Page 19

T HE MAID PAUSED BEFORE THE open door, hands folded before her skirts and head bowed as Vivienne and Charlotte ambled into the bedroom that was to be Vivienne’s for the fortnight.

The massive four-poster bed was dressed with robin’s-egg damask curtains that brightened the silver-papered walls and would do well in protecting one from the harsh chill of winter.

The fireplace was, of course, dormant, and in place of a fire, a lovely basket filled with dried lavender brought color and a delightful scent.

She traced the chair rail with her finger and paused before a door opposite the bed.

Please be a closet and not a connected dressing room.

She opened it and found her trunks in the far corner, along with a washstand and the necessary.

Her heart pounded at the sight of a second door that surely adjoined her room with the master’s—Sebastian’s.

She shut the door and schooled her voice along with her features.

A bride of three years, even one with a secret romantic union such as Sebastian had explained to the staff, would not show such trepidation.

Only a single morning at the manor, and the lies are already suffocating me.

“I thought Grandmother Larkby was staying in the master bedroom?”

“She likes the one facing her husband’s roses and the river,” the maid said.

Vivienne glanced at the window that overlooked the front gardens, and while it was pretty, she understood why Grandmother Larkby preferred to overlook the river, which would give her beautiful views year-round. If Vivienne were the lady of the house, she likely would do the same.

The maid tittered. “Besides, you are Sir Sebastian’s wife, and she insisted you be given the adjoining suite meant for a couple.”

Yes, his wife. She grasped Charlotte’s hand.

Thank the Lord for Charlotte, who would never leave her side day or night.

Vivienne trusted Sir Sebastian—she would not have agreed to this scheme if she did not.

And yet she had this niggling inclination that she had met him before.

She had been drawn to him. Perhaps it was her romantic side taking over her sensibilities.

Who wouldn’t be overcome when encountering the gentleman who was supposed to be her counterfeit husband and who then proceeded to pretend to be said husband when he rescued her from making a fool of herself in Bath?

“Counterfeit” being the key word, Vivienne Poppy.

He is not and will never be yours … just like a certain handsome highwayman.

“My companion and I shall see to the unpacking.”

The maid’s brows shot upward, but she pressed her lips into a thin line and bobbed a curtsy. “If you have any need, pull the bell cord, my lady.”

Vivienne groaned at the click of the latch and sank onto the window seat, staring out upon the drive. “Oh, Charlotte, what have I gotten us into?”

Her companion rolled her eyes, not exactly the comfort Vivienne was seeking. “No one ever listens to me, so why should you? You have gotten us into exactly what you planned, my lady.”

“I admitted folly. This was not my best laid plan, but must you rub salt into my wound?” Vivienne crossed into the dressing room and flung open the trunk lid.

“Sometimes being the one in the right, it is impossible to stay silent on such matters.” Charlotte relieved Vivienne of the morning gown, setting it in its proper place.

“I’ll put this and the rest of your things away, my lady.

You had best acquaint yourself with the manor during the daylight to prevent further disasters should you desire some night writing in the library and find yourself somewhere you shouldn’t be. ”

Disasters of the reputation-destroying kind. She squeezed Charlotte’s arm in thanks.

Carrying her small book of poetry, her notebook, and a pencil, she took to the halls to explore every open door.

The first few proved to be dusty guest rooms, but at the last room on the left, she paused, guessing this must be Sebastian’s old room.

The familiar flare of curiosity burned in her belly.

She gave a light tap on the door on the off chance he was inside.

She counted to twenty, glanced both ways, and pushed open the door.

She dashed inside and softly closed the door, her heart pounding at her unspeakable daring.

The masculine scent of leather and peppermint enveloped her.

On the wall were decorative daggers, swords, and even a pike.

She smiled. It had to be Sebastian’s room …

well, his room before his supposed marriage to her.

She dared to step inside further, feeling like an intruder.

She ran her fingers along the spines of books stacked on his desktop.

She didn’t recognize any of the titles, each about some form of weaponry, fighting, or history of battles.

