Chapter 1

 

“Absolutely not! You cannot seriously expect me to sleep in the stables!”

The woman’s voice carried clearly through the din of the overcrowded inn, causing Lady Catherine Mayfer to pause in the doorway, rain streaming from her ruined bonnet. She had just spent the last hour convinced that nothing could be worse than being trapped in a broken carriage while the heavens unleashed their fury upon the Great North Road but she was wrong. This, the Black Swan Inn packed to the rafters with stranded travelers, steaming with the scent of wet wool and desperation,….this was worse.

“I’m terribly sorry, madam,” the innkeeper was saying to a well-dressed woman near the stairs, “but as I’ve explained, we simply haven’t any rooms left. The stable loft is clean and dry…”

“The stable loft!” The woman’s voice rose to a pitch that could shatter glass. “I am Mrs. Henrietta Ashworth of the Nottingham Ashworths, and I do not sleep in stables!”

Catherine sighed, adjusting her grip on her waterlogged reticule. Behind her, Martha stumbled through the door, looking like a drowned mouse.

“Oh, miss,” Martha gasped. “It’s completely full. Robert asked at the back but there’s nothing, not even a corner in the kitchens.”

Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Catherine surveyed the chaos before her. Every chair was occupied, travelers were actually sitting on their trunks, and the harried innkeeper looked ready to throw himself into the storm rather than deal with another complaint.

It was at this precise moment that she noticed him; a tall figure by the desk, calmly writing in the register while chaos reigned around him. Water still dripped from his greatcoat, suggesting he’d only just arrived, and yet he possessed the inn’s register as if he had every right to it. More importantly, he appeared to be securing the very last room.

Oh, absolutely not.

Catherine squared her shoulders and marched forward, her sodden half-boots squelching with each step. She reached the desk just as the man set down his pen with an air of satisfaction.

“Pardon me,” she said in her sweetest voice; the one her late father had always said could cut glass. “But I believe there’s been some mistake.”

The man turned, and Catherine’s prepared speech died in her throat. She’d expected some portly merchant or aging squire. Not… this. Dark hair fell across his forehead, still damp from the rain. Grey eyes, the color of the storm clouds outside, regarded her with a mixture of amusement and surprise. He had the kind of face that would make debutantes write terrible poetry, all sharp angles and perfect proportions, with just enough stubble to suggest he didn’t care about propriety.

“A mistake?” His voice was cultured, with just a hint of something else—military perhaps. “I wasn’t aware I’d made one. Though the night is young.”

Catherine recovered herself. She hadn’t fled one insufferable man only to be thwarted by another, no matter how attractive. “The mistake, sir, is your assumption that you have any claim to that room. I’ve been traveling for hours in this tempest. My carriage has a broken axle. I am wet, cold, and in desperate need of accommodation.”

“How fortunate then that you’ve found an inn.”

“An inn with no rooms, apparently, since you seem to have claimed the last one.”

“Claimed is rather a strong word. I prefer ‘secured through prompt action and ready funds.'”

Catherine’s temper, already frayed from the journey, ignited. “If you dare suggest I should wait in this wretched weather whilst you take the last room, sir, I shall be forced to question not only your breeding but your very sanity.”

The man, gentleman, clearly, despite his road-worn appearance, leaned against the desk with infuriating casualness. The effect was somewhat undermined by the fact that water was still streaming from his sodden pelisse, creating a small puddle at his feet, but his expression remained maddeningly composed.

“I suggested nothing of the sort, madam,” the gentleman replied, his voice carrying that particular brand of masculine amusement that made Catherine wish to do something remarkably unladylike—perhaps involving her reticule and his admirably straight nose. “I merely observed that as I arrived at the door first, and as you appear to have an entire traveling coach at your disposal whilst I have only my horse, logic would dictate…”

“Logic?” Catherine interrupted, noting with some satisfaction that his dark hair was equally plastered to his head, making him look rather less like the Greek statue he’d initially resembled and more like a half-drowned animal. A very tall, broad-shouldered animal with unsettling grey eyes, but an animal nonetheless. “How marvelously typical of your sex to invoke logic whilst standing in a biblical deluge. Tell me, sir, does logic keep one dry? Does it perhaps prevent lung fever? Or does it simply provide comfort to gentlemen who lack the gallantry to offer shelter to a lady in distress?”

The corner of his mouth twitched—whether in irritation or amusement, she couldn’t quite tell. “You seem remarkably capable of distressing others without requiring the condition yourself.”

Before Catherine could formulate a suitably scathing response, the innkeeper, a Mr. Hartwell, whose impressive girth suggested the Black Swan’s kitchens were at least adequate, pushed between them with the practiced ease of a man well-versed in preventing bloodshed in his establishment.

“Now then, now then,” he wheezed, mopping his glistening forehead with a handkerchief that had seen better days, possibly during the previous century. “No need for violence on such a night as this. As it happens, I’ve just had word from my boy that the large corner room is available after all—the merchant family meant to take it has decided to press on to Kettleworth, though Heaven knows why anyone would venture forth in this tempest.”

“The corner room?” both Catherine and the stranger said in unison, then glared at each other with matching expressions of proprietary interest.

“Aye, the corner room. Finest in the house, it is. Fireplace large enough to roast an ox, not that we’ve tried, mind you, and a proper sitting area besides the bedchamber.” Mr. Hartwell’s small eyes darted between them with the calculating gleam of a man sensing profit. “Course, on a night like this, with every room filled to bursting and folks sleeping in the stables, I couldn’t let it go for less than…”

“I’ll take it,” Catherine said quickly.

“I’ll pay double,” the gentleman countered without missing a beat.

Catherine whirled on him. “That’s absurd! You cannot simply…”

“Triple,” he said, still looking at the innkeeper.

“Have you completely taken leave of your…”

“Now, now,” Mr. Hartwell interrupted, raising his hands in a gesture of peace that fooled absolutely no one, least of all Catherine, who recognized shameless profiteering when she encountered it. “Perhaps we might come to some… arrangement. The corner room is quite spacious, as I mentioned. Two bedchambers, connected by a sitting room. In weather such as this, with Christian charity in mind…”

“Absolutely not,” Catherine said.

“Out of the question,” the gentleman agreed.

They stood there, united in their refusal, while the storm howled through the still-open door behind them, sending gusts of rain spattering across the flagstone floor. The inn’s other occupants, a motley collection of merchants, travelers, and what appeared to be half a regiment of cavalry officers, watched with delighted interest.

Catherine’s maid, Martha, chose that moment to stumble through the door, looking like she’d been pulled backward through a hedge, then thrown in a lake for good measure.

“Oh, my lady!” she gasped, then caught herself. “I mean, miss. Oh, miss, the coach has sunk near to its axles, and Robert says the horses can’t pull it free, not in this muck, and one of the wheels is making a most terrible sound, like it might come clean off, and…”

“Thank you, Martha,” Catherine interrupted, acutely aware that every ear in the vicinity had pricked up at the maid’s near slip. She turned back to Mr. Hartwell, drawing herself up to her full height—which, while not insignificant for a woman, still left her staring at the stranger’s excellently tied, if waterlogged, cravat. “The corner room, if you please. I trust you’ll have someone see to my luggage.”

“Now see here…” the gentleman began.

“I believe the lady was first to accept your offer, Hartwell,” Catherine said sweetly, though the effect was somewhat spoiled when she had to pause to wring water from her skirts. “Before you began this motley auction.”

