Page 6

On the whole, Lily enjoyed helping her grandmother run the inn. She was not an idle person by nature, and she liked keeping her hands busy with making up the beds and sweeping the rooms.

What she wasn’t so fond of was catering to the every whim of their guests.

Most of the people who walked through these doors were perfectly lovely, but occasionally they were visited by a guest who was a bit more…challenging than most, and it was serving those guests that tested her fortitude, not to mention her patience.

Of course, she never had been the most patient girl in the world and never would be.

With a silent sigh, Lily moved to the next table in the now-empty dining room and stacked another dirty plate on top of her growing pile before wiping the table clean with a rag.

Yes, life as an innkeeper was undoubtedly easier for those who were tolerant, sweet-natured, personable. But Lily was none of those things. She was reserved and prickly and proud, which made dealing with the demands of the rude and entitled especially onerous.

Still, she would rather put up with catering to the inn’s guests than go back to the life she used to lead in London, nights filled with soireés and dinner parties, days spent butchering Mozart on the pianoforte and reading books she’d read a dozen times before.

Her life had changed so much since then, and she liked what it had become, even if her new circumstances meant tolerating the occasional annoying guest.

“Good afternoon, Miss Grayling,” a male voice said from behind her. “You are looking especially lovely today. That gown becomes you.”

Lily stiffened but did not turn around. “Thank you, Mr. Carstairs,” she replied coolly as she continued stacking plates. “And what can I do for you today, sir?”

“First of all,” he said in that condescending way that set her teeth on edge, “you can give me a smile. You have such a pretty smile, and I have not seen it yet today.”

Lily closed her eyes briefly. God give me strength.

Clutching the wash rag in both hands, she slowly turned to face him, and through gritted teeth, gave the toad the smile he’d asked for.

Satisfaction lit his light brown eyes, and he openly ogled her, as if it were not only appropriate but his due, while gripping the lapels of his well-tailored daycoat, which complemented his fawn breeches and crimson cravat.

With his thick blond hair, neatly-trimmed mustache, and slender build, Charles Carstairs might have been a handsome man—if he had an entirely different personality, of course.

“Secondly,” he went on in the same supercilious tone of voice, “I would like very much for you to accompany me on a stroll through the orchard. It is a lovely day out, and I think you would enjoy a little…conversation amongst the fresh autumn air.”

The inflection he gave the word made it clear he had much more than conversation in mind. Lily’s stomach turned, and she struggled to keep her smile in place. “Thank you for the invitation, sir, but I’m afraid I must decline. I simply have too much to do today.”

And I would rather waltz with a crocodile than walk with you anywhere, you odious lout.

“But surely your grandmother could take on one or two of your chores,” he persisted. “I’m certain she would readily agree if she knew I was the reason for it.”

He was probably right, but nothing on this earth could compel her to admit it.

“Perhaps she would,” she said, “but she has her own duties which already keep her far busier than a woman her age ought to be.”

He looked as though he might argue, but instead said, “Perhaps tomorrow, then?”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid I have even more to do tomorrow.”

“Then you name the day.” He stepped closer to her and wrapped his hands around her upper arms, his gaze on her mouth.

Lily took a hasty step backward, bumping into the table and rattling the dishes. “Mr. Carstairs—”

“Call me Charles.”

The dratted man could not take a hint.

“Mr. Carstairs,” she repeated, her temper beginning to flare. “I am very sorry, sir, but I must decline your invitation. Indefinitely.”

His thick blond brows drew together, as if she’d said the words in a language long dead. “Decline?” he echoed as his arms dropped to his sides. “But why?”

“Because I...because...”

Because I don’t like you, blast it all.

She wanted to scream the words at him, but she knew she must not. He was a guest, and she must treat him with respect, even if he did not deserve it.

She thought she’d made her disinterest perfectly clear in a perfectly nice way, but he either did not see it or did not care.

He’d obviously assumed he would get his way because he was their guest, and his sense of entitlement had left her no choice but to refuse him flat out.

Would he redouble his efforts now? Would he turn angry and retaliate in a violent way? Would he refuse to pay his bill?

Squaring her shoulders, she met his gaze, preparing to speak, but Mr. Carstairs beat her to it.

