No Groom at the Inn: A Dukes Behaving Badly Novella (4 page)

Gyrovague:

1. Loss of freedoms.

2. One of those monks who were in the habit of wandering from monastery to monastery.

3. The outside circle of a compass.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

“T
oday we thought the young people in the company would take the carriages and visit the abbey. It remains as it was when Henry II reigned, and I am certain Mr. Archer and my own dear girl will find plenty to admire.” Mrs. Green issued her words like a proclamation, leaving no possibility of declining. “As well as the rest of the party,” she added, even though it sounded as if “the rest of the party” was an afterthought to Mr. Archer and her own dear girl.

Sophronia looked to where Mr. Archer—James—sat at the breakfast table, a bleary look on his face as though he were still sleeping. Perhaps he did not like the mornings as she did—she found she did her best thinking at that time, much to her night-owl father’s chagrin.

She felt her lips curve into a smile as she recalled just how many times he wanted to discuss some new discovery he’d made after a long evening of reading, only to get exasperated because she was so tired.

“Something amusing, my dear?” He was so observant, even when looking as though he were still lying in bed, the covers tangled about his—

Oh, no. Now she was thinking about his torso. Who knew the study of anatomy was so fascinating to her?

“Nothing in particular, my dear,” she replied, stressing the last two words. He grinned back at her, his eyes lighting up with a shared amusement.

He was altogether too charming, even when half-asleep. Especially when half-asleep.

“The visit to the abbey sounds delightful, Mrs. Green,” Jamie said, turning to speak to their hostess. “My Sophy was just saying the other day that she hadn’t visited enough ancient abbeys in her lifetime.” He spoke without a hint of amusement in his voice, as though he were entirely serious.

How did he do that? Sophronia had to bite her lip to keep from giggling, and meanwhile, he had an entirely serious mien.

And yet—and yet when she met his gaze he winked at her, which just made her want to laugh and smack him at the same time.

Or do something else entirely.

Oh, dear. She had known him for no more than a few days, and she was already entranced by his charm. Not really a surprise, given how charming in general he was. But dangerous—her father had been equally charming, albeit in an entirely different way, and she couldn’t trust charm like that. What was it hiding? The inability to plan ahead? A need to do what one wanted—read books or travel to exotic lands—rather than taking care of one’s responsibilities?

Rather than choose to live a compromised life?

Fine. She could admire him, even find him charming, but she could not trust him. In the time she’d known him, he’d come up with an elaborate ruse to avoid matrimony, risked discovery by teasing her, and nearly made her give herself away through laughter.

Although she could admire him, as she’d said, and she most definitely did that. She hadn’t known before that a gentleman’s appearance could have such a—
visceral
effect on her, even though that was likely entirely the wrong word.

Sorry, Father.

Disturbing. Enchanting.
Beguiling
. He was fascinating, and she teased herself now with the thought that perhaps it would not be so bad to allow herself some harmless fun and flirtation while she was inhabiting this disguise.

It would be entirely expected, would it not? After all, a distant betrothed would be seen as even less of an impediment to a marriage-minded miss (or her mother) than one who was constantly hanging around her beloved.

So she would constantly hang around him, if only to satisfy their bargain, and to ensure he wasn’t trapped by someone else while they were here.

It would be a lovely Christmas present to give herself, something she hadn’t even known she wanted, but now she knew about it, it was all she could think about.

Thus settled, Sophronia listened as Mrs. Green laid out the very exact details of their day.

M
ornings, Jamie invariably found, came far too early. Especially when one’s hostess insisted on speaking very stridently before one had had one’s full complement of coffee.

He’d discovered the beverage while traveling in Turkey, and while English people didn’t make the drink with as much ferocity as the Turks did, he found it essential to his ability to remain awake during the first few hours of the day.

“Did you sleep well, Jamie?” His mother patted his hand as she spoke, and he covered it with his own in an almost unconscious gesture. It had always been this way—her worrying about him even though she usually had no resources to solve what might have been bothering him, and often exacerbating the problem.

Such as arranging his presence at a house party with a veritable cricket team’s worth of eligible young ladies. His gaze darted to his betrothed, looking alert and untroubled at the other side of the breakfast table, her entire self exuding a quiet composure that settled him, somehow. Quieted his restless spirit.

She truly was lovely. He didn’t think he would call her beautiful, necessarily, and “pretty” was far too mundane a word for how she glowed. She was striking, like a lush tree standing by itself in the middle of a green field. At the moment, all of her attention appeared to be on her breakfast, her gaze lowered to the plate in front of her, so he could look at her as much as he liked.

And he found he liked to. The viscountess’s daughter, seated beside her, was pretty, definitely, but her looks seemed immature and insignificant when compared with Sophronia’s. Even Mrs. Green’s pleasant—and intelligent enough—daughter seemed less by comparison.

Sophronia, his betrothed, was a woman, a strong, smart, capable woman. One who quaffed ale in a public house as easily as she did tea in a gentleman’s breakfast room. One who spoke of her childhood with a quiet solemnity, who found a way to soothe him through their common experience.

