Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
R owan always dreamed in color. That made it difficult at times to tell whether he was waking or sleeping. No difficulty now, though. Because his dream self stood in his Hestia apartments, and instead of being pulled tight, all the curtains were thrown wide open. More confusing, Miss Crewe waltzed through each room, yanking the curtains down. She opened the windows and tossed them out, and the rooms became brighter one by one. Rowan sneezed, at first a great avalanche of achoos . But once every curtain had been purged from the apartment, and he’d been fully immersed in light, the rooms entirely bare but for him and Miss Crewe and sunshine, the sneezes stopped.
She walked toward him slowly, inexorably, across the sun-filled room. And then that room began to shake. His entire being toppled out of balance, and he began to fall into a dark pit of nothingness and—
He woke with a start to the gloom and shadows of the jolting coach, to the bright blue of Miss Crewe’s eyes.
Her hands were on his shoulders, giving little shakes. “Mr. Trent. Good afternoon. We are, I believe, almost there. I saw the sign upon entering town—The Blue Sheep in bold letters stretched across the street. It must be the largest establishment in the vicinity. I would expect nothing less from you. And I expect you do not wish to meet Mr. Barlow with sleep in your eye. You look startled. Were you dreaming?”
“A nightmare,” he growled, swiping her hands away from his shoulders. Pulling back the curtain, he looked out the window, squinting, sneezing because of the abrupt shift from dark to light. He sniffed and wiggled his nose.
“See. You have a cold.”
“I do not. You're right. We're almost there.”
“I still think we should discuss our story.”
“No reason for it.”
“You know, while I was napping, I was thinking—”
“Not two things that are compatible.”
“I was thinking that your plan is inherently flawed. You say I will meet Mr. Barlow as your wife once . And then the ruse is over.”
He nodded. “The plan is not flawed. It is perfect.”
“But what happens if he comes to London and asks to meet me? What happens if he asks around in the village where, presumably he will still live, and he finds out that the new owner of the inn is not, after all, married? You forget, Mr. Trent, that people talk.”
“They do not.” They did. Of course they did. Hell. “I'll simply tell them you're dead.”
She gasped, her hand flying to her heart. “You will murder me?”
“You'll die of consumption or something of the sort.”
She pulled up taller than before. “Do I appear consumptive?”
“You appear healthy as a horse. It is Mrs. Trent who is consumptive.”
“Despite the comparison to a horse, I will take that as a compliment.”
“I mean neither insult nor compliment. Do not read into my words more than is there.”
She pulled at the hem of her glove, straightening it. “Hm. I shall have to act consumptive, then. Give a little cough. Sniffle into a handkerchief. But how sad. Consumption is terribly serious, you know. Oh! I should swoon into your arms at least once, brought low by the flurry of activity.”
“Good God, don’t do that.” But he wanted to laugh. No, he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.
Yes, he did.
She returned her attention to the only sliver of window available to gaze out through the closed curtain, thinking. That did not bode well. If the woman could think while she was sleeping, who knew what she could do while waking.
“Listen here, Miss Crewe—”
The carriage lurched to a stop, stealing his words and tossing Miss Crewe forward as his body slammed back into the squabs. She toppled onto his lap, her hands catching her on the seat on either side of his body. The top of her head brushed up against his chin, her breasts nearly brushed against his chest, and her thighs and hips met oh so lightly against his knees, like the tiniest of kisses.
He gripped every one of his muscles in a vise to better control them, and she lifted her head to look at him. He saw first that glimpse of blue, and then a flash of pink he could not resist, and then—damn himself to hell—he was staring at her lips. He could control his muscles all he wished, but he could not control where his gaze landed, and his eyes were hungry, ravenous for the sight of her lips.
Like a magnet drawn to its mate, he bent lower, aching for a taste.
She made a little squeak and bounced backwards, away from him and back into her seat across from him. The smile that stretched wide across her face was the most unnatural thing he'd ever seen on her. “We've arrived.” She spoke much too loudly.
But he was glad for it. It jarred some sense into him. He’d been about to do something quite, quite wrong. He opened the coach door, stepped down, and held out his hand. He waited and he waited. He waited so long he almost stuck his head back inside to see what kept her, but just as he moved to do just that, her hand appeared, small and graceful in the lace glove.
He’d seen her hands without gloves when she had not thought he was looking, watching them hold silver trays and pour tea and dip into the soapy water of wooden buckets. The gloves conferred graceful elegance on what he knew to be strong and capable.
When her feet were firmly on the ground, he released her hand and strode for the inn only to find after a couple of long steps her arms looping around one of his and tugging. He stopped, more from confusion than from any force she might have exerted over him.