“That’s not precisely how I recall…”

“Furthermore,” Catherine continued, warming to her theme, “I have my maid with me, who requires accommodation. Surely you wouldn’t suggest that a young woman of good reputation should be forced to seek shelter elsewhere whilst a gentleman, and I use the term with considerable reservation, takes rooms clearly more suited to a lady’s requirements?”

The gentleman’s eyes narrowed. They were, she noticed against her better judgment, quite an unusual shade of grey—like winter skies just before a storm. Rather fitting, really.

“Your maid could share your chamber,” he suggested. “Thus solving the reputation issue you seem so concerned about.”

“And where, pray tell, would you sleep? The stables? Though I confess the company there might suit you better.”

“Children, please!” The voice that rang out belonged to an elderly woman Catherine hadn’t noticed before, seated in a chair by the fire. She was dressed in the height of fashion from approximately thirty years ago, complete with an impressive purple turban that had somehow remained pristine despite the weather. “You’re giving me a frightful megrim with all this shouting. Mr. Hartwell, you’re a scoundrel and a profiteer, and we all know it. These two young persons are clearly both gentle-born, whatever games they’re playing at with their names and lack of proper introductions.”

Catherine felt heat rise in her cheeks. The stranger, she noticed with interest, had developed a sudden fascination with the ceiling beams.

“The solution is obvious,” the woman continued, producing a quizzing glass from somewhere about her person and fixing them both with a magnified eye. “Share the chambers. The young lady and her maid in one bedchamber, the gentleman in the other, and the sitting room between them as neutral territory. Like the Low Countries.”

“But…” Catherine began.

“Unless,” the woman’s voice took on a sly note, “either of you would prefer to share with myself? I confess I snore something dreadful, and my dog, Mr. Bellingham, has the most distressing digestive complaints during thunderstorms.”

As if to punctuate this statement, a small, wheezing creature that Catherine had taken for a footstool raised its head and produced a sound that suggested the old woman’s description had been, if anything, understated.

The gentleman looked at Catherine. Catherine looked at the gentleman. Thunder crashed overhead, shaking the very timbers of the inn, and somewhere in the inn, someone’s drink fell off a table with a crash.

“The sitting room door locks from both sides?” Catherine asked Mr. Hartwell, not breaking eye contact with the stranger.

“Oh aye, miss. Solid oak, iron bolts. You could hold off an invading army from either direction.”

“Then I suppose, given the exceptional circumstances…” She let the sentence trail off, raising an eyebrow at the gentleman.

He sighed—a long, put-upon sound that suggested he was making a great sacrifice. “I suppose I have no objection. Provided, of course, that we establish some rules of engagement.”

“Rules of engagement?” Catherine couldn’t help but laugh. “How military of you. Are we at war then, Mr…?”

“Wrentham,” he supplied, after a pause just long enough to be noticeable. “James Wrentham. And you are?”

“Miss Mayfer,” Catherine replied, matching his pause with one of her own. “Catherine Mayfer. And yes, Mr. Wrentham, I believe some boundaries would be prudent. For instance, the sitting room should be considered occupied if one party is already present.”

“Agreed. And no disturbances after ten o’clock.”

“Nine o’clock,” Catherine countered.

“Nine-thirty.”

“Done.”

They shook hands with all the solemnity of nations signing a treaty, ignoring the delighted titters from their audience. His hand, Catherine noticed, was surprisingly callused for a gentleman—though everything about him suggested he was indeed that, from the excellent cut of his coat (visible now that he’d shed his greatcoat) to the unconscious authority in his bearing. Yet there was something else, something in the way he moved, the way his eyes constantly tracked movement in the room…

“Well then,” Mr. Hartwell clapped his hands together with obvious glee. “That’s settled! Tom will see to your luggage, so it can be salvaged from the storm. This way, if you please. Mind the leak in the corridor and watch the third step, it’s coming loose…”

As they followed the innkeeper up the narrow staircase, Catherine couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d just made either a very sensible decision or a catastrophic error. The stranger, Mr. Wrentham, walked behind her, and she was acutely aware of his presence, the way he automatically steadied her when she stumbled on the infamous third step, his hand at her elbow for just a moment before retreating.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Can’t have you breaking your neck before we’ve established all the rules,” he replied, and she could hear that hint of amusement again. “For instance, we haven’t discussed breakfast.”

“What about breakfast?”

“Who gets the sitting room? Surely you don’t expect me to take my morning coffee in my bedchamber like an ill person?”

“Perhaps you should have considered that before engaging in a bidding war you were destined to lose.”

“I wasn’t aware I had lost.”

“Well, you’re sharing accommodations with a complete stranger and her maid, aren’t you? I’d hardly call that a victory.”

“That depends entirely on the stranger.”

Catherine turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “Was that supposed to be flattery, Mr. Wrentham? Because if so, it needs considerable work.”

“Merely an observation, Miss Mayfer. Though if I were attempting flattery, I might observe that you look rather charming with your bonnet in its current state of collapse. Very… extraordinary in taste.”

Despite herself, Catherine laughed. “It’s the latest fashion from Paris. ‘Désolation après le déluge,’ I believe they’re calling it.”

“Ah, French. How sophisticated. My valet would be impressed. If I had brought him. Which I didn’t.”

“No valet? How remarkably… independent of you.”

They’d reached the corner room, and Mr. Hartwell fumbled with an impressive ring of keys, each seemingly more ancient than the last. “Here we are, then. The Blue Chambers, we call it, on account of the hangings. Though they’re more of a greenish color in certain lights. My late wife, always insisted they were turquoise, but between you and me, I think she just liked the sound of the word.”

The door swung open to reveal a sitting room that was, Catherine had to admit, quite pleasant despite the slightly dubious color of the aforementioned hangings. A fire already crackled in the grate, casting dancing shadows across furniture that, while clearly past its prime, had once been quite fine. Two doors led off from opposite sides of the room.

“The ladies’ chamber to the left,” Mr. Hartwell announced, “the gentleman’s to the right. Each with its own fireplace, of course. I’ll have hot water sent up directly, and supper can be taken here or in the public room, as you prefer.”

“Here,” Catherine and Mr. Wrentham said in unison, then looked at each other with matching expressions of annoyance.

“Separately,” Catherine added quickly.

“Obviously,” Mr. Wrentham agreed.

Mr. Hartwell’s grin suggested he was enjoying this far too much. “I’ll have trays sent up then.”

With that unsettling observation, he departed, leaving Catherine and Mr. Wrentham standing awkwardly in the sitting room while Martha attempted to disappear into the wallpaper.

“Well,” Catherine said after a moment. “This is…”

“Awkward? Improper? Potentially scandalous?”

“I was going to say cozy.”

“Ah yes, cozy.”

Catherine moved to the window, looking out at the storm. The rain lashed against the glass with renewed fury. “We’re both adults, Mr. Wrentham. Surely we can manage to share a sitting room for one night without causing a scandal.”

“In my experience, Miss Mayfer, scandals rarely announce themselves in advance. They tend to sneak up on one, rather like…”

“Like strange gentlemen at coaching inns?”

“I was going to say ‘like puddles in dark corridors,’ but your version has more dramatic flair.”

Despite her exhaustion and the impropriety of the entire situation, Catherine found herself smiling. “You’re not at all what I expected to encounter on the Great North Road.”

“No? What did you expect? Highwaymen? Desperate outlaws? Shocking libertines?”

“Boring merchants. Tedious cavalry officers. Perhaps a gouty squire or two.”

“How disappointing I must be then. Not a merchant, only somewhat tedious, and my gout hasn’t manifested yet, though I’m told it’s hereditary, so there’s hope.”

