Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
“You are in my bed.”
Euphemia did not open her eyes. She was warm, the pillow was exceptional, and the voice… though severe, was also rather nice. It carried a low-frequency rumble that seemed to vibrate through the mattress and settle right in Euphemia’s marrow.
It was a lovely way to wake up, truly.
Instead of opening her eyes, she drifted in that hazy, golden space between sleep and reality, a small, tired smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
‘How vivid’, she thought. Most of her dreams involved the likes of Mrs. Pembrook chasing her with a giant ledger, or Lady Byron, her godmother warning her not to ruin everyone’s life, but this… this was new.
A man with a voice like aged brandy telling her she was in his bed.
“Miss? Would you like to explain yourself?”
Euphemia’s brow furrowed. The dream-man was remarkably surly. She forced one eye open, then the other, blinking against the light that flooded the room.
A figure was silhouetted, standing over the edge of the bed.
He was tall. Impossibly tall. She really was dreaming of men now.
That was new. That was a development. Three months of spectacular romantic failure and her mind had apparently decided the solution was to manufacture one while she was unconscious, which said something about her current circumstances.
She appreciated the effort. She did not appreciate the tone.
She pulled the blanket up, feeling, a pang of profound self-pity. ‘Oh, Effie’, she thought, “You really have reached a pathetic new low. You are dreaming of exceptionally large, brooding ones who look like they’ve been sculpted out of granite and bad intentions.’
She blinked again, trying to clear the wine-induced fog.
But as her vision sharpened, the dream didn’t dissolve.
In fact, it became alarmingly detailed. She could see the crisp white of a linen shirt, unbuttoned at the throat.
She could see the shadow of a jawline that looked sharp enough to draw blood.
Euphemia blinked at him.
Well, she thought. If she was going to imagine a man, at least she had imagined a good one. Her subconscious, apparently, had standards.
She blinked again.
He was still there.
“You’re a man,” she mumbled, her eyebrows furrowing.
“And you are a woman, in a man’s bed,” the dream-man responded.
“Is this a dream?” she asked, still unsure if her mind was playing tricks on her. She had never drunk that much wine before.
“Would you like me to pinch you?”
Euphemia squinted, her pulse giving a sluggish, confused thrum. In her defense, the wine had been excellent, and the sunlight was doing very generous things to the stranger’s silhouette. He was broad… excessively so, and the way he loomed over her felt less like a threat and more like a haunting.
He reached past her and gripped the bedpost. The wood cracked against his palm, and he shook it, the vibration moved through the mattress and directly through Euphemia.
Euphemia sat up, clutching the covers to her chest. “Good heavens, what on God’s green earth are you doing in my room?”
The fog lifted immediately. She was not dreaming... had never been dreaming, and was in fact standing in front of a man with her hair in her face and her sight still a little blurry.
The man stood exactly where he was, looking down at her with a puzzled look on his face.
“You’re Miss Vane,” he said, tilting his head as he studied her.
Euphemia’s brain stalled for a second, and then the indignation hit her like a bucket of ice water.
There was only one reason a man would have the effrontery to barge into a lady’s room so early in the morning and show such a blatant disregard for propriety.
He must have heard the rumors. He must have listened to every whispered lie about her imminent ruin or her desperate search for a match, and assumed that her circumstances gave him the confidence to treat her like common prey.
Of all the insufferable, presumptuous, small-minded—
She threw the blanket down and huffed, turning to glare at him.
“I am indeed Miss Vane!” she snapped. “Who let you in here?”
The man didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look surprised. He just watched her with a heavy, unblinking gaze that made her feel even more hysterical. “I—”
“What did you think?” Euphemia climbed to her knees on the mattress, her hair spilling over her shoulders in a wild tangle. “Did you think it would be easy? Did you truly believe that a lapse in my social standing equated to a lapse in my cognitive functions?”
“Cognitive functions?”
“Did you think that because a man of consequence decided I was dispensable, that made me so? Did you think a woman’s value is so dependent on whether some title-bearing coward chose to honor his word that the moment he didn’t, any other man could simply walk through her door and find her grateful for the attention? ”
Euphemia took in a breath. “I believe it was Mary Wollstonecraft that wrote that women are rendered weak and wretched not by nature but by circumstance, sir, and I will not be your convenient circumstance.”