Her grin meant trouble. “Wait for me, my dear.” That smile could slice a man’s confidence in two. She kept one elbow looped about his and settled in on his forearm, and then she placed her opposite hand on top of her first, so that all ten fingertips touched his coat at some place. It felt like a claiming. That looped arm, those proprietary hands said, This man, ladies, is mine .
His gut flipped. And he smushed it down, locked in place. No flipping. Absolutely no flipping. He set his mouth into a determined line and ushered her forward toward the inn. The door opened before they arrived, and an older gentleman with wispy white hair strode out to meet them. Small silver spectacles perched on the end of his nose just over ruddy cheeks and a wide grin.
“You can be no other than Mr. Trent,” he said, holding his arms out wide. “And this”—his gaze slipped to Miss Crewe—“must be Mrs. Trent.”
They met the old man in the middle of the courtyard, and Rowan offered a brief nod of acknowledgement as Miss Crewe bobbed a curtsy.
Enough pleasantries. Rowan opened his mouth to say so.
“How did you know it was us?” Miss Crewe asked instead.
“Your husband looks like his letters. His face is as dour as his sentence structure.”
“Hm.” She studied Rowan. “I see what you mean. Precise. Without a single unnecessary word.”
“Exactly, Mrs. Trent. You know your husband well.”
“And, I venture to guess, his ink is as black as his hair.”
Mr. Barlow roared with laughter. “Just so!”
“And the folds of his paper as sharp as his stare. ”
“Don’t kill an old man with laughter. Oh, my. It is a relief to see Mrs. Trent balances her husband out so well.”
“Thank you.” Miss Crewe beamed. “What a lovely thing to say.”
“I don't see how that's a compliment,” Rowan grumbled, jumping into the first conversational pause he could find.
“Really?” Miss Crewe said, a glint of mischief in her eye. “How odd. It must be that you do not see yourself clearly.”
And she did not see her role clearly. She'd already said ten times more words than him when she was supposed to say exactly none . “If we are opposites, my dear, it is because I am terribly talkative, and you are usually silent. What a chatterbox you’re being today.”
“Me? Silent?” Her fingertips fluttered to her throat, and he could not help but notice how elegant it was, yet how strong at the same time. How very kissable. “Your nap during the trip has confused you, darling.” The barest hint of a smile quirked the corner of her lips up. All clear to him now. She had conceded nothing to him earlier. She’d merely waited patiently to start her rebellion.
If he could not defeat her, he would ignore her. “I believe we should discuss business, Mr. Barlow.”
“Yes, yes. Of course.” The old man ushered them into the inn. “It is a shame Mrs. Barlow is not here to meet you. I rely on her intuition, you know.”
“I'm sure your judgment is just as trustworthy,” Rowan said, letting the ambiance of the inn hit him all at once, a wave, before he began to analyze the details. A wash of comfort and warmth. Light walls and dark beams on the ceiling. Rooms off to the side of the entry. Dining parlor and coffee room, no doubt. The main staircase was simple yet appeared sturdy. The wood gleamed and the floor, despite the bustle of guests coming and going, was well swept and clean. Quite cheerful.
Quite perfect.
Miss Crewe clapped her hands together. “It is a delight. I must congratulate you, Mr. Barlow, on creating such a remarkably domestic atmosphere.”
“My daughter painted those.” Mr. Barlow wagged a finger at three watercolors on a near wall .
“Such skill.” Miss Crewe took a closer look, sticking her neck out as if she was studying every detail with great intensity. “I like the cat here in the corner. Makes one think of cozying up by a fire.”
Would the woman never stop rambling? Rowan pulled out a chair at a small table in the dining room and sat. He waved at the chair across from him. The table permitted no more than two. Perhaps it was not a very gentlemanly gesture, but then he was not feeling very gentlemanly toward Miss Crewe.
Mr. Barlow sat, and Miss Crewe hovered, a tiny frown between her brows. But not long. She whisked herself behind Rowan’s chair and draped her hand lightly on his shoulder. Her fingers settling there felt like fresh-fallen snow, cooling. But too long, and the touch of ice could burn the skin.
It would look odd to shake her off, though. So he settled into the embrace, and she squeezed his shoulder, a terribly wifely gesture that… reassured him?
“You do not like me to stand after a long ride, do you dear,” she said. “But you know how I prefer to move about after too long a confinement.” Another squeeze of his shoulder.
Masterful, that. Covering up his ungentlemanly actions with an explanation that created the appearance of intimacy between them, that suggested how well they knew one another, and how well he took care of her. Clever chit.
“Would either of you like tea?” Mr. Barlow asked.
“No, thank you,” Rowan said.
Just as Miss Crewe exclaimed, “Oh, yes, that would be delightful.”
Through gritted teeth, he tried to wrest control. “We do not have much time.”
Her hand swept across his shoulder to brush against his neck, where she gave a gentle tug to the short hairs there. A little too hard. Likely, it looked affectionate. The pin pricks of pain across his neck said otherwise. “There’s always time for tea. You would not deny me… would you?”