“Are you a cavalry officer then?” Catherine asked, turning to study him. There was something military about his bearing, now that she looked properly.

“Once upon a time,” he said, his expression shuttering slightly. “And you, Miss Mayfer? What brings a lady of obvious quality to be traveling the Great North Road in such weather, with only a maid for company?”

Catherine felt her own walls go up. “Personal business.”

“Ah. The mysterious kind.”

“The private kind.”

They stood there, facing each other across the faded carpet, two people clearly harboring secrets while pretending to be merely ordinary travelers caught in a storm. The fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney, and Martha cleared her throat delicately.

“Shall I unpack your things, miss?” the maid asked, reminding them both of her presence.

“Yes, thank you, Martha. Though I suspect half of it is ruined.” Catherine sighed, thinking of her carefully selected wardrobe, chosen specifically to make the right impression when she arrived in London. If she arrived in London. At this rate, she’d be lucky to arrive anywhere without developing lung fever or drowning in mud.

“I’ll see what can be salvaged, miss. And perhaps…” Martha glanced meaningfully at Mr. Wrentham, “I should remain in the sitting room? For propriety?”

“Nonsense, Martha. Mr. Wrentham is clearly a gentleman, despite his earlier attempt at highway robbery over the room situation. I’m sure we can trust him to maintain appropriate boundaries.”

“Highway robbery?” Mr. Wrentham protested. “I was merely engaging in free commerce.”

“You were attempting to purchase what wasn’t rightfully for sale.”

“Everything is for sale, Miss Mayfer. It’s merely a question of price.”

“How wonderfully cynical of you.”

“I prefer ‘practical.'”

Martha looked between them with the expression of someone watching a particularly engaging theatrical performance. “I shall just… go unpack then,” she said, edging toward the left-hand door.

“An excellent idea,” Catherine agreed. “And Mr. Wrentham was just about to retire to his own chamber, weren’t you, Mr. Wrentham?”

“Was I? How prescient of you to know my mind better than I do myself.”

“Someone has to, since you seem incapable of recognizing the impropriety of remaining alone with me in this sitting room.”

“We’re hardly alone. Your maid is just there, the door is open, and I suspect half the inn has their ears pressed to the floorboards hoping for scandal.”

As if to prove his point, there was a muffled thump from somewhere above them, followed by hushed voices and what sounded suspiciously like giggling.

“You see?” he continued. “We’re as well-chaperoned as if we were in Almack’s.”

“Have you been to Almack’s?” Catherine asked, curious despite herself.

“Once. Under duress. I’m told I committed at least seventeen social solecisms in the space of an hour, though I maintain that refusing to dance with Lady Witherspoon’s daughter at the upcoming ball, was an act of self-preservation rather than rudeness. Have you seen Lady Witherspoon’s daughter?”

“That’s unkind.”

“But accurate. The young lady has an unfortunate tendency to lead during waltzes and an even more unfortunate tendency to tread on one’s feet with enthusiasm usually reserved for grape-crushing.”

Catherine bit back a laugh. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m honest. It’s a failing of mine.”

“Is it? How refreshing. Most gentlemen of my acquaintance consider honesty something to be avoided at all costs, like debtor’s prison or marriage.”

“You have a dim view of my sex, Miss Mayfer.”

“Based on extensive evidence, Mr. Wrentham.”

There was something in his eyes then—a flash of genuine interest that went beyond their verbal sparring. “Someone disappointed you.”

It wasn’t a question. Catherine felt exposed suddenly, as if he’d seen through all her careful defenses to the hurt beneath. “We all have our disappointments, Mr. Wrentham. I’m sure even you have a tragic tale or two hidden beneath that sardonic exterior.”

“Sardonic? I prefer ‘mysteriously brooding.'”

“There’s nothing mysterious about you. You’re clearly a gentleman of means, traveling without a valet because you’re either running from something or toward something, and you’re so used to getting your way that sharing these rooms genuinely irritates you, but you’re too well-bred to show it properly.”

His eyebrows rose. “Fascinating. Do go on with your wildly inaccurate assessment.”

“Inaccurate, is it? Then enlighten me. What brings Mr. James Wrentham to the Black Swan Inn on such a miserable night?”

“Business.”

“What kind of business?”

“The kind that doesn’t concern charming young ladies with collapsed bonnets and sharp tongues.”

“So I’m charming now? I thought I was merely ‘not boring.'”

“You’re many things, Miss Mayfer. Boring isn’t among them.”

There was a weight to his words that made Catherine’s breath catch slightly. The air between them seemed to thicken, charged with something that had nothing to do with the storm outside. She became acutely aware of how she must look; bedraggled, her dress clinging to her in ways that were definitely not proper, her hair escaping from what remained of its pins.

“I should change,” she said abruptly, breaking whatever spell had been weaving itself between them. “These wet clothes…”

“Of course.” He stepped back, though she hadn’t realized he’d already moved closer. “I’ll do the same. Perhaps we might reconvene for supper? In the interest of establishing our treaty, of course.”

“Of course. Though I should warn you, Mr. Wrentham, I take my treaties very seriously. Any violation of our agreed-upon terms…”

“Will result in dire consequences, I’m sure. You seem the type to keep a pistol in your reticule.”

“Two, actually. One can never be too careful.”

“You’re jesting.”

Catherine smiled enigmatically and swept toward her chamber, calling over her shoulder, “Am I?”

 

Chapter 2

 

She closed the door behind her with a satisfying click, leaning against it for a moment. Her heart was racing in a way that had nothing to do with climbing the stairs. This was ridiculous. She was being ridiculous. She’d come on this journey with a specific purpose—to get to London, to her aunt, to escape the increasingly persistent advances of Sir Reginald Thornbury, her late father’s choice of husband for her. She didn’t have time for verbal sparring with mysterious strangers, no matter how intriguing their grey eyes or how amusing their conversation.

“Miss?” Martha appeared from behind the dressing screen. “Your trunk is here, but I’m afraid the blue silk is quite ruined. And the green muslin. And… well, mostly everything, really. But I’ve salvaged your brown wool and the grey morning dress.”

“How delightfully funereal,” Catherine sighed, moving to inspect the damage. “However, I suppose it’s fitting. I am rather in mourning for my dignity, having agreed to share rooms with a complete stranger.”

“He seems a gentleman, miss,” Martha ventured, helping Catherine out of her sodden pelisse. “Very well-spoken.”

“A well-spoken gentleman without a valet, traveling alone in a storm, and far too eager to throw money at innkeepers. Yes, nothing suspicious there at all.”

“Perhaps he’s in love,” Martha suggested romantically. She was at the age where every situation could be improved by the addition of a tragic love affair. “Running away from a broken heart or toward his true love.”

“More likely running from creditors or an angry husband, whose wife has had suspicious relationships with him,” Catherine said practically, though something in her chest tightened at the thought of Mr. Wrentham racing through a storm toward some woman. Which was absurd. She didn’t care one whit about Mr. Wrentham’s romantic entanglements.

A knock at the connecting door interrupted her thoughts.

“Miss Mayfer?” His voice came through the wood, muffled but still carrying that hint of amusement. “I’ve just been informed by the estimable Mr. Hartwell that dinner has been supplemented by something he calls ‘beef.’ I use the term loosely, as the meat’s provenance seems questionable at best. Would you prefer to risk it or shall we attempt negotiation for something less potentially lethal?”

“Are you always this dramatic about food, Mr. Wrentham?” Catherine called back, nodding to Martha to continue unlacing her stays.

