For the Love of Lila (6 page)

“I didn’t mean to—” He tried to frame an apology but couldn’t do so without making an improper reference. Hoping he hadn’t hurt her and praying she didn’t suspect him of purposely taking advantage, he opted to feign ignorance of his offense. As they watched a groom emerge from the stables and sprint toward them, he stood and whispered, “Now, remember that you are male. We agreed that I should do most of the talking, right?”

“Right-o.” A quiver in her voice belied the aplomb of her answer.

The stablehand, a boy of about fifteen, introduced himself as son of the proprietor. His open manner contrasted with his seemingly mysterious dark eyes and gypsy-like features. He assured them the axle could be repaired on site and that the inn still had vacancies.

“Need help wit’ the guv’nor’s things?” he asked Miss Covington, clearly taking her for a servant.

Her eyes widened, but she recovered herself quickly. “No, thank you,” she said in a gruff tone, her cultivated accent pealing through like a church bell.

“Is it safe to leave most of our belongings in the carriage?” Tristan asked to distract the young man. “We have nothing very valuable with us.”

“Not to worry, sir.” His gaze hung with Miss Covington for a second before moving to Tristan. “We always have a hand on guard in the stables. And we can put that lame axle to rights fer you as well. I daresay we’ll have ‘er fixed fer the morrow. Why don’t you move on inside? I’ll round up some hands to move yer gig and tend yer horses.”

“I would appreciate that.” Tristan reached in his pocket and found compensation for the boy’s efforts. As the lad thanked him and ran off, he opened the door to the barouche and pulled out his valise. Trying not to indulge his anxiety about the scene to come, he asked over his shoulder, “Which of these will you need tonight, Miss Covington? I suggest we leave all that is not absolutely necessary behind.”

She nodded and pointed to the smaller of her portmanteaux. “Only that one, please.”

He retrieved the case and handed it to her, glad it was light enough for her to handle with ease. “You had best take this inside yourself. It will look odd if I carry everything.”

“Definitely.” She took the bag, her complexion now pale. Pulling her cap down low on her brow, she dashed through the rain toward the inn.

Her obvious rise of apprehension did nothing to subdue his. He ran after her and cut in front before they entered the inn. Directly within, they were greeted by the innkeeper, a swarthy middle-aged man, and his wife, a plump and fair-haired matron.

“Yer in luck,” the man announced. “We’ve one very good room left. Will ye be sharin’ with your...uh—”

“Valet,” Tristan said and frowned at his choice of deception. Valets were usually crusty old codgers, not green boys. Why hadn’t he planned how to handle this beforehand? “We shall require separate quarters.”

The innkeeper frowned toward Miss Covington and looked back to Tristan. “Damn my eyes, if he ain’t the youngest valet I ever seen. Good thing, though. We’ve only the one room left, but I reckon your valet can bed down with me own boy. They’re of an age and Ian wouldn’t mind a bedfellow, would he, May?”

He looked to his wife, who scrutinized Miss Covington with cool blue eyes.

“Oh, I daresay he wouldn’t mind this bedfellow.” Her gaze shifted to lock with Tristan’s, and his stomach twisted hard.

She knew.

The woman lifted ash blond eyebrows at him. “Of course, if you’d like to keep your
valet
with you, there is a trundle bed in the room. The chamber is a large one.”

A clap of thunder roared outside, and rain slapped against the door behind them. Tristan didn’t dare look at Miss Covington and didn’t bother inquiring about other inns in the area. He knew that in this stretch of countryside, lodgings would be a rarity. Vocal cords tightening, he said, “I would prefer to keep him with me. The, uh, trundle will be fine.”

She nodded, pursing her lips. “I reckoned as much. Well, me husband will show ye up. We’re done serving supper, but I can send some stew up to ye. I daresay the pot is still bubbling.”

He nodded and fumbled for money to prepay their shot—anything to lessen the time they would be here in the morning.

While the innkeeper showed them to the room, he could feel Miss Covington’s gaze boring into him, for once sharp with emotion. Was she angry at him? She had to know he’d had no choice but to accept the chamber without hesitation. Afraid, perhaps? Was it possible she might not realize he had no intention of actually
sleeping
in the room with her?

