Page 6

T he day had already been so gray that twilight had hardly changed the color of the sky. Only colder air heralded the impending arrival of nightfall. Constantia could see her breath as they huffed up a set of rickety stairs, attached with dubious firmness to the exterior wall of the pub and only partly sheltered beneath the building’s eaves.

On the landing was a nail-studded oak door that opened into the publican’s living quarters: a low-ceilinged room in which the man did whatever eating and sitting could not be done below, and on either end of it, an area divided from the main space by a faded calico curtain. Behind one curtain, she supposed, lay the man’s bed. To the other, he led them.

He drew it aside to reveal a small space, hardly bigger than the bed it concealed. One side of the bed was pressed up against the wall that, by her swift calculations, housed the chimney from the fireplace below. What little room remained along the end of the bed had been given over to storage. The bedside table was a cask stood on its end. Their valises sat on the floor beside it.

“’Twere my sister’s.” The explanation was little more than a grunt as the barman swept the light of a candle into corners that might better have remained unlit. “’ Til she up and eloped with Jem.”

The flickering light danced over the craggy lines of his scowl as he thrust the candlestick into Lord Ryland’s hand. “There’s meat and cheese in the larder. Be obliged if you didn’t eat it all.” And with a brusque nod, he left them and returned to his duties below.

Constantia sat limply down on the edge of the bed and fought back a laugh that she feared might be rising hysteria. “Who do you suppose Jem is?”

“A local farmer?” Lord Ryland suggested as he squeezed past a few crates to place the candlestick in the center of the barrel-table.

“Did you see his expression? No, I think...” She racked her brain to concoct something amusing to diffuse the tension. “I think the fellow must be the owner of the rival pub across the way. Probably knew a hardworking, unappreciated woman when he saw one.”

That earned her a small, tight smile. Then he turned away, putting his back between her and the light. “I’ll leave the bed to you, of course. I’m sure I can sit up downstairs, or join John Coachman in the stable.”

To say that his offer took her by surprise would be an understatement. She’d expected him to leap at the chance to indulge in rakishness, here where no one in Society who thought him a gentleman would be the wiser.

Or perhaps he understood the flaw in his proposal perfectly but expected her to point it out—to make it seem as if the fateful decision were hers.

“You can’t.” She pushed the necessary denial past lips gone suddenly dry. His shoulders tautened in a remarkably good simulation of surprise. “It would only raise suspicions,” she dutifully explained, “and our host is skeptical enough about us already. We might find ourselves without a roof over our heads at all.”

Her words met with one curt dip of his chin. Agreement, but to all appearances grudging. She would give him credit: His gestures, however insincere, were believable.

He sidled back along the bed toward the makeshift doorway without meeting her eye. “Are you hungry?”

“A little.” She pushed to her feet as he swept the curtain aside. “Do you suppose there’s water for washing up?”

“If not, there’s a fire in the stove, and I spied a pump outside.” He picked up his hat from where he’d laid it beside their valises. “I’ll fetch some.”

“Wait.”

That word at last brought his eyes to her face. To her surprise, his were dark and convincingly troubled.

She shrugged her shoulders free of his greatcoat and held it out to him with her good hand.

He took it from her with another nod, less stiff this time. “Thank you.”

While he was gone, she explored the main room, which contained a small stove, a cupboard with food and the means of preparing and serving it, and a drop-leaf table, with one straight-backed chair tucked squarely beneath it. The rug on the floor was the only concession to comfort and homeyness.

Had the barman’s sister taken the other chair with her, or had she been worked to a frazzle and never allowed to sit down?

Constantia washed her hands with the water remaining in the teakettle and then set about preparing a simple repast of bread and cheese and cold meats. It would be a humble meal in humble surroundings, but she had endured far worse, and she was glad of the glow emanating from the little stove, which someone obviously took care to polish.

When Ryland returned, rain dripping from the tip of his red nose, she wordlessly surrendered its warmth to him. The kitchen, such as it was, was too small for two, so she sat on the chair and watched as he shrugged out of his wet greatcoat and hung it on a peg by the door, laid aside his hat, and chafed the feeling back into his ungloved hands.