“Why on earth are you bringing Wollstonecraft into this?” he questioned.
She pointed at him. “She also wrote that it is vain to expect virtue from women until they are in some degree independent of men, which I intend to be, at the earliest possible opportunity, so whatever conclusion you have drawn from whatever you have heard about me, I suggest you revise it immediately because I am not broken, I am not desperate, and I am not remotely interested in being anyone’s opportunistic consolation prize! ”
He looked at her for a long moment then he let out a loud breath. “Are you familiar with Mary Wollstonecraft personally, or only through correspondence?”
Euphemia stared at him. “She is dead.”
“That would explain the correspondence, then.”
“Are you making a joke?” She squinted her eyes.
“I am...” he started to say. “... trying very hard not to.” He tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over her wild hair and her indignant, flushed face.
“Actually, I had one question. Is it a frequent occurrence for your mental faculties to completely desert you at sunrise, or is this a special performance curated just for me?”
Euphemia froze. Her hand dropped an inch. “I would like you to leave, sir.”
“I cannot do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because this is my room,” he announced. “And you’re in it.
Euphemia opened her mouth to deliver a stinging retort about the absurdity of his claim, but the syllable died in her throat. Her gaze, previously fixed on his irritatingly handsome face, finally slipped past his shoulder to take in the rest of her surroundings.
There were no dainty watercolor landscapes on the walls like she had seen when she had arrived the day before.
Instead, massive oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors stared down at her with open disapproval.
The delicate chintz curtains she remembered from the night before were actually heavy, emerald-green velvet, and on the mahogany nightstand beside her sat a half-empty glass of sweet wine was a silver pocket watch.
“This…” she said, in a voice that had lost a considerable amount of its earlier authority. “…is not my room.”
“It is not.”
He looked down at her... at the desperate way she was clutching his coverlet to her chin, then looked away and scoffed.
“You can drop the theatrical display of bewilderment, Miss Vane. The performance is entirely unnecessary.”
Euphemia blinked, her throat tightening. “Performance?”
“Let us not insult each other’s intelligence,” he said. “I know exactly who you are. One hears things.”
The vague edge in his voice made her completely alert. She slowly slid her legs out from under the heavy coverlet, standing up from the bed. She kept her chin high, though she was intensely aware of her bare feet on his polished floorboards and the state of her hair.
“Then since you know who I am,” she said.
“You will understand that I have had quite enough scandal to last me several lifetimes and have absolutely no interest in manufacturing more.” She clasped her hands in front of her.
“Because whatever conclusion you have arrived at is entirely false. Last night, I drank a rather excessive amount of very sweet wine. I did not realize it possessed such a... delayed potency. When I left the ballroom, I simply made my way upstairs, found a door, set my glass down, and went straight to sleep. I did not light a lamp. I did not summon a maid. I was simply too exhausted to notice the decor. This morning is the first time I have opened my eyes since midnight, and frankly, I am quite astonished that it is already dawn. I had not expected to sleep so well.”
The man shifted his weight, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His expression unyielding.
“So,” he said. “I am expected to believe that you did not come here to camp out on my bed and wait for my return in the dark? That you had no grand design to ensure I found you here? That you did not plan to be discovered in this room when I returned.”
“That is precisely what I am telling you.”
“That the entire thing was an accident?”
“Yes.”
“You lost your way?”
“Yes.”
“Do I look like a fool, Miss Vane?” he asked and squinted his eyes. “You expect me to believe that?”
“Do you honestly believe I did this deliberately?” She took a step forward, her hands curling into small fists at her sides.
She knew how terrible this looked. She understood that a strange woman in a gentleman’s bed chamber required an explanation, and she had been entirely prepared to offer a dignified, deeply contrite apology.
But his complete refusal to grant her even a shred of benefit of the doubt was infuriating.
“Sir, I would never rope any man into a scandal,” she said, her voice tight. “It is entirely against my principles.”
“Do you want to know what I think?” he asked.
“No, Sir. I do not.”