As soon as they entered, he practically shut the door in the innkeeper’s face. Grappling with the door latch, he said, “I shall sleep in the stables, of course. If the carriage is repaired early, perhaps I can move into that.”

He got the latch hooked and turned to find her inspecting the chamber, a surprisingly commodious and well maintained room. Her profile gave him no hint to her temper.

She leaned over a trundle bed in the far corner and dragged it away from the wall. Turning down a thick coverlet and examining the sheets, she asked, “How do you propose to explain to the stablehands why your valet is to sleep in comfort while you are exposed to the elements?”

Angry
. He should have known fear wouldn’t be her style. The valet fabrication
had
been stupid of him, but hindsight was pointless. “Perhaps we can say that you’re ill...”

At last she met his gaze, her brows raised. “Shall we tell them I suffer from a putrid fever—cholera, perhaps? For you to sleep in the carriage I should have to be quite indisposed, don’t you think? And don’t you think such a story will get us both thrown out into the rain?”

He stood mute, a brew of mixed sentiments simmering under his collar. She had no right to be vexed. His lie had been poor but necessitated only by
her
poor disguise. Meanwhile, he was putting his entire future at stake for her.

The sole thing that kept him from venting his ire was a consciousness of what he owed her father’s memory. Hell, if not for Sir Francis’ encouragement, he might never have formed his political aspirations. An image surfaced in his mind of what the baronet would think if he could see his daughter now, trapped for the night in a thoroughly compromising position. He would turn over in his grave—and Tristan had facilitated the whole mess.

Miss Covington sighed and sat down on the cot. Just as he was about to apologize, she said, “Pray forgive me. I am a bit overset by the circumstances, but ‘tis only on my account that we’re in this predicament.”

“No,” he said. “I entered this plan willingly, despite having been about in the world more than you and having a better understanding of the risks. I ought to have known better. I should have come up with another, more practical—”

“Don’t be daft. You have done far more than anyone could expect of you.” She looked down at the coverlet, running a hand over the linen. “You know, for a trundle, this feels almost comfortable. I would be happy to sleep here myself, but I gather that you will insist I take the...the bed.”

Her tone wavered on the last words, and she wouldn’t look up at him. She
was
afraid after all, and rightly so, considering it seemed they must share the room. Yet she had resigned herself to accept the arrangement, a fact that astounded him.

While he stood scouring his mind for another possibility, she got up and walked to the bed, turning down the counterpane. She murmured something to herself, the pounding rain drowning out all but the words “no alternative.”

A burst of thunder exploded outside, and they both jumped.
No alternative
. She was right. He could think of nothing. He swallowed hard. “I promise I will not...”

His throat closed around the rest of the sentence.

“I know.” Her voice sounded tight as well. “You needn’t say more. In fact, perhaps the less said about this, the better. We can only mortify ourselves further.”

Another crash of thunder made her start again. She chafed her arms and, beneath her rolled-up shirtsleeves, he saw that gooseflesh had risen on her skin. She finally met his gaze, wringing out a thin smile. “We could be in a worse predicament, I suppose. Had we been caught driving in this, our lives would have been at risk, not simply our composure.”

Composure
. Interesting that she’d chosen that word rather than
reputation
or
virtue
. His composure was indeed shredded. He focused on the rest of her statement, the significant part. “We are safe here. Let me assure you that
you
are safe, Miss Covington.”

She kept her gaze on him but turned slightly, observing him from the side, obviously wary. He would never take advantage of her, but she had no way of knowing so for sure. Perhaps now she had come to regret their bargain to travel together. Indeed, she must have
longed
to trade her clinging breeches for a modest gown. He wished she could, too. A few yards of billowing fabric might have helped clear his head of the sensual speculations he struggled to fend off.

He opened his mouth to offer more assurance, but what good would more words do? She’d been right to suggest the subject be dropped.

Setting down his bag, he rubbed his palms together. “I believe I shall go down to the taproom for a drink. That will give you a few moments of privacy. I will tell the staff to hold our stew until I come back up to join you—a half-hour, shall we say? Longer, perhaps?”

Another clap of thunder sounded, and she glanced toward the window, her face pale. “A half-hour will be enough, thank you.”