“Only when there’s a genuine risk of poisoning. I’ve survived French cuisine, Spanish cuisine, and once, memorably, something in Portugal that I’m still not certain wasn’t actually shoe leather. But Mr. Hartwell’s ‘beef’ might be the thing that finally does me in.”

“Such a tragic end for such a mysterious gentleman. I’m sure the ladies of London will mourn appropriately.”

“All two of them?”

“You underestimate yourself. I’d guess at least four. Possibly five if we count your mother.”

“My mother would be the first to say I got what I deserved for trusting an innkeeper’s beef.”

Despite herself, Catherine laughed. “Very well. See if you can convince Mr. Hartwell to provide something less adventurous. Bread and cheese, perhaps? I trust even he can’t render those dangerous.”

“Your faith is touching, if misplaced. I once stayed at an inn where the cheese was actually sentient. It had developed its own civilization.”

“Mr. Wrentham?”

“Yes?”

“Go away. I’m trying to change, and your ridiculous commentary is distracting.”

“My ridiculous commentary is the only entertainment available in this establishment, Miss Mayfer. But very well, I shall take my wit elsewhere. The stable boys, perhaps. They seem appreciative of good humour.”

She heard his footsteps retreat, and something in her chest loosened—though whether it was relief or disappointment, she couldn’t quite say.

“He’s very amusing, miss,” Martha observed, helping Catherine into the brown wool. It was depressing how dowdy it looked, but at least it was dry.

“He’s very irritating,” Catherine corrected, but without much heat.

“If you say so, miss.” Martha’s tone suggested she wasn’t fooled in the slightest. “Shall I dress your hair?”

Catherine looked at the tangled mess in the mirror and sighed. “Do what you can, Martha. Though I fear it’s a lost cause.”

As Martha worked her magic with pins and combs, Catherine found her thoughts drifting to the man in the other room. James Wrentham. The name didn’t sit quite right, somehow. It was too ordinary for someone with those eyes, that presence. He filled a room without trying, commanded attention without demanding it. She’d known many gentlemen in her life, her father had been quite social before his death two years ago, but none quite like this one.

He was hiding something. That much was obvious. The question was what, and whether it was something that should concern her. After all, she had her own secrets. The fact that she was actually Lady Catherine Mayfer, daughter of the late Earl of Westmont, fleeing an unwanted betrothal to a man old enough to be her father, with her mother’s jewelry sewn into the lining of her trunk and enough money to establish herself independently in London—if she could get there.

Thunder crashed overhead, making both women jump.

“What a night,” Martha breathed, moving to the window. “It’s like something from one of those novels. You know, the ones where the heroine gets trapped in a castle with a dark, mysterious gentleman who turns out to be…”

“A bore who talks about nothing but his horses and his hunt?” Catherine suggested.

“I was going to say a duke in disguise.”

Catherine snorted. “This is the Great North Road, Martha, not a Gothic novel. Mr. Wrentham is probably a merchant or a land agent or something equally mundane.”

“With those shoulders?” Martha sighed dreamily.

“Martha!”

“I’m just saying, miss. I’ve seen a lot of merchants in my time, and none of them looked like that.”

Catherine had to admit, if only to herself, that Martha had a point. There was something about the way he moved; controlled, alert, dangerous even. Like a man who’d seen battle and lived to tell about it. Or didn’t tell about it, in his case.

Another knock at the door, this time from the hallway.

“Supper, miss!” a voice called.

Catherine opened the door to find a young boy with a tray, trying valiantly not to stare at her state of relative undress; she’d forgone stays entirely, opting for comfort over propriety, and her hair was still only half-pinned.

“Thank you,” she said, taking the tray quickly and closing the door.

The tray held bread that looked reasonably fresh, cheese that appeared to be quite edible, some cold ham, and what might charitably be called apple tart. There was also a pot of tea that smelled strongly of bergamot—good tea, expensive tea. Not what she’d expect from a coaching inn.

“That’s interesting,” she murmured.

“What is, miss?”

“The tea. It’s of the expensive ones. Very fine quality. Where would Mr. Hartwell get this kind of tea?”

Before Martha could respond, they heard Mr. Wrentham’s voice through the wall, though the words were muffled. He seemed to be having a heated discussion with someone. Catherine found herself pressing closer to the connecting door, trying to make out the conversation.

“…absolutely not acceptable…”

“…told you not to follow, Peters.”

“…your safety, Your…”

The voices cut off abruptly, as if realizing they might be overheard.

Catherine stepped back quickly, her mind racing. ‘Your’ what? Your lordship? Your honour? Your excellence?

“Miss?” Martha was watching her with concern. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, of course.” Catherine forced herself to move away from the door. “Just… the storm is making me nervous.”

But it wasn’t the storm. It was the growing certainty that Mr. James Wrentham was no more a simple gentleman traveler than she was a simple miss. The question was: what was he? And more importantly, did it matter? After tonight, they’d go their separate ways, never to meet again.

The thought shouldn’t have been as depressing as it was.

She sat down to her supper in the shared sitting room, trying to focus on the really quite decent bread and not on the man in the next room. She was halfway through a slice of cheese when she heard music; someone was playing a violin, the sound drifting up from the public room below. It was a melancholy tune, something Irish perhaps, and played with real skill.

Without quite meaning to, Catherine found herself moving to the connecting door.

“Mr. Wrentham?” she called softly.

“Miss Mayfer?” His response was immediate, as if he’d been standing near the door as well.

“Do you hear the music?”

“Hmm. One of the cavalry officers, I believe. He’s quite good.”

“It’s beautiful. Sad, but beautiful.”

“‘The Last Rose of Summer,’ I think.”

“You know it?”

“I had a… friend who used to play it.” There was something in his voice, a weight of memory.

Catherine pressed her hand against the door, imagining him on the other side, perhaps doing the same. “A lady friend?”

“Why, Miss Mayfer, are you fishing for information about my romantic past?”

“Merely making conversation. We are trapped here together, after all.”

“By choice, if you recall.”

“Your choice to bid against me.”

“Your choice to arrive at the exact same inn at the exact same time.”

“Yes, how dare I flee the storm like every other sensible traveler.”

“There’s nothing sensible about you, Miss Mayfer.”

She should have been offended, but something in his tone made it sound like a compliment. “You don’t know me well enough to make that assessment.”

“Don’t I? In the space of an hour, you’ve argued with a strange man over lodgings, agreed to share rooms with said strange man, implied you carry pistols in your reticule, and are now conducting a conversation through a door like some sort of Shakespearean comedy.”

“You forgot to mention that I also have excellent taste in tea.”

“Ah yes, the expensive kind of tea. I had Hartwell send it up specially.”

“You did?”

“Consider it an apology for attempting to steal your room.”

“You mean for failing to steal my room.”

“That too.”

They stood there, separated by oak and propriety, listening to the violin’s mournful tune. Catherine knew she should step away, return to her supper, maintain appropriate distance. But something kept her there; perhaps the storm, perhaps the music, perhaps the way his voice seemed to wrap around her like warmth from a fire.

“Tell me something true, Mr. Wrentham,” she said impulsively.

“What kind of something?”

“Something you wouldn’t normally tell a stranger.”

There was a long pause. Then: “I hate this kind of tea.”

Catherine burst out laughing. “Then why did you…”

“You seemed like the type who would appreciate it. Was I wrong?”

“No. I mean, yes, I love it, but…”

“Then it served its purpose.”

“Which was?”

“To make you think better of me than you should.”

“And why would you care what I think?”

Another pause, longer this time. “I honestly don’t know.”

The vulnerability in his admission caught Catherine off-guard. She’d expected another quip, another deflection. Not honesty.