No choice. No control. “Never,” he managed to say without a belabored sigh .
Mr. Barlow left to speak with a waiter, and Rowan whipped around. “What are you doing?”
“What you are paying me for.”
“I'm not paying you a damn thing.”
“Yes, you are. You’re paying me with entrance to your inn. I would feel guilty if I did not earn that payment.”
“Earn your payment through silence. As we agreed.”
“A man like Mr. Barlow will not buy my silence. Do you not see him? How easily he laughs, how jolly he looks. He puts his children’s watercolors on the wall. That is not a man who keeps his wife silent. Do you not see the handmade doilies on every surface? Do you think he put those there? I have no doubt his wife stands at his shoulder, whispering in his ear. I have no doubt she bellows loud enough when she feels like it. Mr. Barlow knows how to love a woman, especially one who bellows. I can tell.”
“And how's that?” She was right, though. He had seen it with the admiral and Aunt Lavinia. The admiral always had an ear for his wife and always sat back quite pleased when she decided to raise her voice.
“I have three brothers-in-law who are all terribly besotted. I know what a happy husband and a happy wife look like. You are trying to sell this man not just a marriage but a happy one. He will buy nothing less. He will sell to you for nothing less. Therefore, I will not be silenced. You will thank me later.”
God, he wanted to silence her. He could rise from this chair and march her backward till her back hit the wall and silence those lips. With his own.
He snapped away from her just as the waiter and Mr. Barlow approached, porcelain clinking on silver and being passed among them.
“Please do sit, Mrs. Trent.” Mr. Barlow gestured toward a chair. “I will pull up a third to join us or we will change tables. I cannot abide to sit while a lady stands.”
She took her teacup from him gratefully. “Perhaps if I take a turn about the room first. I would like another look at your daughter’s paintings, and I might, if you do not mind, sneak upstairs to look at the rooms. Your wife has done such a lovely job decorating the public rooms, I am fascinated to see what delights await me upstairs. ”
Mr. Barlow glowed. He folded his hands over his belly and smiled as if Miss Crewe had handed him the moon. “You have free rein over this establishment, good lady. Go where you will and act as if it is yours.”
She put a hand to her heart and nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Barlow.” And then, teacup in hand, she began a measured circle about the room.
Mr. Barlow settled into the seat across from Rowan, studying Miss Crewe. “How in heaven's name did you end up with a wife like that?”
“I have very little idea how it happened, only that it did. Quite unexpectedly.”
“Some things hit you over the head like a hammer, my boy, and women like her know how to wield hammers well. Mrs. Barlow is just her sort.” He chuckled. “I can see you are ready to discuss business, though, and I am ready to oblige you. I have heard you know how to run a hotel, how to make it a success. But an inn is a different beast. Things are not so polished here as they are in London. While your guests in the city may expect a certain elegance, here they want the comforts of home. They want a roaring hearth, and they want to feel as if they are visiting friends. As their hosts, you must be their friends.”
“I will not live here,” Rowan said. “My home is London. I plan to hire someone to run the inn on a daily basis. And I guarantee they will be the best. They will ensure that the Blue Sheep runs smoothly and profitably.”
“Yes, yes. That is all well and good, but it is not enough. Smoothly . Profitably . But what about comfortably ?”
“Smoothness, profitability—those are aspects of comfort.”
“I mean comfort of the soul. Surely you understand that. Any man in possession of a wife such as yours… you understand. Do not pretend otherwise.”
“Yes, of course.” Rowan resisted a scowl. He did not at all understand. His own scheme had backed him into a corner.
Miss Crewe caught him looking at her and winked, then gave a tiny wave of her fingers before slipping out of the room and toward the hallway that held the stairs. His thighs flexed as if he might rise and go after her. She seemed to have rearranged his life to her liking in full view of him and without him knowing. What trouble would she get up to if he wasn't looking at all?
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Barlow said. “She’s safe upstairs. Safe as can be. I know how it is, though. With young folks. Scared to let her out of your sight, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Rowan said. “But not enough to follow. We have business to discuss, Mr. Barlow. I will pay well for the Blue Sheep. Enough for you to buy a spacious house wherever you please and retire comfortably. More than comfortably. Stylishly.”
Mr. Barlow stroked his chin. “Hm. Mrs. Barlow does envy stylish things. And she deserves a good, big house with plenty of room for grandchildren.” He chuckled. “I’m sure your parents desire the same thing.”
“My parents are dead.”
Mr. Barlow’s cup toppled to its saucer with a clatter. “Ah. Well. My sympathies. Is it a… new loss or—”
“Quite an old one. It is of no matter. Now, shall I contact my solicitor? He’s already drawing up contracts.”
“No. No. Not quite yet.”
“You like my wife.”