He felt an instinctive drive to stay and comfort her. Ludicrous! His presence was the very source of her unease. Instead, he mumbled a goodbye and grappled to unlock the door.

Once in the hall, he strode away from the room, combing a hand through his damp hair. Good Lord, this would be an unbearable night, perhaps as uncomfortable as sleeping in the stables would have been, though in quite a different way. He would tarry in the taproom as long as possible. Some good hard cider might help ease his nerves before bed.

Bed!
His mind flashed an image of Lila Covington climbing into the bed upstairs, dressed in a sheer nightrail, her black hair cascading down her back. He shook his head fiercely. If he didn’t halt such images from the start, he’d be plagued with them all night.

He trudged into the taproom, frowning deeply. If he got a wink of sleep that night, he would count himself fortunate.

CHAPTER FIVE

Lila stared into the dark, listening to rain beat on the window above the headboard. She would be lucky if she got a wink of sleep all night. Electrical storms always unnerved her, and tonight she had double cause for insomnia. Even during breaks in the weather, she had been agitated by an awareness of Mr. Wyndam’s presence. She had tried to compose herself by reviewing all the grounds she had not to be afraid of him. For goodness’ sake, he had been sound asleep for hours. Eventually, she’d had to acknowledge that fear of him must not be her problem. What unsettled her was her attraction to him.

From the direction of the trundle bed, she heard a soft snore, barely audible under the noise of the storm. To sleep through the last few claps of thunder, he must have been very tired indeed, though the cider he had quaffed downstairs had likely helped. His “half-hour” in the taproom had turned into two hours, and she hadn’t needed to ask why. Clearly, he had been doing all he could to limit their time alone together in the room. Unlike her, he hadn’t allowed the idea to titillate him. She envied his consistency in keeping to the path of discretion.

Then again, on occasion he might do well to reroute. He seemed to think the world revolved around his father’s values. Well, perhaps it did—but it shouldn’t have.

The wind howled, and a pocket of hard rain splattered against the panes. She shivered, despite the warmth of the counterpane, and shrunk deeper into the feather mattress. She hated waiting out this sort of storm alone. If only Mr. Wyndam were awake, she would have company to help occupy her mind.

Lightning flashed, and she winced in time with the thunder that blasted on its heels, the closest strike she had yet heard. Maybe now he would wake up.

No, below the pounding downpour, she heard another quiet snore. How on earth did he manage to sleep? But he had driven all day, while she had spent the morning dozing. She was selfish to wish him awake. He needed his rest.

Another shock of lightning glared, and a deafening crack sounded almost simultaneously.

She sat up and scooted toward the foot of the bed, away from the window.
Lord, that was close.
Had it taken down a tree in the yard?

Pulling the counterpane around her shoulders, she peered toward the trundle bed. A white flash lit up the barrister’s motionless figure before the dark swallowed him again with an accompanying rumble. At least that one hadn’t been as near as the last. Perhaps the worst had passed.

The fire in the hearth had died, so she stayed put, bundled in her blanket. After a few minutes, she decided to light a candle. That way she wouldn’t have to wait blindly between those horrid flashes.

She slid out of bed and stood on the cold wooden floor, inching toward the nightstand where Mr. Wyndam had left the candle. The room was pitch-black, and she moved in a stooped posture, her hands stretched out before her to prevent a collision with the furnishings.

Her right hand met with something warm—fabric over hard muscle. She snatched her arm back just as a bolt of lightning revealed she had felt Mr. Wyndam’s shin, covered only by a sheet. The room went dark, and a rustling came from his direction as she stood still, fancying she could feel her chilled fingers thawing from the scant bit of contact.

Foolish! She didn’t know whether to hope she hadn’t disturbed him or had. Then she heard his breathing again, not snoring, but the even respiration of sleep. Had the rain grown quieter? It must have, as she could also hear her own heart thumping.

She located the candle and tinderbox by touch and, after a minor struggle, succeeded in lighting the wick. Rather than providing a reassuring illumination, the flickering flame invoked ghostly shadows in every corner of the room. As she picked up the candleholder to take it back to bed, she glanced toward Mr. Wyndam. He lay on his back, his face turned away from her. She found herself pausing, even leaning a little closer to the trundle bed, a tingle rising up her spine.