“Your turn,” he said before she could respond. “Something true.”

Catherine considered. She could tell him something safe, something small. Instead, she found herself saying, “I’m running away.”

“From what?”

“A betrothal. Or rather, an almost-betrothal. To a man who collects butterflies and insists on showing me every single one while explaining their Latin names.”

“Horrifying.”

“You have no idea. Did you know there are over seventeen thousand species of butterfly?”

“I did not, and I was happier in my ignorance.”

“Sir Reginald knows them all.”

“Sir Reginald sounds like he needs to be pushed into a lake.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Unfortunately, he owns the lake in question. Several lakes, actually. Also most of Northumberland.”

“Ah. And your family approves of this match?”

“My mother does. She says security is more important than happiness.”

“And you disagree?”

“I think I’d rather be insecure and happy than secure and listening to another lecture on the mating habits of the Purple Emperor.”

“The Purple Emperor has mating habits?”

“Everything has mating habits according to Sir Reginald. He’s very… thorough in his explanations.”

“My goodness.”

“Precisely.”

They fell quiet again. The violin had switched to something livelier—a jig that had people clapping along below.

“So you’re escaping to London?” he asked.

“To my aunt. She’s promised to sponsor me for the Season. Give me a chance to find my own husband. Or not find one, which is also perfectly acceptable.”

“A radical notion.”

“Are you shocked?”

“Impressed, actually. It takes courage to defy expectations.”

“Or desperation.”

“Sometimes they’re the same thing.”

Catherine smiled, though he couldn’t see it. “And you, Mr. Wrentham? What are you fleeing from? Or toward?”

“What makes you think I’m fleeing at all?”

“You’re traveling alone in a storm, willing to pay triple for a room, and you’ve had at least one heated discussion with someone who seems to know you’re not who you say you are. Also, you have the look.”

“The look?”

“Of someone carrying secrets. I recognize it because I see it in the mirror every morning.”

She heard him sigh. “Toward, not from.”

“A woman?”

“A responsibility.”

“That’s delightfully vague.”

“It’s meant to be.”

“Will you tell me more?”

“Will you tell me your real name? Because I’m fairly certain it’s not just Miss Mayfer.”

Catherine’s breath caught. “How did you…”

“Your maid called you ‘my lady’ when she first arrived. Also, your trunk has a crest on it. Small, discreet, but definitely a crest.”

“You’re very observant.”

“It’s kept me alive so far.”

There was a story there, Catherine was certain. Something darker than whatever responsibility he was traveling toward.

“We all have our secrets, Mr. Wrentham.”

“Indeed we do, Lady…?”

“Just Miss Mayfer. For tonight.”

“And tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow we go our separate ways and pretend this never happened.”

“Is that what you want?”

The question hung between them, loaded with possibility. Catherine didn’t know how to answer because she didn’t know what she wanted. This was supposed to be simple—a night’s shelter from the storm, nothing more. Not… whatever this was becoming.

“I think,” she said carefully, “that what I want and what’s wise are two very different things.”

“They usually are.”

Before either could say more, there was a crash from below, followed by shouting and what sounded like a brawl breaking out. The music stopped abruptly.

“That escalated quickly,” Mr. Wrentham observed.

“Do you think we should…”

“Absolutely not. The first rule of inn brawls is to stay out of inn brawls.”

“You have experience with inn brawls?”

“More than I care to admit.”

“You’re going to have to tell me that story.”

“Am I? I thought after tonight we were pretending this never happened.”

“Well, we have until tomorrow.”

“So we do.”

The fight below seemed to be winding down, or at least moving outside. Catherine heard Mr. Hartwell’s voice rising above the chaos, threatening to ban everyone involved for life.

“I should let you return to your supper,” Mr. Wrentham said. “It’s probably cold by now.”

“It was cold when it arrived.”

“The mark of fine coaching inn cuisine.”

“Mr. Wrentham?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. For the tea. Even if you hate it.”

“You’re welcome. Even if you’re not who you say you are.”

“None of us are who we say we are.”

“Some of us more than others.”

Catherine smiled again, pressing her palm flat against the door. “Goodnight, Mr. Wrentham.”

“Goodnight, Miss Mayfer. Sweet dreams.”

“Despite the mysterious beef or cheese?”

“Because of the mysterious beef or cheese. Nothing says adventure quite like potential food poisoning.”

She laughed, stepping away from the door at last. Martha was watching her with bright eyes, clearly having heard every word.

“Not one word, Martha,” Catherine warned.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, miss. Though if I might say…”

“You might not.”

“He seems very…”

“Martha.”

“Yes, miss.”

Catherine returned to her cold supper, but her appetite had fled. She was too aware of the man in the next room, the pull of him like gravity. This was dangerous. She’d fled one unwanted entanglement only to find herself drawn into… what? A flirtation? An attraction? Something more?

No. It was the storm, the unusual circumstances, the romance of being trapped in an inn like something from a novel. Tomorrow, in the cold light of day, it would all seem foolish. Mr. Wrentham would go his way, she would go hers, and that would be that.

Thunder rolled overhead, as if the universe itself was laughing at her certainty.

Later, as she prepared for bed, Catherine could hear him moving about his room. The walls were surprisingly thin—she could make out his footsteps, the creak of his bed as he sat down, even his quiet humming of the tune the violin had played earlier.

“Martha,” she whispered, “do you think I’m being foolish?”

Martha, already tucked into the small bed by the fireplace, raised herself on one elbow. “In what way, miss?”

“Talking to him. Through the door.”

“Seems safer than talking to him in person, if you ask me.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know what you mean, miss.” Martha’s voice was gentle. “And no, I don’t think you’re foolish. I think you’re lonely. And I think he is too.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Can’t I? A gentleman like that, traveling alone in such weather? He’s either running to something or from something, just like you said. Either way, he’s alone.”

Catherine stared at the connecting door. “It doesn’t matter. After tomorrow…”

“A lot can happen before tomorrow, miss.”

As if to emphasize Martha’s point, another crash of thunder shook the inn, and the rain, which had been steady, became torrential. Catherine could hear it hammering on the roof, could see it running down the windows.

“We might be stuck here longer than one night,” she realized.

“The roads will be impassable,” Martha agreed. “Mr. Hartwell was saying earlier that the bridge at Thornley might wash out entirely.”

Catherine’s heart did something complicated in her chest—part dread, part anticipation. More time trapped here meant more time with Mr. Wrentham. More verbal sparring, more conversations through doors, more of this dangerous attraction that seemed to pull at her very bones.

She climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. The bed was surprisingly comfortable, the sheets clean if worn. The fire cast dancing shadows on the walls, and she could still hear the storm raging outside. But beneath it all, she could hear him; the quiet sounds of another person nearby, oddly comforting in the darkness.

“Miss?” Martha’s voice was drowsy. “Do you want me to bank the fire?”

“No, leave it. The warmth is nice.”

Chapter 3

 

“Miss! Miss, you must come quickly!”

Catherine jolted awake, her heart racing. The room was dark save for the dying embers in the fireplace, and for a moment she couldn’t remember where she was. Then it all came flooding back—the storm, the inn, Mr. Wrentham in the room just beyond that door.

“What is it, Martha?” She sat up, pushing her hair back from her face. “What time is it?”

“Past midnight, miss, but…oh, miss, it’s Robert. He’s taken terrible poorly!”

Catherine was out of bed in an instant, reaching for her wrapper. “Robert? What’s happened?”