“I don’t understand you, Miss Grayling,” he said, his voice several degrees cooler now. “I am an important man with both property and means. You should be honored that a man such as myself would deign even to speak to you, and yet, you reject me.”

Curses . She’d angered him. She had to fix this before it grew worse, but what could she say? What excuse could she give that would both soothe his injured pride and eliminate his pursuit of her? Surely there must be something she could say…

And then it came to her.

“I’m betrothed,” she blurted out, the words bursting from her lips like a cannonade. “That is why I cannot accept your invitation, sir. I am promised to another man.”

It was the coward’s way out, but she didn’t care. If a fictional betrothal was what it took to be rid of him while also keeping in his good graces, the deception would be worth the effort.

“Betrothed?” Mr. Carstairs hesitated, eyeing her with surprise and more than a hint of skepticism. “But you have made no mention of a betrothal before. Is it a recent event?”

Very recent , she thought dryly. But she shook her head. “No, it is a long-standing arrangement. I did not mention it before because I believe it is inappropriate to discuss such private matters with our guests.”

“I see,” he said slowly, though it was clear he was not convinced. “And is your betrothed a local gentleman or...?” He trailed off, leaving the question unfinished, though Lily knew what he was asking.

If she was betrothed as she claimed, why had he never laid eyes on her intended?

“No,” she said, twisting the wash rag in her hands. “No, he is not a local man. He lives in...”

She scrambled for a plausible story, a reason why she would be separated from the man she was to wed, and then the front door swung open, and Frederick Darrington stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over the room as he shut the door behind him.

“He lives in London,” Lily said slowly, her gaze fastened on Mr. Darrington’s face, “and—talk of the devil—here he is now.”

Pasting a smile to her lips, she swept past Mr. Carstairs and crossed the room toward her would-be savior, her throat suddenly very dry.

Mr. Darrington’s eyes met hers and he smiled as she approached him, his lips parting as if he meant to speak.

Lily rushed forward and pressed a hand to his forearm, giving it a firm squeeze. His mouth snapped shut, confusion knitting his straight black brows.

“Good afternoon, darling,” she said brightly before rising up on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek.

Then, as subtly as she could, she brought her lips to his ear and whispered, “He believes we are betrothed. Play along. Please.”

Frederick had barely a moment to register Miss Grayling’s words before she was looping her arm through his and tugging him deeper into the dining hall. That was when he noticed the fair-haired gentleman standing stiffly a few paces away, studying him with ill-concealed displeasure.

“Mr. Carstairs, this is my betrothed, Mr. Frederick Darrington.” Miss Grayling gazed up at Frederick and the look in her eyes almost had him believing she was fond of him. “Darling, this is Mr. Charles Carstairs, one of our esteemed guests. I was just telling him about you when you arrived.”

Frederick smiled. Darling? He had no idea how he had become involved in this farce, but he was not upset about it.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Carstairs,” he said, bowing his head to the gentleman.

“Er, yes. Indeed.” Carstairs cleared his throat, his mustache twitching. “Forgive me. I am—I was not aware that Miss Grayling was to be married.”

And, from the looks of it, the news did not please him.

“That’s our Miss Grayling,” Frederick said, gazing down adoringly at his faux fiancée. “She is a woman of many secrets.”

Her cheeks flushed pink, and she cleared her throat, genuinely, adorably flustered. “Yes, well, I—we—” She cleared her throat again. “You must excuse us, Mr. Carstairs. As I said, I have a great deal of work to do today.”

Carstairs nodded, looking anything but happy as he gave a clipped bow. “Of course, Miss Grayling. Good day to you both.”

He hastened for the door, his expensive leather boots thumping noisily on the floorboards, and then he was gone, and Frederick was alone with only Miss Grayling and a very interesting silence.

He turned from the door to face the woman beside him, noting her still-pink cheeks and the bright turquoise eyes which seemed to be looking everywhere but at him.

Finally, she met his gaze, though she offered no comment, as if embarrassment had rendered her tongue temporarily lame.

Frederick arched his eyebrows, asking without words just what the devil was going on.

Miss Grayling pursed her lips, the same soft lips that had brushed his cheek only moments ago, managing somehow to look sheepish and prickly at the same time.