She had his full attention. Now that they were stopped, he stared at her menacingly, and for a moment she wondered if she’d gone too far.
“You’ll pay for this, you know.” A shiver ran down her spine in a combination of anticipation and alarm.
Very deliberately, he scooped some of the filling from his lips and then reached across to her.
“You wouldn’t dare.” But her voice trembled. He was so close she could see the individual hairs that made up his scruffy beard.
“Wouldn’t I?” And then his dimple appeared again. She wasn’t sure if that meant he was only teasing or if it meant he was about to take his revenge. She braced herself just in case it was the latter.
And when his fingertips prodded at her mouth, she had no choice but to part her lips and teeth.
The leather of his gloves dragged along her tongue as she tasted the sweet glaze. She couldn’t break his gaze to save her life.
The decision to travel with him had been unwise, and she ought never to have agreed. She knew better. She’d allowed him to be far too familiar, untoward, even. And yet some part of her sparked to life in his company. A part of her she’d believed no longer existed.
He was exciting, he was charming, he was enchanting.
And he was positively delicious.
Only a few inches separated them.
She dropped her gaze from his eyes to his mouth. What would it feel like to be kissed by this man?
Aubrey wasn’t the sort of person to rub pastry on a total stranger’s face. She knew nothing about him other than that he was French and needed to be in Margate in a few days.
Abruptly straightening her spine, she cleared her throat. “I hope they have rooms to let.” But she no longer felt the same trepidation as when the innkeeper at the Fainting Goat had turned her away. Likely, it wasn’t very prudent, but with Mr. Bateman’s company, she wasn’t quite so afraid.
She could envision that if some highwayman dared to attack them, Mr. Chance Bateman would pull a weapon from his boot and dispatch of the villain with one deadly thrust. And afterward, he might gaze into her eyes again, this time in order to assure himself of her well-being.
Overcome with emotion, he would lower his lips to her mouth and she would not pull away. She would tilt her head back—
“If there’s only one room, you will share it with me, no?”
“Surely you are not suggesting…!”
“If there’s only one room, I will bear it cheerfully, no?” He stared at her innocently.
Unsure of whether she’d heard him correctly the first time, it was important she set him quite straight on this matter. She narrowed her eyes. “I am not some lightskirt, Mr. Bateman.” She would be clear on this point. Crystal clear. Simply because she’d broken a few of her own rules…
“I never said you were. But if you remember correctly, it was you who was watching me.”
“I was appreciating your horse.” She clarified.
She ignored the softening she felt at the reappearance of his dimple. “But of course, madam.” He seemed to intentionally deepen his French accent as he nodded agreeably.
Too agreeably.
“He was—he is—a beautiful animal.”
“She.” He corrected her. “Apparently, you did not appreciate her closely enough. You were distracted, no?” That twinkle lurked again.
She would ignore his insinuation. “I am sorry she was stolen from you.”
He frowned at the reminder. Aubrey rather enjoyed her place beside him while he drove. He was forced to stare at the road while she could look at him all she wished. “
Just so the thief takes good care of her until I get her back.”
“You will return for her, then? I hope you are able to claim her again.”
“I will.”
Again, with that cocksure attitude of his. In this matter, however, she rather esteemed him for it.
A turn appeared with a splintered sign and Mr. Bateman steered them onto a less traveled road. The sound of voices and horses beckoned from the short distance, an indication that the inn was bustling but hopefully not at capacity.
Surely, he would not expect her to share her chamber with him, in truth? Surely, he was only teasing. Of course, he was.
In a matter of hours this man had managed to finagle his way onto her coach, and under her skin. He’d be gone as quickly as he appeared.
Although he was charming and handsome and … the utter opposite of nearly every man in which she’d ever been acquainted, Aubrey could not allow herself to be caught unaware by his unusual attraction.
As the coach slowed to a halt, she straightened her back along with her resolve to resist Mr. Bateman.
“Stay here.” He rose, brushed his way around her, and then effortlessly leaped to the ground. “If there aren’t any rooms, we won’t want to delay.”
And if there was only one room?
Aubrey clutched her hands in her lap as she contemplated whether she ought to trust him not to simply claim it for himself.
No gentleman would do such a thing… and yet, his gentlemanly attributes were as of yet, debatable.
Before she could worry herself, he reappeared in the doorway with a reassuring grin. “We’re in luck! As long as you’re willing to share it with me.”
The dratted man was laughing again.
“I already told you, Mr. Bateman— “
“Forgive me.” He wiped away his smile, moved to stand below her and held out a hand. “Step down here and then you can settle up with the innkeeper.” And then he added. “The room is yours.”
