Seven Nights to Forever (23 page)

“May I take your cloak?”

She whirled from the window, the dark fabric fluttering about her ankles. “Oh, yes. Thank you,” she murmured, undoing the clasp and slipping the garment from her shoulders. She passed a hand over her hair to smooth the stray strands.

He studied her from the corner of his eye as he folded the cloak over the back of a nearby chair. Her back was ramrod straight, quite the feat, as she was now crouched before her trunk, undoing the latch. Getting to her feet, she held up a forest green cambric day dress and shook it out.

“Shall I call for a servant to have it pressed?” he asked.

“No, you needn’t bother. It just needs to hang. The wrinkles will be gone come morning.”

“Are you hungry?”

“A bit.” Her back to him, she hung the dress on a peg on the wall near the washstand.

He frowned. Her unease was palpable, practically radiating from her. “When you’re ready, we can go down for supper. The fare is simple, but quite palatable.”

She turned from the dress. Her gaze skittered about the room, avoiding his. “Would you mind ever so much if we dined here? The table,” she flicked her fingers toward the small, round table in the corner of the room, “could be suitable for dining.”

“If you wish,” he said, with a tip of his head.

He called for a servant and requested a meal for two. As they waited for the fare to arrive, she busied herself: setting a brush and a small copper tin on the dresser, fiddling with the wrinkles on the skirt of the dress she had hung up, and closing her trunk. The silence was only broken by the soft sounds of her footsteps as she moved about. The bedchamber wasn’t large by any means, but every foot separating them felt like a furlong. The distance so vast he hadn’t a clue how to breach it.

The reserved quiet continued throughout supper. Her manners were all politeness, but the slight, barely there smiles were distinctly brittle and forced. Hell, it felt like they were mere acquaintances, forced to share a room for the night. It made him remember how he had to really coax her to convince her to come along with him to the country. She had not jumped at the opportunity. Her reluctance had been a tangible force. Only an outrageous sum had garnered her assent. The thought that she was only with him for the thick fold of pound notes he’d given the madam sat like an iron brick in his belly.

The decision to take this holiday was coming back to haunt him. He never did anything impulsive. Every decision carefully thought through, considered, and weighed. And the one time he’d reached out, grabbed what he wanted with both hands without thought to anything but his own selfish desires . . .

He drained the last of the coffee in his cup, the roasted beef on his plate not even half eaten. Worries over the week ahead had killed his appetite. Was this but a taste of what the days would hold for him? Closeted away in her suite of rooms at the brothel, they had never spent any time together that did not involve sex or the prospect of sex. He knew every inch of her beautiful body, had pressed his lips to those luscious curves, been intimately joined with her, but he actually knew so little about
her
. In a way, they were rather like strangers.

“Are you finished?” As if he needed to bother asking. Her appetite had not even approached his. Her wineglass was empty, but he doubted she’d brought more than a couple of the neatly cut squares of beef on her plate to her lips.

“Yes,” she said, and he had to fight to keep from wincing when she gave him another of those brittle, forced little smiles.

Even though a servant would readily see to it, he took the tray laden with the remnants of their supper downstairs, giving her the opportunity to prepare for bed without his hovering presence. Should he inquire with the innkeeper about another room? Did she not truly wish to stay with him tonight? Or was it more than just tonight? Did she regret agreeing to come with him to the country?

All thoughts of a blissful night vanished, replaced with a knotted mass of worry. Another lonely night loomed ahead of him, infinitely long, the dawn so patient he’d be left wondering if it would ever rise. It was something he should be more than accustomed to by now, but . . . Rose was supposed to keep those lonely nights away.

But likely not tonight.

He left the tray at the front desk and went outside. The night air brushed his cheeks, the cold nipping his skin. The inn was quiet, the gravel drive empty of carriages as most travelers had already stopped to procure rooms hours ago. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he headed toward the cluster of trees on the side lawn, leaving the golden pools of light from the lanterns behind him. Should he offer to take her back to London in the morning? Christ, he didn’t want it to come to that. Didn’t want to give up their holiday. His thoughts had been focused on nothing else since she’d given him that nod. One week of shared pleasure and comfortable companionship. Of being with a woman who welcomed his presence, who made him feel . . . wanted. A luxury if ever there was, and one that was fast slipping through his grasp.