Mr. Barlow blinked, then blinked again. He blinked a third time. “Why, yes, she’s lovely, but—”
“Ah!” The joyful gust of sound appeared from the doorway before Miss Crewe did, and she followed close behind, bursting into the room like the first bloom after a long winter freeze. “As lovely as I expected, Mr. Barlow. Perfection, even. I cannot see how…” She paused, looked at Rowan with a tilted head, then moved forward as if she’d never stumbled. “My husband can improve upon matters.” She settled herself just behind him once more, draping herself over the back of the chair. Her hands on his shoulders again, her cheek brushing against his temple. She brushed his hair back, a wifely gesture that flipped his gut once more, and this time, he could not pin it back in place. “I must admit to feeling quite covetous. If… my husband were not already attempting to buy it away from you, I’d beg him to do so.”
She straightened, and the flutter of her hand on his shoulder warned him—she would pull entirely away .
He slapped his hand on top of hers, keeping her exactly where she was, their gloves the only barriers between them. Too much and too little all at the same time. And was he… did his thumb rub back and forth along her wrist? Yes, a clever way to play his part of a doting husband.
She leaned low over him once more. Then she placed her lips on his cheek, kissed him. A tiny peck but a match that sent a wildfire blazing across his body. “If I begged”—she sounded breathless—“would you satisfy me?”
Yes. Goddamnit, yes he would.
He released her hand, and she stood. The cold air that replaced her body’s warmth chilled his bones. He shivered. And needing to do something other than sit in the scent of soap and sunshine she’d left behind, he stood and dragged a chair to their table.
Sunshine didn’t even smell . It was hot and dusty and entirely scentless. How did she manage to smell like the opposite of that, fresh and warm and floral?
“Sit,” he said, pointing at the chair. When she blinked at him, a smile curling her lips, he swooped behind her, grasped her shoulders, and helped her sit. “There.” He sat back down, crossing his arms over his chest.
Mr. Barlow chuckled again. That seemed to be his most basic reaction to every situation. “I think your husband would please you in any way he could. And I would like very much to please you, as well, Mrs. Trent, but as I was about to tell your husband, I cannot make a decision without my wife’s input. The inn belonged to her father before it belonged to me, and she has dedicated much of herself to its success. But she was called away this morning. Our daughter is having her third child.”
“When will she arrive?” Rowan asked. “We can wait.”
Miss Crewe’s fingertips fluttered at his arm. “We cannot wait, in fact. Remember? We have much to do in London.”
“In that case, it is best you leave now,” Mr. Barlow said. “One never knows about these things. The baby could arrive any minute or… any day.” He held up his hands, palms up. “Though I pray for a speedy arrival. ”
“Us, too,” Miss Crewe assured him. She glanced at Rowan. “Shall we leave now? Oh. You’ve something just here.” She wiped her thumb across his lapel and fidgeted with his cravat, straightening what was crooked, tightening what was too loose. The tip of her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth as she worked, making his heart beat faster. Each brush of her fingers against his body kicked his pulse higher. Soap and sunshine hooked about his neck like a noose, drawing him closer.
Was this what it felt like to be a husband? Teased and fussed over in equal measure? The description certainly fit the admiral and Aunt Lavinia. His mother and father, too. Mama used to straighten his father’s clothes, tease him mercilessly, too. His father had called her part fairy, part banshee, all his . Rowan swallowed as Miss Crewe patted his chest. She was part fairy, part banshee.
All his?
Only according to Mr. Barlow, and only for a few more hours.
“There,” Miss Crewe said. “Perfectly presentable now. Shall we leave?”
He stood, and she did too, slipping her arm through his as if she did it every day and smiling brilliantly for Mr. Barlow.
“It was a joy to meet you,” she said. “And to finally see this lovely old place. I do hope you will entrust us with its future.” She coughed into her fist. “Pardon me. I have not been feeling well lately.”
Hell and damnation. He was in no position to roll his eyes, and the inability to do so felt like torture. “You’re fine and well.” He patted her hand a bit too roughly as he spoke to the innkeeper. “When shall we return to meet your wife, Mr. Barlow?”
“I’ll let you know, my boy. I’ll let you know.” Mr. Barlow followed them out and waved them off. “Feel better, Mrs. Trent,” he called as the coach rumbled out of the courtyard.
“Well?” Miss Crewe said from her seat opposite him. “How did I do?”
“You did not follow the plan.”
“It’s better I did not.”
She was likely right. “You may enter Hestia now.”
“Oh, thank you so very much , Mr. Trent. ”
“Sarcasm does not suit you. But the name Mrs. Trent must suit you once more before we are through with one another.”
She sighed, sinking into the squabs with a grin. “I suppose so. I am looking forward to it so very much .”
She teased. But damn it to hell. If he said the same thing, it would not be a joke.