She did not expect a display of practical skills. Whatever the cause of his current money woes, he had surely been raised with a bevy of servants, or at the very least sisters, to tend to his every need.

But he surprised her. With deft movements, he filled the teakettle and another pot with water and set them to heat, then rinsed the teapot and added a scant few fresh leaves to those that had already steeped—heeding the barkeep’s caution to be sparing, she supposed. Or perhaps the earl liked his tea weak. Certainly that morning’s evidence would suggest as much.

In companionable silence, he laid the table, brought the food, and poured the water when the kettle sang. When she made as if to rise and give him her seat, he scanned the room for the missing chair.

“It would seem our gruff friend doesn’t entertain much,” she explained.

“I imagine after entertaining the village all day, he likes his quiet.”

Then, to her shock, the Earl of Ryland sat down on the floor, balancing a plate of bread and cheese on one knee while cradling a steaming cup in the opposite hand.

“You are in sympathy with him, I’m sure,” she said. “With seven sisters to plague you, you must understand the terrible plight of such a man, surrounded by chatter all day.”

He slanted a glance toward her. “Then you would be astonished to know how very much I miss them whenever we are apart.”

She was not astonished. She was incredulous.

But she disguised her reaction behind a choking cough. “I—I think I must not have any siblings,” she offered when she could speak. “Though of course I’m not really sure.” It wasn’t even a fib. Her mother had had no other children, but her father might have. If those siblings existed, they were nothing to her, however. She’d grown up quite alone. “I have a sense I’ve often been left to my own devices.”

Lord Ryland chewed over her answer along with a bite of cheese, and then took a long gulp of tea to wash it down.

“My friend Deveraux hasn’t any brothers or sisters. When I was younger, I used to envy him his peace and quiet.”

Peace and quiet? From what she had heard, Lord Deveraux took every available opportunity to raise as much of a ruckus as possible. And Lord Ryland’s friendship with the man must reflect some weakness in the earl, some complicity with Deveraux’s notorious troublemaking.

Mustn’t it?

“And now?” she managed to ask.

“From time to time I make a great show of annoyance at my sisters’ incessant babble and retreat to my library, but the truth is...” He paused for a long moment, thoughtful. His next words were underscored by the silence of the room. “Too much quiet drives me mad.”

Gradually, though, Constantia became aware of all the little sounds around them, the drip of rain from the eaves and the crackle of the fire and the low hum of voices from the pub below. A certain amused wistfulness settled over his face. “Besides, silence is almost always a sign that trouble’s afoot.”

That meshed, she supposed, with his earlier description of his sisters and their dubious accomplishments. But whatever she had expected this journey to reveal, it had not been anything like genuine affection for his mischief-loving sisters.

Despite the inevitable rumples of travel and the fact that he was seated on the floor, the Earl of Ryland still managed to look the picture of a proper English gentleman. Except for the way the knot of his cravat had loosened. And a lock of dark hair that persisted in falling forward, requiring him to toss his head occasionally to keep it out of his eyes.

Her fingertips itched with longing, the unexpected desire to make another sketch of him, as he appeared to her in that moment, nothing like the man she thought she knew.

“Speaking of your sisters,” she said, jerking herself away from a precipice that had been the death of many an unwary woman, “what can you tell me about their artistic inclinations? Will I find them eager pupils?”

At that question, his body went from relaxed to stiff, though he hardly moved. Every suggestion of softness disappeared, every hint that the true Lord Ryland might be neither rigid nor rakish. “I’m sure you’ll find that many of them, perhaps all, have some ability. Harry in particular may even have a gift.”

“But none of them have had any prior instruction?” she asked, recalling what he had told her in the carriage and making no effort to disguise her surprise. “Why did you not ensure that Lady Harriet at least had the benefit of a master?”

For answer, he stuffed the last bite of bread and cheese into his mouth, freeing one hand so he could push to his feet—a clear refusal to answer. “I am in danger of forgetting my manners,” he said, his back to her as he returned his cup and saucer to the kitchen. “You must be tired from the journey and yesterday’s ordeal.”

