Читать книгу Only Marriage Will Do - Jenna Jaxon - Страница 14

Intermittent rain had kept Amiable in the carriage, Juliet’s virtual prisoner, for most of the afternoon. After careful reflection on her revelations, he renewed his decision to distance himself from her. It should have been an easy enough task, even in close quarters. Their conversation touched on many topics but never returned to the personal. Fortunately, every three hours, horse changes at posting inns gave him a respite from her company.

Between these stops, however, he discovered Lady Juliet Ferrers proved adept at playing cards, esteemed herself a good watercolorist, but denied the ability to garden. When they halted for refreshments, she took her tea with plenty of sugar and milk but refused sweet cake. Her eyes were wide and warm, the golden brown color of autumn leaves, with long, thick, silky lashes.

That he had spent the better part of the past hour of their journey trying to pinpoint the exact shade appalled him. The implication made his stomach sink. His willpower to hold her at arm’s length had waned with the day.

By the time the carriage swept into the final inn of the day, a sprawling white stone building rising two stories, the sun had just begun to lower in a sky wreathed by gray thunderclouds. The spotty rain had turned the coach yard to a slimy muck.

“Oh, how wretched the ground looks, Amiable.” Juliet wrinkled her petite nose and frowned. “My pattens are in my luggage, I fear.”

With a laugh at her woebegone face, he swung out of the carriage and sank almost to his ankles in the mire. Damn. Nothing to laugh about here. It would be a tricky business to get the women into the inn without mishap. The single possible way would be to carry them. He motioned for Juliet.

She scrambled toward the open door.

Without warning, he swooped her into his arms, surprising a shriek out of her.

She grasped his neck.

“Glynis, stay in the carriage. I’ll come back for you.” He slipped and slithered through the mud, maneuvering as best he could with Juliet attached to him like a limpet. Her heartbeat hammered against his chest and his own pounded even louder because of her proximity. Spending most of the day in her company had softened him. Now, holding her close, breathing her subtle flowery fragrance, her soft body nestled close to him, his protective instincts warred with his unmistakable lust. He tightened his arms around her and she sent him a tentative smile then laid her head back on his shoulder. He concentrated on his footing.

At last, they arrived at the inn’s doorway. She slid down his front onto her feet, sending sudden heat coursing through him. Did she do that on purpose? Minx.

She clung to him for just a moment, her body pressed against his.

Sublime torture. “Stay right here, my dear, while I rescue yet another damsel in distress.” He slogged back toward the carriage and breathed easier.

Once there, he attempted to put his arms around the maid, but she proved more skittish than Juliet. When he finally coaxed her out of the carriage, Glynis lay straight and stiff in his arms. She kept her arms crossed over her chest so he had a much less secure grip, carrying her as he would a platter overburdened with a roast pig.

About midway to the inn door, a coach and six thundered into the yard, horses snorting, their hooves splashing mud.

The conveyance was nowhere near them, but Glynis let out a yelp of fright and tried to rise straight out of his arms.

He wobbled, tried to find his balance as she twisted in his arms. His feet skidded in the treacherous mud. Damnation. If he could compensate a little more.

Glynis threw her arms around his neck.

Too little too late. The next thing he knew, he lay flat on his back, Glynis sprawled on top of him, both of them plastered with mud. The maid had, of course, fared better, having used her rescuer as a cushion against both the fall and most of the sticky muck. Her clothes might be salvageable.

“Damn it to hell.” He wanted to curse the maid, horses, rain, mud, everything he could think of that had brought him to this pass. He raised his head. A disgusting sucking sound as it came away from the muck made him cringe.

Wide-eyed, Glynis stared into his face and tried to scramble backward off him.

“For God’s sake, stay where you are, woman. The whole point of this gallant gesture was to keep you from getting filthy. It will not be to my credit at all if I fail abysmally at this point.”

Juliet, hand clasped over her mouth, took a tentative step forward.

“Juliet, have you taken leave of your senses? Don’t you dare stir a step, lest you end up in the mud alongside us.”

She skittered back inside the inn, so at least she had some sense.

Meanwhile, Roberts calmly waded through the mire and plucked Glynis up from her muddy bower.

She latched onto him with the speed of a striking snake, and the two moved off toward the inn.

Amiable winced as he sat up, peeling his jacket away from the gummy ground. He rose to his feet and trudged toward the doorway, his clothes leaden.

Just inside the door, Juliet burst into giggles.

He glared at her as long as possible, though her merry peals were infectious. He must look ludicrous. A chuckle shook him then grew into whoops of laughter. “I’ll have you know, madam,” he said, gasping in a breath, “this jacket cost me almost half a month’s salary and now it won’t be fit for a dog to sleep on. Fortunately, the pants are leather and I hope can be cleaned. But my coat and waistcoat are ruined.” He grinned. “You will now have to go without new frocks until the loss can be redeemed.”

“Oh, Amiable.” At last, she stopped laughing and wiped her eyes. “I am so sorry, my dear. You looked so surprised, don’t you know?” She widened her eyes and opened her mouth in a big O, imitating his expression, which set her off laughing again. She even snorted once. Very unladylike, but utterly charming.

“A proper wife would ask if I were injured,” he said, trying to reclaim some dignity.

“But when have your ever wanted a proper wife?” She grinned at him, mischief in every line of her face.

“Now would perhaps be a good time to start, my dear.” He continued in a lower voice. “We can scarcely have announced our presence here any better than if we had shouted it from the roof of the coach or passed out handbills. I pray God St. Cyr does not pass this way.”

Juliet, sobered, glanced around the courtyard, and withdrew inside. She shot him a compassionate look and hurried toward the innkeeper. “Sir, my husband and I are in need of a room with a parlor and a bathtub as quickly as possible. A room for my maid, as well, if you please.”