Stopping, he looked up to the sky, as if the stars above somehow held the answer. A light breeze rustled the leaves on the nearby trees, masking his shoulder-slumping sigh. Come morning, he’d put the question to her and whatever her answer, he would accept.

Turning on his heel, he went back to the inn. The ride here had been enjoyable, at least. He could be content with that, couldn’t he? It was so much more than he’d had eight days ago.

But perhaps . . . His gaze settled on the front door as he approached it. Perhaps it wasn’t
him
, per se. The carriage ride
had
been more than enjoyable. Her smiles warm and her kisses sweet. But if she, for a reason known only to her, objected to spending a night with him at an inn, wouldn’t it follow that she would have the same concerns at Honey House? Putting him in the same position he was currently in. Confused and adrift and not knowing what the hell to think.

He stopped at the front desk for a quick word with the proprietor. With one brass key clutched tight in his fist and a new one in his pocket, he trudged up the stairs. If she wanted him, she would wait up for him. If not, if she was in bed and more importantly, asleep, then regardless of his own wishes, he would make use of the key in his pocket.

The
click
of the lock echoed in the empty corridor. Breath held, he turned the knob and slipped inside. Only the fire in the hearth lit the room, the flickering golden rays illuminating her outline under the dark woolen coverlet on the large bed.

His stomach dropped, disappointment crashing over him in a suffocating wave. A wince crossed his face. Stepping carefully in an effort to minimize any squeaks of the floorboards, he went to grab his valise and leather bag, which were still propped next to the dresser.

There was a rustle of fabric, accompanied by the faint creak of the ropes under a mattress.

“James, where are you going?” Her soft voice drifted from the shadows.

Bags in hand, he turned to the bed. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders in loose, untamed waves. The coverlet was clutched over her breasts but the pale ivory expanse of skin above the dark brown wool was completely bare.

She wasn’t wearing a nightgown or chemise. She was naked beneath that blanket.

In a quick rush of raw need, lust flared beneath his skin. He swallowed hard, fighting back the almost unstoppable impulse to bolt under the covers, to have her bare body pressed against his, to hold her close. “I’ve secured another room. You can rest undisturbed for the night.”

“But . . .” She twisted the sheet at her hip.

“What?” he asked, going still. A tendril of hope sparked within him.

“I thought you wished to share a room.” She released the coverlet. It slipped down her chest, pooling at her waist. “Earlier in the carriage, you said ‘Later.’”

With a thud, his bags fell to the floor.

“Do you need assistance undressing?”

“No, I can manage it,” he said, wrestling his arms free of his coat.

His waistcoat, cravat, shirt, and trousers quickly joined the coat on the floor, and then he was slipping under the blankets and into her open arms, the undeniable welcome in her kiss vanquishing the last of the hollow ache in his chest.

ROSE
looked from the house outside the open carriage door to James’s proffered hand. Strong, capable, and bare. He was not a man who wore gloves as a matter of course.

Her gaze went back to the house beyond his broad shoulder. With its honey gold stone exterior, Honey House was an apt name. Neatly tended, low bushes underscored the three sets of windows on the ground floor. Four chimneys jutted from the roofline that kissed the tops of the windows on the first floor. Quaint, charming, and elegant with crisp, clean lines, it was nowhere near as grand as Paxton Manor. Rather it was the perfect residence for a country gentleman, or a London gentleman like James who wished to occasionally rusticate in the country.

She liked it immensely, but that fact did not ease the trepidation that had seeped into her stomach the moment the carriage had slowed to a stop outside the front door.

“Rose?”

Taking a deep breath, she laid her gloved hand in his and exited the carriage. The front door swung open as they approached.

“Mr. Archer. Welcome home.” A rotund, older woman with a mop of gray curls closed the door behind them.