Both of them were keeping secrets. But his might not be the one she’d assumed he hid from the world.

“Yes, I—” She shot a glance toward the curtain, behind which lay the bed they would share, then gazed down wistfully at her own empty plate, wishing suddenly for some excuse for delay. “I suppose I am.”

“Then I’ll go down and see what report the coachman has to make, while you...” He made an aimless gesture with one hand and glanced over his shoulder just enough that she could see his cheek was pink. “The water’s warm, if you’d still like a wash.”

“Oh.” Heat surged into her own face. “Thank you. But I—” Never having had a lady’s maid, she had always kept her clothing simple enough to manage on her own. Present circumstances had created a new set of challenges, however. She held up her injured wrist. “I’ll need some assistance, I’m afraid.”

He turned away before she could see whether her words had made him blush harder, or blanch. But she could hear him drag in a ragged breath. “Of course.”

No steel-spined butler had ever moved with the precision and propriety he exhibited as he poured water from the pot into a shallow washbasin, gathered a few rough towels, lit a tallow candle, and carried it all behind the curtain.

Dutifully, she followed him. He made a makeshift washstand on the upturned cask, then turned as if to go.

“If you could just—” With a wiggle of bandaged fingertips toward the nape of her neck, she indicated the fastenings of her dress. She could not bear to think of another night in that same dirty, and now damp, garment.

When he did not meet her eye, she turned her back to him. For just a moment, she thought he meant to refuse. Then she was aware of the tug of his fingers slipping loose the short row of buttons along her spine.

When the last button slipped free, she felt the fabric sag and gape open. Instinctively, she wrapped one arm across her chest to keep the dress from slipping to the floor. Her plain cotton shift, dingy with washing, must now be on display, along with the fact that she wore no corset. Fortunately for her independence, she’d never really required one. Her figure was straight as a stick, and no amount of tight lacing could have coaxed a cleavage from her bosom.

Would he say something disapproving?

Would he trace one warm fingertip down her spine?

She shivered at the imagining of it.

“I’ll give you time to settle in,” he said, the sudden gruffness of his voice somehow eliciting another shiver, which she chose to blame on the cooler air dancing across her skin.

“Th-thank you.”

He edged his way past the bed, managing neither to look at nor to touch her, and was beyond the curtain before she could muster the strength to speak another word.

What on earth ailed her? Had she been struck by a fever after a quarter-mile walk in a drizzling rain?

How otherwise to explain her own strange longing, that twinge of regret when he made no attempt to practice his secret rakish charms on her?

But of course, he had every reason not to trust her either. Not to reveal his true self. She was, at best, a burden to him. An annoyance. Even the comforts of a private coach were insufficient recompense for the added trouble of traveling with a woman who’d made it her mission to mock him. And now, even those modest comforts had been swept away, replaced by the discomforts of accommodations that didn’t deserve the name of inn .

She waited until she heard the latch of the outer door before she let her dress drop to the floor, then undid the ribbon of her shift and shed that as well, along with her shoes and stockings. One-handed, she wet a cloth, wrung it, and bathed as best she could, grateful for the steaming water, particularly in the absence of soap.

Once she had freshened herself, she opened her valise in search of a nightdress and discovered that her sketches were missing. By themselves, they were no great loss; she could hardly blame him for having thrown one of them, at least, into the fire. But the painting.. .

She began to rummage, employing both hands despite the discomfort, pushing aside linens, making a tangle of all her remaining possessions, until her fingertips found the familiar edge of a leather case in its usual place, beneath the valise’s false bottom. Relief shuddered from her in a sigh. Perhaps Lord Ryland didn’t even know it was there.

Carelessly, she stuffed the contents back into the bag on top of it, all but the nightdress, which she donned with a struggle. Afterward, she picked up her clothes from the floor, shook them out, and draped them over the crates to air and dry. The boots she tucked beneath the bed so that Lord Ryland might not trip over them when he returned.