That was far more alluring than the most beautiful girl.

He was very much looking forward to his self-prescribed Christmas gift, and he hoped it wouldn’t take him too long to receive it.

“I slept well enough, Mother,” Jamie replied at last. It was only while sleeping, actually, he found he could remain still for longer than a few moments.

Being unconscious would do that to a person.

“Mrs. Green, may I compliment you on the softness of your pillows?” Jamie said, taking the last swallow of coffee and gesturing to the footman to refill his cup. “I have slept in some remarkably unpleasant places, and it is a treat to sleep in a proper English bed.” He paused, then something entirely wicked within him made him add, “I only wish I’d had someone with whom to revel in the comfort.”

Sophronia had just taken a bite of something, but choked at his words, a whoosh of crumbs flying up from her plate as she coughed. She raised her head and glared at him, as much as saying, “how dare you,” and he wanted to laugh aloud.

It was entirely too much fun to irk her, to watch the pink flow into her cheeks as he ruffled her feathers.

“I order the bedding from a fine establishment in London,” Mrs. Green replied, apparently ignoring both Jamie’s words and the fact that her guest was choking on one of her breakfast offerings. “I do find that English goods are so much better than foreign ones, don’t you?”

Mrs. Green, Jamie decided at that moment, was an actively obnoxious person. It was as though she were setting out to be deliberately unpleasant. Or at the very least, exceedingly protective of her own country’s goods. “Mrs. Green, I am not certain I can agree with you,” Jamie replied. “After all, my vocation is the purchasing of items outside of England that British people are desirous of.” He spread his hands. “If I did not believe that things outside of our fine country were valuable, I would be wasting my own time, wouldn’t I?”

Mrs. Green’s mouth pursed, and her expression faltered, as though she was warring within herself to argue with him because she didn’t agree with him, or allow the point to pass, because she still had hopes for her daughter, regardless of Sophronia’s presence.

She chose the latter course, and he had to say at least she was stubborn, as well. “Perhaps, Mr. Archer, that is so.”

Jamie glanced over at Sophronia, who had gotten her breathing under control, and met her gaze, feeling the reassuring warmth of her understanding practically radiating out from her.

There was something so addictive about that comfort, something he’d never experienced in another person’s presence in his entire life.

With certain objects, yes—there was a carved statue of some ancient god or another he’d found while in Africa, and he’d kept the statue for longer than he normally would because of how he felt when he looked at it.

He had felt it almost like a tangible loss when he’d finally let it go, but he didn’t want to be encumbered by anything—not an object, or a person, or anything that could tie him down, make him stay still for longer than a few moments.

Or two to three weeks, depending on the circumstances.

It felt as though he had the statue back in his possession, in fact, because of the way he felt when he looked at her. Knowing she understood, at least partially, some of what he was going through, what he was enduring in this enforced holiday.

Speaking of which, at least he was being given opportunities to explore, to move, to see things that would engage his interest.

Well, things that were in addition to the thing—the person—most engaging his interest, his pretend betrothed. Whom he didn’t have to pretend to find entirely engaging.

Queem:

1. The first bud of a flower; more generally, the first indication of Spring; behold, the queem of Spring.

2. Pleasure, satisfaction. Chiefly in to (a person’s) queem: so as to be satisfactory; to a person’s liking or satisfaction. To take to queem: to accept.

3. To consider oneself higher than another; conscious of one’s position in life.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

“I
didn’t expect this.” James spoke in a different tone of voice than any Sophronia had heard before; he sounded almost reverent as he gazed around the small chapel in the abbey.

He had insisted she sit beside him in the carriage, and she’d been acutely conscious of his body—those legs she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about—just next to hers, his large hands clasped on his knees, the scent of him seeming to seep into her skin.

Miss Green and the viscountess’s daughter also joined them, sitting opposite. When not guided by her mother, Miss Green was a very pleasant conversationalist, if shy. The viscountess’s daughter was much more talkative, and most of her talk revolved around what people thought of her—namely, that she was the most lovely girl in the room at any moment.

Sophronia spent a few joyful moments pondering what it would be like if Mrs. Archer and the viscountess’s daughter were left alone in a room together, neither showing much ability to listen to another person.

But that was mean to Mrs. Archer, who was likely just lonely. It sounded as though James was away far more often than he was here, and it was clear her life revolved around her son, and the vast amount of concern and love she had for him.

Sophronia promised herself she would spend some more time with Mrs. Archer. That is, before the holiday was over and James killed her off in some horrific way.

Wouldn’t that be more upsetting to Mrs. Archer than to have him just tell her he did not wish to be married?

Although telling her would be to confront his problem head-on, and she had the feeling he was unaccustomed to that, being far more used to using his vast amount of charm to wriggle out of a situation.

Like her father. Another reminder to keep her guard up.

“Look, here,” James said, startling her out of her thoughts. He had taken her hand and was leading her to a dark corner of the chapel. A table was placed there, several items gleaming dully in the darkness on its surface.

He paused before the table and dropped her hand, reaching out to lift up one of the items. A large vessel, it appeared to be, with whorled edges and a wide lip.