“Rose, this is my housekeeper, Mrs. Webb. Mrs. Webb, this is Miss Rose. She will be our guest for the next week.”

Rose murmured a welcome, bracing for the friendly smile to slip off the woman’s face. That feeling she’d had at the inn returned in full force. Last night, she hadn’t been able to push aside the uncomfortable sensation that every pair of eyes in the inn had been fixed on her cloaked figure and well aware she and James had not been a husband and wife stopping along their travels. As if the word
whore
had been emblazoned on her back for all to see. For the first time, she felt self-conscious about holding James’s hand. She didn’t want to let go—she needed his strength—but she couldn’t ignore the impression that Mrs. Webb was doing her best to look everywhere but at their joined hands.

It made her feel as if he was declaring his intentions, telling the housekeeper without words that Rose was more than a mere guest. Even when her primary purpose had been little more than a pretty ornament to hang off her protector’s arm, she had not liked being on display, being flaunted for what she was.

“Welcome to Honey House, Miss Rose. Mr. Webb will have your bags inside—” A bump sounded on the door, cutting off the older woman. She flashed Rose a bright smile and reached behind for the doorknob. “And there he is now.”

Slim and wiry, the opposite of his wife, Mr. Webb shuffled over the threshold and into the small foyer, Rose’s trunk held before him with James’s bags looped over each wrist. He barely paused to tip his head to her with a gruff “Welcome, miss” before trudging up the stairs, the bags bumping his thighs with each step.

“If you would like, I can unpack for you.” Hands clasped before her, Mrs. Webb looked expectantly at Rose.

She opened her mouth, the polite refusal on her tongue, when James spoke.

“Not at the moment, but perhaps later Miss Rose would welcome your assistance.”

Mrs. Webb’s gaze flickered briefly to their joined hands. “Of course, you both must be tired from the journey. When you need my assistance, simply call. I’ll be there in a trice. Oh, and there was a delivery for you this morning, Mr. Archer. It’s on your desk.”

“I see Decker is prompt as always.” Turning his broad shoulders to her, James motioned toward the stairs with his free hand. “Shall we?”

It was all she could do to keep the smile in place. Not even five minutes in the house, and he wanted her in his bed. Was taking her there right now, under the watchful gaze of his housekeeper.
It’s James’s holiday, not yours
, she reminded herself as they made their way to the first floor. He had paid for the right to indulge with her whenever he pleased, and her role was one of gracious accommodation.

James turned right at the top of the stairs, leading her down a short corridor. The interior of the home matched the exterior. Neat and tidy, nothing ostentatious or overly elaborate. A couple of small landscapes hung on the walls, and a serviceable brown-patterned rug muffled their footsteps. One would never know that its owner possessed such wealth as to be able to part with two thousand pounds on a whim.

Mr. Webb emerged from a room on the left, his arms empty of their burdens. “Supper at the usual hour, Mr. Archer?”

“Yes, Webb,” he replied, opening a door across from the room the servant had just vacated.

She followed James into the room and stopped short. The bedchamber was decorated in sunny yellows and bright whites. The furnishings all held a distinctly comfortable and quite feminine air about them. The delicately carved legs on the small desk next to the white marble fireplace, the neat posts on the four-poster bed, the floral upholstery on the small chair in the corner. Her trunk, the silver banding so new it didn’t hold one scratch, was on the floor beside the cherrywood dresser. The gauzy drapes on the group of three tall, narrow windows were drawn back, revealing a glimpse of the front lawn and letting in the afternoon sun.

She looked askance at James. Surely this could not be
his
bedchamber.

“Do you like the room? It’s yours for the duration of your stay, if it meets with your approval.”

“My room?” She hadn’t expected such a courtesy. “You don’t want me to stay with you?”

“Of course, but I thought you’d prefer a room of your own. Space for all of your things,” he flicked his fingers toward her trunk, “and what have you. Would you rather stay with me?”

“But what about the staff? Wouldn’t they think it . . .”—
indecent, shocking, scandalous
—“odd if your guest shared your room?”