Judging from the weapons surrounding her, Sir Sebastian was a formidable foe. She’d be well protected under his care.

She shook her head at that thought. He was only her ally for a fortnight.

After which she would be on her own again—as always.

She would have to learn to be her own protector …

despite the fact she was the reason she was in this predicament in the first place.

After this misadventure, she would write a harsh, chiding letter to herself listing all her recent mistakes and commanding herself to make better choices in the future.

On his bedside table was a folded handkerchief with embroidery on the corner. Unable to keep her curiosity in check, she dared to unfold it to read the stitched words: 1 Peter 5 . She carefully refolded the handkerchief, making a mental note to look up the chapter.

She moved around the bed and tripped over the corner of the rug, dropping her writing supplies.

She caught herself on the wall. As she bent to flip the rug corner back into place, she spotted something odd in the paneled wood.

She ran her fingers along the minuscule crack.

What on earth? What are you hiding, Sebastian?

Her fingers found purchase and, pressing one slipper against the wall, she tugged, falling onto her derriere as a small door creaked open.

“A priest hole?” She laughed in pleasure at the tiny door.

She had only read about the hidden sanctuaries for men of the cloth in times of persecution.

She tucked her supplies into her deep hidden pockets and crawled forward on her hands and knees, poking her head inside to have a better look.

She met a spider’s web at once. Vivienne muffled a shriek as she clawed away the webs from her hair and nose, sneezing and smacking her forehead on the makeshift panel.

At the tapping of boots approaching, she backed out of the hole, shut the hidden door, righted the carpet, smoothed her hair, and darted back toward his desk.

The pins in her hair slipped out, and to her horror, her locks tumbled to her waist. She would look, for all the world to see, like a bride awaiting her husband.

Her cheeks flamed as she desperately tried to right her hair to no avail.

“No.” She would not be caught. It would be beyond humiliating to be seen so, especially if the boots belonged to Sir Sebastian.

What could she say to him to explain away her abominable actions?

Heaven help her if he thought she was attempting to ensnare him in a true marriage.

What else would he possibly think with my hair down in his chambers without my companion?

She glanced at the priest hole and, without a second thought, launched herself at it. She clawed open the door and crawled inside, but her hips caught between the panels. Wiggling her body to fit, she slid herself through, reached to find the handle behind her, and jerked the door shut.

The boots paused at the doorway. Peering over her shoulder through the faintest crack, she spied Sebastian entering. His broad shoulders and muscular frame made the bedroom seem impossibly small and her far too close. If she sneezed, it would be over in an instant.

She studied him, with only a hint of guilt gnawing at her, as he moved to a trunk along the wall and withdrew a fresh linen shirt, tossing it upon the bed.

He pulled at his neckcloth and yanked off his shirt, his broad back muscular and bronzed, as if he often trained without his shirt in an open field.

She snapped her head forward and buried her face in her hands.

What kind of proper lady hid in a gentleman’s room and then proceeded to gawk at him?

Would she never learn to keep her curiosity in check?

When the door shut and the room was at last still, she uncovered her eyes and reached back for the latch, fumbling a bit before pushing it open.

On her hands and knees, she backed out. Her legs slipped through the opening easy enough, but somehow her hips caught in the opening.

“What on earth?” She twisted her hips and tried backing out of the tiny door once more, but her hips wedged firmly this time.

She groaned, but no amount of tugging would budge her hips. She was caught fast and true.

For a quarter of an hour, she wriggled every which way as panic consumed her. She begged the Lord to release her. Finally she hung her head. Consuming Muriel’s baked goods had come to haunt her at last. This was perhaps a million times worse than being discovered with her hair down.

“Sir Sebastian?” Charlotte called to him, her skirts slapping her legs in her haste to cross the garden.

He shot to his feet. “Miss Vale? Whatever is amiss? Is it my grandmother?” He glanced up at Grandmother’s first-floor window.

“Nay.” She pressed a hand to her stomach, her breathing fast. “Forgive me for alarming you, but I have looked everywhere, and I cannot find Lady Larkby.”