Aubrey nodded and clutched her reticule tightly.
“Careful now.” Has hand felt sure and warm, even through her gloves. She’d gone from being exasperated with him, to feeling grateful in the blink of an eye. It could not all be due to his imposing presence. Likely the recent changes she was embarking upon had left her feeling… out of sorts.
She’d considered herself so brave when Mr. Daniels had directed the coach toward London, away from Rockford Beach. She’d been excited, gleefully so. Surely come morning she’d be feeling more herself again. Yes, that was it. Too many new places and new people had put her on edge.
Not to mention this extraordinary situation with Mr. Bateman, who, although considerably helpful, managed to provoke her to behave in a most uncharacteristic manner.
In the matter of a few days, they would both go their separate ways.
A sense of calm, but also disappointment settled on her, and before she could step down from the driver’s box, in one swift move she found herself flipped over Mr. Bateman’s shoulder, upside down and clutching at anything she could grab for dear life.
Which in this case, was Mr. Bateman’s behind. She required a moment to scrutinize the sinewy muscles shifting and flexing directly in front of her eyes before she realized exactly what had happened.
“What…? Mr. Bateman!”
“Didn’t want you to ruin your pretty little shoes in all this mud.” He informed her calmly as she watched the ground pass with each step he took.
It was rather muddy.
Was that his hand on her bum?
“Please,” Her voice came out harsh sounding, what with her abdomen bearing most of her weight. “This really isn’t,” Breath. “Necessary.”
“No trouble at all Mrs. Bloomington.”
Had he just patted her bum again? Was he…
Rubbing it?
“I’m afraid I must insist that you—“ Whoosh. All the blood left her face again when he bent over and set her on her feet. “set me down.” She finished lamely.
Chapter 3
Aubrey
Aubrey closed the door behind her, careful to turn the lock, and then expelled an enormous sigh of relief. This room did not consist of much. Bed, small vanity, small window, one hard chair. But it was hers, and hers alone.
Mr. Bateman had assured her he would make use of a cot in one of the back rooms, although he had not seemed pleased overal
l. Nonetheless, she felt not even the tiniest twinge of guilt.
Well, perhaps a tiny one. And she would ignore it.
Her first day on the road had not been nearly so challenging as this one. She and Mr. Daniels had departed just after sun up, stopped a few times to refresh the horses, and then had no difficulty securing lodgings.
She removed a brush from her valise and stared into the oval looking glass.
Yesterday had not been nearly as… interesting.
The reflection looking back at her was not the prim and proper person who’d departed from Rockford Beach, the place she’d considered home for seven years. Riding atop the driver’s box, the wind had whipped several strands of auburn hair out of her chignon, leaving them practically flying around her face. It had also added an unusual pink tint to her normally pale complexion.
And if she wasn’t imagining things, placed a curious sparkle of excitement in her eyes.
She pulled the pins from her hair and went to work removing the tangles that had formed.
Winifred would staunchly disapprove if she saw her now. For the past year and a half, Aubrey had lived under the thumb of her husband’s brother Milton, and his wife, who had moved in, presumably to provide Aubrey their support. Support! Aubrey snorted at such a notion. The formidable couple had imposed their oppressive religious beliefs on the household and managed to usurp Aubrey’s decisions at every turn.
Although they had not been as bad as Harrison.
The six years prior to Mr. Bloomington’s death, Aubrey had lived under the domineering hand of her husband.
She startled at a knock.
“Just a moment,” Aubrey smoothed her skirt before calling out, “Who is it?”
“It’s me.”
He didn’t bother to say his name, so sure he was of himself that she’d know immediately who ‘me’ might be.
“Is there something I can do for you Mr. Bateman?” She spoke to the door.
“You can open the door, Mrs. Bloomington…” He would persist, she was certain, until she obliged.
She fumbled at the lock, her fingers suddenly less than nimble, and pulled the door inward just a crack until he pushed it all the way open so that he could enter. Once inside, choosing to ignore her chagrin, he casually inspected the decor as though it required his approval.
Until his gaze landed on her.
“Magnifique,” He stared at her hair. “Brightens the green in your eyes.”
Aubrey had forgotten she’d let it down and reached up in surprise, almost as though she could cover it.
But then he seemed to remember why he’d come. “Will you join me for a meal? Perhaps because of my less than comfortable bed, the inn keep has obliged to provide us with a private dining room for the evening.”
Aubrey raised her brows. A private dining room, indeed? He must have charmed the owner, for certain, to have landed such a luxury. The night before she’d taken her meal in her chamber. She’d not realized how vulnerable an unchaperoned lady would feel amongst a room of mostly men.
