Chapter 2 #2
"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."