Мэри Бэлоу: Someone to Romance

“Tell me that is warm water in the pitcher, Ruth,” she said.

“It is, my lady,” her maid assured her after cupping her hands about the water jug.

Of course it was. Why had she even asked? Mr. Goddard would have seen to it before coming to escort her inside.

Two

Gabriel Thorne waited for the newly arrived guest to disappear up the stairs with her minions and move out of hearing before he spoke again.

She was Lady Jessica Archer, daughter of the late Duke of Netherby, sister of the present duke. She was exquisitely lovely and expensively clothed in what was no doubt the very height of female fashion. She was almost without doubt rich, privileged, pampered, entitled, and arrogant. She was surely accustomed to getting her way on any and all issues with the mere lifting of a finger. Everyone in her sphere would scurry about to satisfy her every whim. She had been delayed in her journey, the landlord had informed him. That must surely have provoked some temper. She had been forced to stop for the night well short of her planned destination—almost certainly an inn or a hotel far superior in quality to this one, though this was no hovel. And, having arrived at a substitute stopping place, she had made the inconvenient discovery that it boasted only one private parlor— which was already taken .

Such a fact would not disconcert Lady Jessica Archer for one moment, of course. She would merely have her majordomo oust the guest already in occupation of the room and install herself there instead. The fact that she would be inconveniencing that guest would not have crossed her mind—any more than would the possibility that he might refuse to go.

He was very tempted to do just that.

It was fortunate for him, perhaps, that according to his usual custom he had taken a room overlooking the innyard so that he could more easily keep an eye on his horses. The best rooms, the ones she would demand, would be at the front of the inn. If there had been no such thing as a private parlor, she would probably have demanded that the dining room be appropriated for her exclusive use while all other guests would be forced to eat in discomfort in their rooms.

Oh, it was probably unfair of him to judge the woman on such little evidence and no acquaintance. It was unfair to be hugely irritated by her and take an instant dislike to her. It was also virtually impossible not to do either. Even her “Thank you” had been spoken with the sort of frigid condescension that made it meaningless.

His irritation, even anger, had taken him by surprise. For really, what had provoked it had been slight. Perhaps the real cause of his annoyance was being back in England. He had forgotten what English ladies could be like. He had forgotten how obsequious the lesser classes could be when dealing with the upper classes, especially the aristocracy. The landlord had infuriated him. So had his understanding that really, the man had had no choice. He was regretting coming. Though he had had little choice beyond turning his back upon someone he loved.

“You will move out of the parlor, then, sir?” the landlord asked, his voice still anxious. “I shall reserve the best table in the dining room for you, the one between the fireplace and the window. And your dinner and all the ale and spirits you care to drink will be free of charge tonight. I will refund your payment for the private parlor in its entirety, even though you have had the use of it for the past couple of hours.”

“Yes, you will,” Gabriel said, his tone clipped.

The landlord visibly relaxed despite the curtness with which Gabriel had spoken. “It is very generous of you, sir, even though—” The rest of the sentence died on his lips when Gabriel fixed him with a steady gaze.

“Yes,” Gabriel said. “It is.”

For he could have contested the issue. Was there not some saying that possession is nine-tenths of the law? He would almost have enjoyed confronting that superior-looking majordomo. Unfortunately, he possessed an innate sense of courtesy that told him a lady who was traveling alone, except for her servants, really ought to be allowed the privacy of a parlor. Even a cold and arrogant lady.

He made his way up to his room, where he placed a folded handkerchief between the pages of his book to hold his place.

Lady Jessica Archer. Sister of the Duke of Netherby. In all probability she was on her way to London. Easter was over and the spring Season must already be heating up with all its myriad balls and soirees and garden parties and other fancy entertainments. The great marriage mart. He wondered why she was still unmarried. She was no tender young girl. If she were, she would hardly be on the road with only a majordomo and a maid for protection.

But even as he held that thought he wandered to the window of his room to look down upon the innyard. He smiled and shook his head in amused disbelief as he witnessed all the bustle. There were two grand carriages, one of them with a crest—the ducal crest?—emblazoned boldly upon the door that was visible to him. A third, somewhat more humble conveyance—though it was merely a relative point—must belong to the group too, since Gabriel was not aware of any other arrival within the past hour. The yard was teeming with large men, all clad in the same gaudy livery. The cavalcade must look like a traveling circus when it was strung out along the road.

Lady Jessica Archer had more than a majordomo and a maid for protection, then. She was as well guarded as a queen. She was a precious commodity. And she had all the accompanying haughtiness one might expect of such a woman. The inclination of her head when she had said thank you had spoken volumes about a life of aristocratic privilege and entitlement. He might have been a worm as easily as a man under one of those fine kid leather shoes.

How shockingly indiscreet it had been of the landlord to reveal her full identity in order to persuade him to give up the private parlor for which he had paid. If the man had only realized it, Gabriel would have been far more willing to relinquish it to a Miss Nobody-in-Particular than to the privileged daughter of a duke. It was what came of having spent the last thirteen of his thirty-two years in America, he supposed.

Lady Jessica Archer.

Sister of a duke.

Arrogant. Entitled. Unlikable, at least upon first encounter.

But . . .

But considered another way, she was perhaps perfect.

So perfect that he might marry her.

He chuckled aloud at the absurdity of the thought.

It felt strange, unfamiliar, to be back in England. Of course, he had been gone all his adult life—since he was nineteen, in fact. But he liked America and had had no intention until recently of leaving it. When he had arrived in Boston, using his mother’s maiden name of Thorne, he had had no more than the clothes on his back, one small bag, and only enough money to pay for room and board for a couple of weeks if he found somewhere cheap. He had called upon Cyrus Thorne, a widowed cousin of his mother, and the man had given him employment as a junior clerk in one of his warehouses and a dark little room in the cellar of his home in which to sleep. From those lowly beginnings Gabriel had proved his worth and risen to become his cousin’s right-hand man by the time he was twenty-five. He had also been moved upstairs to a spacious room of his own. Most important, Cyrus had officially adopted him as a son since his marriage had produced no children before his wife died. Gabriel’s name had been legally changed to Thorne, and he had become the official heir to everything Cyrus possessed.

It had been a dizzying rise in fortune, but Gabriel had given hard work and gratitude in return, and affection too. He had come to understand why Cyrus had been a great favorite of his mother and why her heart had been broken when he had decided to go to America to seek his fortune. Gabriel’s father had told him about that. His mother had died giving birth to his stillborn sister. And Cyrus had had fond memories of her too.