Then she blew out the candle and crawled into the bed, hugging the chimney wall for what little warmth radiated from it. The mattress rustled beneath her, but the sheets were clean and the straw reasonably fresh. The barkeep’s sister must not have been gone long.

The quiet sounds around her—dripping eaves, the murmur of voices below—ought to have lulled her to sleep in a moment. She was exhausted. But she was also sore, and the laudanum was in Lord Ryland’s pocket. The steady patter of rain made her worry about the condition of the roads and how long they would be delayed here. And the fading conversations, as night wore on and patrons called out their farewells, only made her wonder when Lord Ryland would return.

At long last, she heard steps on the outer staircase and the creak of the door. Then the rattle of dishes, the clatter of someone washing up. The barkeep, her drowsy mind insisted. Surely not the earl.

She screwed shut her eyes all the same.

Then, moments later, footsteps—unbooted—crossed the floor in her direction. The fabric of the curtain whispered as it was drawn aside. And she was no longer alone.

She forced herself to breathe slowly and evenly, to feign sleep. Her performance must have been convincing. Ryland spoke not a word to her as he washed in the water that remained, surely now not even tepid, and slid into bed beside her, his back to hers. She wondered how much of his clothing he had removed—and then chided herself for her curiosity.

She couldn’t possibly sleep like this, tense with cold and uncertainty, everything strange and improper and wrong.

But the heat of his body was welcome, softer and warmer certainly than the wall to her other side. The rhythm of his breath was unexpectedly soothing—she’d grown accustomed to being alone, but also to denying the loneliness she sometimes felt. Even the raindrops, which earlier had drummed out an ominous warning, threatening to strand them in this intolerable situation, dwindled down to nothing more than a gentle lullaby.

Incredibly, she slept.

When she awoke some hours later, she could have blamed her interrupted slumbers on the gray sunrise filtering around the curtain.

But she rather suspected the culprit was the aroused male pressed against her backside.

The sensation was not entirely outside her experience. When one moved through life as she had been driven to move, without the protections of parents, an elder brother, a governess, a chaperone, then one discovered that men—so-called gentlemen included—imagined themselves entitled to women’s figures, their scent, their smiles, their...attention. They groped in the guise of helpfulness, and rubbed themselves against unwitting and unwilling victims in crowded shops and passageways.

Such knowledge was surely unladylike . But Constantia had never claimed to be a lady.

She was not really surprised to awaken with the Earl of Ryland’s arms around her and his, his— organ nudging the small of her back. After all, he was a man—evidently, a virile one—and she had willingly shared a bed with him.

But she was still...unsettled.

Unsettled most of all by the discovery that she had no great desire to wriggle free.

For one thing, the morning air was cold, the quilt was thin, and he was warm.

For another, he was quite obviously still sound asleep—the weight of his arm and the steadiness of his breathing revealed as much. And even he ought not to be blamed for what his body did when he was not conscious of it.

For yet another, just as she had begun to think that the man in question might be...not entirely objectionable, she was now discovering that the sensation of his proximity was...not altogether unpleasant.

That realization spurred a sharp intake of breath, which for a moment only propelled them closer together. Without waking, he nestled closer still, cinching his arm tighter, drawing in a deeper breath that stirred the hair at her nape. And then a sleepy murmur, half sigh, half groan.

The sound made her stiffen. The sudden tautness of her body caused him to draw back a fraction. A momentary flex of his hand around her middle, as if in drowsy disbelief of the situation in which he found himself, or as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to let go. Then he stiffened, too—every bit of him that hadn’t been stiff already, that was—fumbled free of the linens, and shot from the bed like a bullet from a pistol. “Good God! I—I’m so—”

Holding her breath, she did not turn but listened to the frantic rustle of him gathering his clothes, the swish of the curtain, and finally, the slam of the door.

Leaving her to contemplate the possibility that, rather than linger another moment in bed with her, the man had rushed out into the cold, damp morning in nothing but his drawers.

Either she’d been wrong to suspect him of hidden roguery, or he despised Miss C. a great deal indeed.