The innkeeper smiled, whether at her distracted air or his own sorry appearance Amiable couldn’t tell. Didn’t care. All he wanted was to strip his blasted clothes off and sink into a hot bath.

“The Talbot’s hospitality is at your service, sir, madam. Will you require accommodations for your husband’s manservant as well?”

“No,” Amiable spoke up. “He did not accompany me on this journey.” He looked pointedly at his ruined clothes, threatening to drip dirty water onto the floor. “More’s the pity.”

Juliet gasped and turned a peculiar shade of scarlet.

Recalling the last time he’d used that particular phrase, he chuckled. “Come, Mrs. Dawson. We seem to have much work to do before either of us gets dinner.”

The innkeeper produced the required keys and led Juliet up the stairs. Amiable followed, wincing at the squish, squish each step brought.

The soothing blue room with the parlor proved spacious if not luxurious. The standard furnishings had seen better days but they were clean and well kept. The room itself faced the rear of the inn, assuring its occupants of a night without noises from the inn yard. Servants bustled about, bringing in their luggage, settling the bathtub next to the fireplace and laying a fire.

“Nuthatch, sir, at your service.” The innkeeper bobbed his head. “Terrible sorry you come to grief in the yard. A hot bath’ll set you to rights, though.” He peered critically at the room.

“I’ll send up your supper in short order. We’ve a nice French chicken, beans ragooed with potatoes, and my wife’s special seed cake.” He paused and Amiable gave a brief nod. Food, while welcome, didn’t warrant his immediate attention.

The proprietor smiled. “If there’s aught else you need…”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Nuthatch,” Juliet chimed in. “Would you please take my maid to her room? I must see to my husband before this mud dries solid.” She beamed at the innkeeper. Only a hard-hearted man could resist that winsome face. The man nodded and beckoned to the bespattered Glynis to follow him.

“Georgie.” Nuthatch called over his shoulder.

A boy of about ten, who had just dumped steaming water into the tub, looked up. “Bring two pitchers of hot water to the last room on the right, then. And be quick about it.”

“Aye, Da.” The scamp bolted past his father, his footsteps echoing as he thumped down the steps.

Glynis flashed her host a grateful glance and followed him out the door.

The sudden silence seemed to emphasize that he and Juliet were alone for the first time since last night. This could spell trouble. Her intense gaze drew him toward her, the air fairly crackling with the current that ran between them. He opened his mouth to speak and took a step toward her. His boot squished, breaking the silence and the mood. He winced. His boots likely were ruined, as well.

Juliet sniggered and moved to the tub. She dipped her hand in and swished the bathwater. “You had best hurry your bath, my dear, before the water is too cold to do you any good at all.” She sounded too wifely for his taste. How far would she take this charade? Her pert little smile didn’t tell him if she had mischief on her mind or not, but he intended to find out.

“Your wish is, as always, my command, sweetheart.”

She blushed and the devil flew into him. “Will you give me a hand with this jacket? I fear I will make a mess no matter how I try to extricate myself.” He held his arms stiffly out, as he would for Edward.

Juliet stepped toward him then secured one of the linen drying cloths the inn had provided. She lay this on the floor behind him. “This should catch most of the mess.”

“Clever girl.”

She maneuvered behind him; grasped the shoulders of the coat; and pulled with short, brisk strokes. The saturated garment resisted, but she eased first one side, then the other until the coat dropped onto the cloth. She bent and wiped her hands on it as well.

Amiable turned, appreciating the unexpected but fine show of bosom as she bent over. “And the waistcoat, Juliet?” He unbuttoned it and moved his arms again into position.

The waistcoat came away in her hands, leaving Amiable clad in a spattered shirt, mud-encrusted breeches, and boots so caked with filth he’d be hard-pressed to name their original color. He turned just in time to see her scraping at the front of the silver waistcoat.

“This garment might actually be salvageable.” She laid it carefully to the side.

“Trying to retain some hope of a new frock?”

She shook her head. “Trying to be the best and most frugal wife imaginable, sir.” Her eyes reflected the warmth in her voice.

“I think those two qualities are mutually exclusive, don’t you?” Danger lurked in this exchange, but Lord he couldn’t stop himself any more than a moth could ignore a flame. “Do you think you can you help me off with my boots? There are times when a manservant is indispensable, and as you say, the water is getting colder by the minute.” He grasped the bedpost and held out his foot.

“Of course.” She bent to grasp the first boot, then stopped. “Wait.” She picked up his coat from the towel, turned it inside out, and wrapped the soiled side around his boot.

He groaned, his stomach sinking at the sight of his favorite jacket reduced to a rag.

At the sound, she looked up. “Well, you said it was ruined, Amiable.”

He fixed her with a hard stare. “You are not too big for me to turn over my knee, Juliet.”

She laughed and tossed her head then with a slight twist of her hands the boot fell to the floor with a plop.”

He goggled at her. “How did you learn to do that? Even Edwards cannot remove those boots so quickly.”

Juliet shrugged. “When we were young, Duncan used to tease me, saying a wife should know how to please her husband in all ways, even how to remove his boots.” Her chuckle turned into a throaty growl, setting his blood on fire. “I have only ever practiced on his boots, until now.” In an instant, the other boot lay in her hands, and she placed it beside its mate.

“You have amazing talents, my dear. I’ve never been tended this well.” He kept his eyes on the floor as he pulled his shirt out of his breeches. If he moved with caution, perhaps he wouldn’t sling more mud on the floor.

“I fear poor Edwards will not thank me for spoiling you. Here, let me help you. Hold your shirt up.”

He did so and stopped, shocked that she stood so close to him. Close enough for him to mark the dark ring around the outer rim of her brown irises. With growing alarm, he dropped his gaze to her hands as she reached for the first button of his breeches.