“What is that?” Sophronia asked, interested in spite of herself. There was something so contagious in his manner, in how he held the vessel with a near reverence but still caressed its curves.

Sophronia felt her eyes roll at herself as the imagery made her think of things she should absolutely not be thinking of, in a chapel, no less.

“It is a pitcher,” he said in a less reverent voice.

Sophronia uttered a snort, surprised by the mundane plainness of his words. “So nothing special? A goblet for holy wine or an offering of flowers to pagan gods or something?”

“I didn’t say that,” he replied, setting the pitcher back on the table. His movement was graceful and cautious, revealing his attitude toward the pitcher and whatever it might be. “It was used by the people who worshipped here. To serve their water, or wine, or whatever they were drinking, during celebrations.” He turned to look at her, his eyes riveting in his handsome face. “Just imagine what it was like to be here, all that faith and love and family in one room. Maybe they were honoring a fallen family member, or celebrating a successful harvest or something. Like when we celebrate the holidays. And they’d be sharing the feelings and also sharing something to drink, something to sustain them. Something to bond them in this time of togetherness.”

She felt shaky as she met his gaze. “That is—that is amazing,” she said, speaking of how he’d described things, the moment in this room a few hundred years ago, rather than the pitcher itself. “No wonder you are so successful in your work.”

He smiled, but it was a rueful smile, one tempered by some sort of—loss? Longing? “I used to wish I could have lived back in those times, where one remained in one place for one’s entire life. Not to have the opportunity to travel, unless it was to wage war, and I certainly did not wish to do that. To be constrained by circumstances rather than open to opportunity.”

She stepped forward and touched his arm. “Why?”

He shook his head, not meeting her gaze, looking at the ground. “It seems I’ve always wished to belong somewhere, even though I chafe against it.” He raised his head and looked into her eyes. She felt the force of that blue stare all the way through to her feet. He was charming, and unreliable, and was even now telling her he would never settle down, never live up to his responsibilities.

And yet she wanted to savor him in this moment, in these few weeks they had together during their pretense.

She stepped forward again, not even knowing what she was planning, only fairly certain of what she was about to do.

“Lady Sophronia,” Miss Green called from the back of the chapel, “and Mr. Archer, do come look at this marvelous triptych.” And just like that, the moment was gone, and whatever she’d thought about doing was swept away by the duty of going to view a triptych, which sounded nearly as indecipherable as whatever hieroglyphics were.

But the fragment of the emotion she’d felt radiating from him—that feeling of wanting something, of yearning, remained, and she was left with the desire to help him. Or if she were to be entirely honest with herself, she was left with the desire for him. She recognized the inherent loneliness in him—she had it herself—and she knew, with even more resolution, that it wouldn’t do any harm for them to assuage their loneliness together, if only for a few weeks.

That, more than mild flirtation or even a stolen kiss or two, would be her gift to him. He deserved it, especially since soon enough he would be rid of her and back to his nomadic ways.

J
amie cursed Miss Green’s interest, at least at that very moment. He had gotten good at discerning when a lady was about to do something less than circumspect, and he’d seen the determination in Sophy’s eyes as she regarded him. The determination and the desire, along with perhaps a spark of mischief.

That definitely intrigued him. He wouldn’t have said, upon first meeting her, that she had a mischievous spark. She had too much of her goddess mien on display, which of course made sense since when they first met he’d proposed. Falsely.

But now that he’d spent some time in her company, he’d glimpsed things about her he wondered if she even knew about herself—that she had a sense of humor, that she was capable of deception, but even more, that she was an understanding soul, someone who seemed to sympathize with his situation, though he knew full well he could be derided for it—after all, what relatively young man wouldn’t want to be the focus of female attention, especially when the females were all just as young, comely, and had their respective attractions? If it weren’t him in the situation, he would mock the man who bemoaned that particular fate.

But not her. She’d gauged the situation and offered acceptance, and assistance, and even, he thought, a sense of commonality, though he had no idea what her own difficult position was.

Except that of course there must be one, or else he wouldn’t have found her in a coaching inn drinking ale on her way . . . somewhere, with no family and no objection, after the usual reasonable ones, to embarking on this charade with him.

He wanted to know more about her, about why she had family, but had decided not to be with them, but had instead taken a great leap of faith in agreeing to their bargain; but he was also keenly aware that the more he knew, the more entangled he would become. He couldn’t afford entanglements, at least not emotionally. He could afford them literally, which was why he was willing to give her so much for just a few weeks of her time.

But the cost of an emotional entanglement—that was far more than he was willing to pay. Which made her understanding and sympathy even more dangerous to his piece of mind.

But meanwhile, he couldn’t resist the urge to find out more about her. To give in to the pull he felt to be with her, to see what it would be like to kiss a goddess.

He would just have to stay on his guard, which he’d been doing his whole life.

“What have you found, then, Miss Green?” he asked, following Sophy as she headed toward the back of the chapel. He’d found a treasure, he thought, and not just the pitcher on the table—a treasure he could keep for just a bit, just long enough to soak in its warmth, and feel the calming stillness, if only for a moment.