Martha’s face was pale in the dim light, her cap askew. “He went back out to secure the horses better, the fool man, said they were restless with all the thunder. But the stable roof—some of it came loose in the wind, caught him right across the head and shoulder. He’s bleeding something awful, and Mrs. Hartwell, she needs every hand to help. The physician can’t come, not in this weather, and she says I am the only one that can help here along with another maid that occupies the inn.”

“Of course you must go,” Catherine said immediately, though something fluttered in her stomach at the thought of being left essentially alone. “Is he…will he be alright?”

“Mrs. Hartwell thinks so, if we can get the bleeding stopped and keep the fever away. But miss, I’ll be gone all night, most likely. It isn’t proper, you being here without…”

“Martha.” Catherine took her maid’s shaking hands. “Robert needs you. I’ll be perfectly fine. The door locks, as we’ve established, and Mr. Wrentham seems to be a gentleman, despite his attempts to steal our room.”

“But miss…”

“Go. That’s an order.”

Martha bobbed a quick curtsey and fled, her footsteps pattering down the hallway. Catherine stood in the darkness for a moment, acutely aware of the silence. Well, not silence exactly—the storm still raged outside, and she could hear voices from below, urgent and worried. But her room felt very empty suddenly, and very dark.

She moved to restart the fire, kneeling before the hearth in her nightgown and wrapper. The poker was heavier than she expected, and she fumbled with it, sending a small shower of sparks up the chimney.

“Curse it,” she muttered, then immediately felt scandalized at herself. Ladies didn’t curse. Though ladies also didn’t share rooms with strange gentlemen at coaching inns, so perhaps she’d already crossed the limits of propriety.

A soft knock came at the connecting door.

“Miss Mayfer? Is everything alright? I heard voices.”

Catherine’s pulse quickened. She pulled her wrapper tighter. “Yes, quite alright. My maid was called away because there has been an accident with our coachman.”

“Is he badly hurt?”

“A head wound, apparently. Martha’s gone to help tend him.”

There was a pause. Then: “So you’re alone?”

The way he said it, not predatory, but concerned, made something warm bloom in her chest. “I’m perfectly safe, Mr. Wrentham. The door is locked, and I’m quite capable of defending myself if necessary.”

“With the two pistols in your reticule?”

She could hear the smile in his voice. “Exactly.”

“May I… would you prefer some company? The sitting room, I mean. It must be unsettling, being alone with the storm and worry for your coachman.”

Catherine knew she should refuse. Every rule of propriety demanded it. But propriety hadn’t kept her warm on the frozen road, hadn’t offered her shelter from the storm, and certainly wouldn’t keep her company through what promised to be a very long night.

“I’ll need a moment to make myself presentable,” she heard herself say.

“Of course. Though I should warn you, my own standards of being presentable have rather declined. My valet would be appalled.”

“The valet you don’t have?”

“The theoretical valet. He’s extremely particular.”

Despite everything, Catherine smiled. She lit a candle from the newly revived fire and moved to the mirror. Her hair was a disaster, tumbling around her shoulders in waves that no amount of pinning would quickly tame. Her wrapper was at least modest, a deep blue silk that had been her mother’s, worn over her white nightgown. She looked like someone ready for bed, not for entertaining gentlemen.

But then again, he’d already seen her resembling a drowned rat. This was practically an improvement.

She unlocked the connecting door and stepped into the sitting room. He was already there, standing by the window watching the storm. He’d removed his coat and cravat, wearing only his shirt, waistcoat, and trousers. His hair was disheveled, as if he’d been running his hands through it. When he turned to face her, something flickered in those grey eyes; a heat that made her stomach tighten.

“You came,” he said softly.

“You sounded worried.”

“I was. I am.” He gestured to the small table where a bottle of brandy sat with two glasses. “I convinced Hartwell to part with some of his better stock. Thought it might help with the worry. For your coachman, I mean.”

“You’re very kind.”

“No,” he said, pouring two glasses. “I’m very selfish. I wanted an excuse to see you again.”

The honesty of it caught her off-guard. “Mr. Wrentham…”

“James,” he said, offering her a glass. “If we’re going to be thoroughly improper, we might as well use given names.”

“We’re not being thoroughly improper,” Catherine protested, though she took the glass. “We’re simply… bending the rules slightly.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” He moved closer, not quite improperly close, but close enough that she could smell him: rain and sandalwood and something uniquely masculine. “Tell me, Catherine, may I call you Catherine? What other rules are you planning to bend tonight?”

“That’s rather presumptuous.”

“But not inaccurate?”

She took a sip of brandy to avoid answering. It burned pleasantly down her throat, warming her from the inside out. “Tell me something, James. What are you really running toward?”

He was quiet for a long moment, staring into his glass. “My father is dying.”

The words were flat, emotionless, but Catherine saw the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tightened on the glass.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

“Don’t be. We weren’t close. Haven’t been for years.” He took a long swallow of brandy. “But duty calls, as it always does. The prodigal son must return home.”

“You’ve been away long?”

“Six years. Military service, then… other pursuits. I swore I’d never go back.”

“What changed?”

“Nothing. Everything.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “He’s dying, and suddenly all my anger seems… small. Petty. He was a difficult man, cold, demanding. Nothing was ever good enough. But he was still my father.”

Catherine moved closer, drawn by the pain in his voice. “My father died two years ago. It was sudden—his heart. I never got to say goodbye. Never got to tell him…” She trailed off.

“Tell him what?”

“That I understood. Why he worked so hard, why he was gone so often. He was trying to secure our future, even if it meant missing our present.”

“And now your mother wants to secure your future with Sir Reginald and his butterfly collection?”

Despite the weight of the conversation, Catherine laughed. “Precisely. And she had convinced father as well despite the fact that he had no patience for men who talked more than they acted.”

“Whereas you have no patience for men who steal your rooms at inns?”

“You didn’t steal it. We’re sharing, remember?”

“How could I forget?” His voice had dropped, become something darker, richer. “Every sound you make carries through these walls. Do you know what torture it was, listening to you prepare for bed, knowing you were just there, just beyond that door?”

Catherine’s breath caught. “James…”

“Tell me you didn’t think about it too. Tell me you didn’t wonder what would happen if that door wasn’t locked.”

“We can’t…”

“Can’t we?” He set down his glass, moved closer still. Not touching, not yet, but she could feel the heat radiating from his body. “We’re strangers in a storm. Tomorrow we’ll part ways, never to meet again. Tonight… tonight we could be anyone we choose.”

“And who do you choose to be?”

“Honest,” he said simply. “For once in my life, completely honest. No titles, no expectations, no duty. Just a man who finds you absolutely fascinating.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Don’t I?” His hand came up, not quite touching her face, hovering just close enough that she could feel the warmth. “I know you’re brave enough to flee an unwanted marriage. Strong enough to travel alone except for a maid. Witty enough to match me verbal blow for blow. Beautiful enough to make me forget every rule I’ve ever lived by.”

“James…” His name came out as barely a whisper.

“Tell me to go back to my room,” he said, his voice rough. “Tell me to leave you alone, and I will. I’ll lock the door and we’ll pretend this conversation never happened. But if you don’t…”

“If I don’t?”

His thumb finally made contact, the lightest brush against her cheekbone. “Then I’m going to kiss you, Catherine. And I’m afraid I might not be able to stop at just a kiss.”

The sensible thing would be to step back. To send him away. To preserve what remained of her reputation and her sanity. But Catherine had been sensible her whole life, and where had it gotten her? Nearly betrothed to a butterfly collector, running through storms, sharing rooms with strangers.

“I don’t want you to stop,” she breathed.

