“We do have a nice comfortable bed. But only one of them. You told the innkeeper that we were Mr. and Mrs. Smith. And now the other rooms are full so we can’t request two rooms.”
“Oh. There is that.”
“I’ll sleep in a chair.” Easiest thing in the world. He’d done it many times when he came home too drunk and nodded off at a table instead of in bed. It did put a crick in one’s neck to be sure, but the alternative was not to be entertained.
“Will you be comfortable?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s only one night.”
When the maid brought more hot water, he used a cloth and wiped the remainder of the blood from Sandrine’s hair. “The doctor said that you’d only have a small bruise.”
“On my temple, just here.” She touched her face.
“It’s already a fetching shade of mauve.”
She smiled. “You were so worried when I really didn’t hit my head hard at all.”
“I was thinking about what happened to my brother. Sandrine,” he said and dropped to his knees in front of the bed, “if anything had happened to you... I would never have forgiven myself.”
She cupped his cheek. “But it didn’t. Everything is rosy. Stop blaming yourself. I’m the one who forced you into giving me a ride in your curricle.” She laughed softly. “Miss Maples told me that there are dozens of ladies in London vying for the chance to risk their necks for a ride in your dashing new curricle. And I beat them all to it.”
She was the only young lady in London who made his heart thump so painfully. The only one he’d allow to touch his cheek, to give him that warm, caring look.
What was wrong with him?
He was so madly, deeply attracted to her. She smiled. She untied her bonnet strings. She quizzed innkeepers. And he wanted her. He wanted her all the time.
Everything about her. Not only the curves that had him perpetually aroused but her smile, her curiosity, the wide-eyed zest she had for new experiences.
He was tired of fighting this need. He was tired, full stop. And hungry. He’d been so desperately worried. He wasn’t thinking clearly.
He rose and busied himself with wringing out the cloth and preparing the table for their meal. She watched him as he worked with a half smile playing on her lips, as though she were fully aware that she’d slipped beneath his defenses and was going to take full advantage of it later.
Sleep. That’s all they would do tonight.
The food was simple fare that he ate quickly, avoiding her gaze. The mulled wine was on the sour side but did take the edge off the tension in his shoulders and neck.
Sandrine went behind the screen and emerged wearing only a thin white chemise, her hair tumbling in waves around her shoulders.
And there was the tension again, this time firmly centered in his groin.
She glanced at him before darting to the bed and snuggling under the covers. “Mmm,” she said with a yawn, stretching her arms. “Surprisingly comfortable. Are you sure you don’t want to join me?”
He’d never been less sure of anything in his life.
He wanted to peel those covers down her body and then lift that chemise over her head and then... No more mistakes. No more justifying bad choices with half-baked logic.
He dragged a chair to the fireplace with the back toward the bed and settled in without taking off any of his clothing or even his boots. He’d sit here all night in this hard chair, and he’d ignore the existence of the warm, snuggly, inviting woman in that bed.
His dream had come to pass. The wheel hadn’t fallen off, the road was washed out, and the horse had bolted from thunder, but the outcome was the same: only one bed.
Ha!
“What was that?”
He must have spoken aloud. “Nothing. I wasonly thinking about a dream I had when I first met you.”
“About torrential rain and blocked roads?”