned her fingers through her hair, washing the dirt and dust away.

The maid had left a bar of delicate, rose-scented soap, and she lathered it over her whole body, reveling in the sensation of feeling fully clean once again. Her knees were grazed from the fight, and there was a faint purple bruise on her right cheekbone, but otherwise she didn’t feel too bad.

When she finally emerged, cheeks glowing from the heat, it was to find Jenny laying what looked to be a dress, petticoats, and other pieces of feminine clothing on the bed.

Daisy’s brows rose in surprise. “What’s all that? Do they belong to His Grace’s sister?”

The maid smiled. “No, Miss. Mrs. Hughes is quite a bit taller than yourself. Her things would be far too long and I’ve had no time to alter any of them. These are from Master Peregrine’s new wife. She said you didn’t have any dresses of your own, and asked me to give this to you.”

Daisy bit back a small groan, even as she forced a sunny smile. “How kind of her.”

The chemise and silk stockings were lovely, but her spirits plummeted as she got a closer look at the dress. Violet’s sartorial preferences were diametrically opposedto her own. She cast a desperate glance around the bedroom for the clothes she’d just discarded. She’d rather put on soiled garments than don the pastel horror Violet had sent.

“I’ve taken your breeches and shirt downstairs, to be washed,” Jenny said cheerfully.

Damn it all.

“Would you like me to help lace you up?”

“No thank you, I can manage. Do you happen to know where His Grace is?” Perhaps she could linger up here and avoid seeing him altogether.

“He’s in the breakfast room, miss. He told me to tell you to get dressed and meet him there at eleven o’clock.”

Daisy glanced at the clock. It was already half past ten. She was going to have to wear the blasted dress.

“Thank you, Jenny. I’ll find my own way down.”

Daisy descended the stairs twenty minutes later, her heart pounding oddly in her chest. Carisbrooke Hall, from the little of it she’d seen, was undeniably impressive. The hallway she’d just traversed was huge, littered with priceless paintings and antiques, and the gardens she’d glimpsed through the windows spread out as far as the eye could see. There was an entire herd of deer.

She’d given in to the temptation to snoop before she left Vaughan’s room, of course. They’d be on their way back to London soon, and she might never have another chance, and she wanted to know as much about him as possible.

A peek inside the huge linen press had produced a waft of his familiar scent that made her stomach do a little somersault, but a quick search of the drawers, writing desk, and dressing chests proved unproductive. Paper, ink, a block of sealing wax. Some bills from his London tailor. He paid an exorbitant amount for his boots.