His eyes darkened, and she saw him struggle for control. “You need to be very sure. Because once we cross this line…”

“We’ve already crossed every other line tonight. What’s one more?”

“Catherine.” Her name was a warning, a plea.

She made the decision for both of them, rising on her toes to press her lips to his.

For a moment, he was perfectly still, as if she’d shocked him. Then his control shattered. His arms came around her, pulling her against him as he deepened the kiss. It was nothing like the chaste pecks she’d received from suitors; this was fire and demand and a hunger that matched her own.

His hands tangled in her hair, angling her head to better plunder her mouth. She gasped, and he took advantage, his tongue sliding against hers in a way that made her knees weak. She clung to him, fingers gripping his waistcoat, trying to anchor herself against the tide of sensation.

“Heavens, Catherine,” he groaned against her mouth. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

“Show me,” she challenged, drunk on brandy and desire and the freedom of being someone else for just one night.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching hers. “You’re an innocent.”

It wasn’t a question, but she nodded anyway. “Does it matter?”

“It should.” His thumb traced her lower lip, swollen from his kisses. “I should be noble. Send you back to your room with your virtue intact.”

“I don’t want noble. I want you.”

He made a sound that was part laugh, part groan. “You’ll be the death of me.” But his hands were already moving, one sliding down to her waist, the other cupping her face with surprising gentleness. “If we do this, we do it my way.”

“Your way?”

“I won’t hurt you,” he said softly. “But I won’t treat you like glass either. You’re stronger than that. You deserve better than fumbling in the dark.”

“Then what do you propose?”

Instead of answering, he kissed her again, slower this time, deeper. His hands moved with purpose now, one firm at the small of her back, keeping her pressed against him, the other tangling in her hair, controlling the angle of the kiss. It was dominant without being forceful, commanding without being cruel.

“Trust me,” he murmured against her lips. “Can you do that? Can you trust me to take care of you?”

The rational part of her brain screamed that trusting strange men in coaching inns was exactly how young ladies ended up ruined. But something in his eyes, in the careful way he held her, as if she was precious but not fragile, made her nod.

“Words, sweetheart. I need words.”

The endearment made her shiver. “Yes. I trust you.”

“Good girl.”

Those two words shouldn’t have affected her the way they did, sending heat pooling low in her abdomen. He noticed and smiled, a wicked thing that transformed his face from handsome to devastating.

“You like that,” he observed. “Being told you’re good.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Liar.” He nipped at her lower lip, soothing it with his tongue. “Your whole body just melted against mine. There’s no shame in it, Catherine. In wanting to please, to be praised. It’s rather perfect, actually.”

“Why?”

“Because I very much enjoy being pleased.”

She should have been offended by his arrogance. Instead, she found herself intrigued. “And if I please you?”

“Then I reward you,” he said simply. “With pleasure you’ve never imagined.”

“That’s rather confident.”

“It’s a promise.” He stepped back suddenly, leaving her bereft. “But first, you need to be certain. No brandy clouding your judgment, no heat of the moment. Look at me, Catherine.”

She did, meeting those storm-grey eyes.

“If you come to my room—my bed—there’s no going back. Tomorrow you’ll leave here no longer a maiden. Your future husband, whoever he might be, will know. Can you live with that?”

Catherine thought of Sir Reginald, with his sweaty hands and butterfly lectures. Of a lifetime of duty and disappointment. Of never knowing passion or choice or freedom.

“My future husband,” she said clearly, “…curse my future husband. Along with my mother’s expectations and society’s rules and every other chain they’ve tried to wrap around me. For once in my life, I want to choose. And I choose you.”

Something fierce flashed in his eyes. “Then come here.”

She went without hesitation, and this time when he kissed her, there was nothing held back. His hands roamed her body through the silk of her wrapper, learning her curves, making her gasp and arch against him. When his mouth moved to her throat, she thought she might die from the pleasure of it.

“So responsive,” he murmured against her skin. “So perfect. Do you have any idea how much I wanted this? From the moment you walked into this inn, dripping wet and furious, all I could think about was how you’d look spread across my bed.”

“James,” she gasped, scandalized and aroused in equal measure.

“Shocking you, am I?” His teeth grazed her pulse point. “Just wait, sweetheart. I’m going to do things to you that would make you blush just to hear described.”

“Tell me.”

He pulled back to look at her, one eyebrow raised. “Eager little thing, aren’t you?”

“You said you liked eager.”

“I did. I do.” His hands went to the tie of her wrapper. “May I?”

She nodded, watching his face as he slowly pulled the silk loose. The wrapper fell open, revealing her nightgown beneath—white cotton, modest, nothing like the silk nightgowns married women wore. But from the heat in his eyes, she might have been wearing nothing at all.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, his hands skimming over her shoulders, pushing the wrapper off entirely. It pooled at her feet in a whisper of silk. “Absolutely beautiful.”

“It’s just a nightgown.”

“It’s you in a nightgown. That makes all the difference.” His hands went to her waist, pulling her back against him. “Can you feel what you do to me?”

She could. Even through the layers of clothing, she could feel the hard press of his arousal against her stomach. It should have frightened her—she knew enough about the marriage act to understand what that meant. Instead, it thrilled her.

“I want to see you too,” she said, surprising herself with her boldness.

“Do you now?” He smiled, stepping back. “Then undress me.”

Her hands shook slightly as she reached for his waistcoat buttons. “I don’t… I’ve never…”

“I know.” His voice gentled. “Take your time. We have all night.”

She focused on the buttons, trying not to think too hard about what she was doing. The waistcoat came off, revealing the white shirt beneath. She could see the shadow of chest hair through the fine linen, the broad expanse of his chest rising and falling with each breath.

“Now the shirt,” he instructed, his voice rough.

She pulled it from his trousers, her fingers brushing against the warm skin of his stomach. He hissed in a breath, muscles tensing under her touch. Emboldened, she let her hands explore as she pushed the shirt up—the ridges of his abdomen, the light dusting of hair, the scars that spoke of his military past.

“Catherine.” Her name was a warning.

“I’m just following instructions,” she said innocently.

“Minx.” He pulled the shirt off himself, tossing it aside. “My turn.”

Before she could ask what he meant, his hands were at the ties of her nightgown. “Still trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because I’m about to see all of you, and then I’m going to touch every inch I see, and then I’m going to taste every inch I touch. Any objections?”

Her mouth went dry. “No.”

“No, what?”

“No… sir?”

He groaned. “You’re going to be the death of me, saying things like that.” The nightgown loosened, sliding off one shoulder. “Say it again.”

“No objections, sir.”

“Perfect girl.” The praise washed over her like warm honey as he slowly, torturously slowly, pushed the nightgown down. “Look at me. Don’t hide.”

She forced herself to meet his eyes as the cotton pooled at her feet, leaving her completely bare. The cool air made her shiver, but it was nothing compared to the heat in his gaze as he studied her.

“Exquisite,” he said roughly. “Absolutely exquisite. Come here.”

She stepped forward, gasping as her bare skin met his. The hair on his chest abraded her sensitive breasts, making her whimper. His hands splayed across her back, holding her steady.

“Too much?”

“No. No, it’s… I don’t have words.”

“Then don’t talk.” He lifted her suddenly, making her squeal. “Wrap your legs around me.”

“James!”

“Trust, remember?” He carried her to his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them. The fire here was burning brighter, casting the room in golden light. The bed looked enormous, intimidating.

He set her down gently beside it, keeping one arm around her waist. “Second thoughts?”

“No. Just… nervous.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“It means you understand this matters. This isn’t nothing, Catherine. Not for either of us.” He cupped her face in both hands. “I’m going to take such good care of you. But I need you to talk to me. Tell me if something doesn’t feel right, if you need me to stop or slow down. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“And if you’re very, very good,” he murmured, backing her toward the bed, “if you do exactly as I say, I’ll make you feel things you’ve only dreamed about.”

The back of her knees hit the mattress. “I don’t dream about… that.”

“No?” He pressed gently, making her sit. “Never touched yourself in the dark? Never wondered what it would feel like?”

Her face flamed. “Ladies don’t…”

“Ladies do. They just don’t admit it.” He knelt before her, his hands on her knees. “Open for me.”

“What?”

“Your legs. Open them.”

“James, I don’t think…”

“That’s right. Don’t think. Just feel.” His hands pressed gently, inexorably, spreading her thighs apart. “That’s it. Good girl.”

She was completely exposed to his gaze, more vulnerable than she’d ever been in her life. She wanted to close her legs, cover herself, but his hands held her steady.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, and then his mouth was on her inner thigh, pressing hot kisses to the sensitive skin.

“Oh Heavens,” she gasped, her hands flying to his hair.

“It is just me.” He nipped at her thigh, soothing it with his tongue. “And we’re just getting started.”

His mouth moved higher, and higher still, until…

“James!” She tried to close her legs, shocked. “You can’t…”

“I can and I will.” His hands held her open, gentle but firm. “Trust me, Catherine. Let me give you this.”

The first touch of his tongue made her cry out, her back arching off the bed. It was too much, too intense, too everything. But he didn’t stop, his mouth working against her with skillful precision, finding spots she didn’t know existed.

“That’s it,” he murmured against her. “Let go. Let me hear you.”

She couldn’t have stayed quiet if she tried. Every stroke of his tongue drew sounds from her she didn’t know she could make—gasps and moans and, when his tongue touched gently that one particular spot, an actual scream.

“So responsive,” he praised, kissing her carefully. “So tight. We’ll have to go slow, sweetheart. Make sure you’re ready for me.”

“I’m ready,” she gasped, though she had no idea if it was true.

“Not yet. But you will be.” He started touching her carefully while his mouth continued its sweet torment. “When you come for me—and you will come for me—I want you to say my name.”

“James, I don’t…I can’t…”

“You can and you will. Just let go, Catherine.”

Something was building inside her, a tension that threatened to snap. Her hands were in his hair, holding him against her as her hips moved of their own accord. When he curled his fingers inside her, pressing against something that made her see stars, she shattered.

“James!” His name tore from her throat as pleasure crashed over her in waves. He worked her through it, gentling his touch as she slowly came back to herself.

When she finally opened her eyes, he was leaning over her, his expression smug and satisfied. “That was one.”

“One?”

“We’re not nearly done, sweetheart.”

She reached for his trousers, suddenly desperate to touch him. “Then why are you still dressed?”

“Impatient little thing.” But he stood, unbuttoning his trousers with steady hands. “Are you sure you’re ready to see all of me?”

“Yes.”

The trousers dropped, and Catherine’s eyes widened. She’d seen classical statues, of course, but they hadn’t quite prepared her for the reality of an aroused male.

“Still with me?” he asked, a note of concern in his voice.

“Yes. I just… “

He laughed, not unkindly. “I will be careful, I promise. Your body was made for this, Catherine. Made for me.”

He joined her on the bed, covering her body with his. The weight of him should have been frightening, but instead it was comforting, grounding. She could feel him hard against her thigh, and she shifted experimentally, making him groan.

“Careful,” he warned. “My control isn’t infinite.”

“Good.”

“Wicked girl.” He kissed her deeply, his tongue mimicking what his body would soon do. When she was breathless and writhing beneath him, he pulled back. “Are you ready?”

“Yes. Please, James.”

He positioned himself at her entrance, the tip pressing against her. “Look at me. Don’t close your eyes.”

She met his gaze as he slowly, carefully, pushed inside. There was pressure, stretching, a sharp pain that made her gasp and he immediately stopped.

“Breathe, sweetheart. Just breathe.”

“It hurts.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It will get better, I promise.” He peppered her face with kisses, his hand sliding between them to find that sensitive spot again. “Let me help.”

His fingers worked magic, pleasure slowly overtaking pain as her body adjusted to the intrusion. When she experimentally rocked her hips, they both groaned.

“That’s it,” he encouraged. “Take what you need.”

He began to move, slow and careful at first, then deeper as her body welcomed him. The pain faded entirely, replaced by a building pleasure that was different from before—fuller, more intense.

“You feel incredible,” he groaned, his control clearly fraying. “So perfect. Made for me.”

“James,” she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. “I need—I don’t know what I need.”

“I do.” His hand slipped between them again, his fingers finding that spot that made her see stars. “Come for me again, Catherine. Let me feel you.”

It took only a few more strokes before she was shattering again, her body clenching around him. He cursed, his hips jerking as he followed her over the edge, her name a prayer on his lips.

They lay tangled together afterward, both breathing hard. Catherine felt boneless, sated in a way she’d never experienced while James pressed kisses to her shoulder, her neck, her jaw.

“Are you alright?” he asked softly.

“More than alright.” She turned to face him, surprised to find his expression tender, almost vulnerable. “That was…”

“Incredible? Life-changing? Worth ruining your reputation for?”

“All of the above.” She traced a finger down his chest. “Though I do have one question.”

“What’s that?”

“When you said that was one… exactly how many did you have in mind?”

His grin was wicked. “As many as you can take, sweetheart. We have all night, and I’m nowhere near done with you.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?”

“Both.” He rolled her beneath him again, his mouth finding her throat. “Definitely both.”

Outside, the storm continued to rage, but Catherine barely noticed. She was too busy creating a storm of her own, here in this bed with a man whose last name might not even be real. Tomorrow would come with all its complications and consequences. But tonight…tonight she was just Catherine, and he was just James, and that was enough.

More than enough.

When he kissed her again, she gave herself over to it completely, to him completely. Whatever tomorrow brought, she’d have this—one perfect night when she chose her own path, her own pleasure, her own destiny.

“Again?” she asked when he finally let her breathe.

“Again,” he confirmed, his hands already moving with intent. “And again. And again. Until you beg me to stop.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then we’ll watch the sunrise together, thoroughly debauched and completely unrepentant.”

“That sounds perfect.”

“You’re perfect,” he corrected, and proceeded to show her exactly what he meant.

By the time the storm finally began to calm, somewhere near dawn, they were exhausted, sated, and wrapped around each other like they’d been sleeping together for years instead of hours. Catherine’s body ached in delicious ways, bearing the marks of his possession, but she’d left her own marks on him as well, she noted with satisfaction.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, his voice rough with exhaustion.

“That I should probably be scandalized by everything we just did.”

“But you’re not?”

“No. I’m rather proud, actually. Who knew I had such hidden talents?”

He laughed, pulling her closer. “Minx. You’ll be the death of me.”

“You keep saying that, yet you seem remarkably alive.”

“For now.” He pressed a kiss to her hair. “Sleep, Catherine. Tomorrow, or rather today, will come soon enough.”

“Will you be here when I wake?”

“Where else would I be?”

But even as she drifted off, safe in his arms, she heard the doubt in his voice. They both knew this was temporary, stolen time that would end with the storm. When morning came properly, they’d go back to being strangers—Miss Mayfer and Mr. Wrentham, two people whose paths had crossed by chance and would diverge just as quickly.

Still, she thought as sleep claimed her, it had been worth it. Whatever came next, whatever price she paid for this night of freedom, it had been worth it.

Besides, she would never see him again.