To dine alone with him would not be an exceptional circumstance. You are a widow, after all Ambrosia.
“I—Yes.” She reached behind her head to wind her hair into another knot, all the while feeling his eyes on her.
“It’s a shame to hide it.” He sighed as she secured it with a few pins.
Throughout the entirety of her marriage, she’d never once put up, nor let down her hair in front of her husband. She was struck by the unexpected intimacy of their circumstances. She ought to send Mr. Bateman away but felt relief to not have to walk through the tap room alone.
If she was going to be an independent woman, she was going to have to find more courage within herself. She was not a green girl, a debutante. The same rules did not apply to widows.
She pushed in one last pin and then turned to face him.
“I am ready. Thank you.”
“I do believe, Mrs. Bloomington, that you blush far too much for a woman who has been married.”
Upon which her face felt even hotter. “Mr. Bloomington did exist, I assure you.” She opened the door and waited for him to follow.
He was leaning casually against the bed, however, studying her and in no hurry to leave her chamber. “You’re also far too young to be a widow. Was he killed in the war?”
“Shall we go down now, Mr. Bateman?” She ignored his question.
With a shake of his head, he seemed to give up his questioning.
For now, anyhow.
Initially, both of them seemed content to forgo additional conversation as they sat down in the small room set aside for private dining. It was only after one of the maids had poured Aubrey a cup of tea and brought Mr. Bateman an ale that Aubrey gave into her curiosity.
“You ask the most impertinent questions, Mr. Bateman, for one who has shared essentially nothing about himself. Why, might I ask, are you required to be in Margate this weekend?”
“An appointment. How old are you, Mrs. Bloomington?”
His answer wasn’t as forthcoming as she might have wished but in all fairness… “I am six and twenty. You?”
At this he laughed. “Old. Ancient. Beyond my prime.” And then at her scowl. “I shall achieve my third decade on Saturday.”
Aubrey watched him closely. “Your appointment, then, has something to do with your birthday?”
He smiled and lifted his glass as though in a toast. “I’m expected at a party.”
“So you have family in Margate?” She pressed.
He seemed to mull over her question before answering. “I suppose you could say that. Do you have any family in London? Any aquaintances?”
“The townhouse where I shall be taking up residence was bequeathed to me.” Harrison had left it to her mistakenly, when he’d signed off that all of his worldly belongings not designated to others be left to his loving and devoted wife.
Mistakenly, in that when he’d written the words “loving and devoted wife” he’d been referring to his first wife. And compounding the fault exponentially, in that the townhouse had somehow been omitted from the properties listed to go to Milton, along with a trust to cover staffing and maintenance.
When the oversight had come to light, her brother-in-law had turned a dark shade of purple.
The part of Harrison’s will that had specifically addressed Aubrey had included a designated allowance of fifty pounds per year and had stipulated that she could not take possession of any of her inheritance until she’d observed the full year of proper mourning.
When the lawyer informed her that she was to receive the townhouse, Aubrey could only believe that, at last, one of her prayers had finally been answered.
“Not quite a Princesse but an heiress, then?”
She waived such a notion away and briefly explained the probate blunders, he asked a few questions as their meal was brought in, and eventually was nodding at her with a small smile of approval. “It must have been fate, then.”
“It was a miracle.” Aubrey smiled into her bowl of soup. She’d not talked about this with anyone but Mr. Moyers, the solicitor. For an entire year she’d remained living with two individuals who resented her very existence. When they had deigned to show her any kindness, she’d realized that those moments were half-hearted attempts to persuade her that she ought to do the right thing, and that that would be to revert her inheritance to Milton.
The past year had been a long one.
“Good old Harrison was much older than you?”
Aubrey nodded slightly at his question. “He was in his sixth decade.”
She’d vowed never to marry again, to maintain her independence in London. But what would it have been like to have a younger man for a husband?
“Was it a true marriage?”
His inquiry perplexed her for a moment. Was he asking if it had been legal? And then the nature of his question sent heat rising into her face.
“That’s an inappropriate thing to ask a lady.” Becau
se it had been. Unfortunately, in the beginning, it had been.
“I’ll take your answer as a no.” He stated casually before tearing off a piece of the bread that had been set on the table for them to share.
“Then you will be wrong.” Aubrey snapped her mouth closed for revealing something so personal to him.
She surprised him this time, causing him to still and take a moment to study her. “I would have guessed that you’ve never been kissed.”
“Pardon me?” He’d spoken so softly she wasn’t certain she’d heard him right.
“I would imagine you’ll not be missed.” At her confused expression, he added. “By your husband’s relations.”
“Oh, yes. And no—I suppose. Winifred seemed rather to enjoy having me around. If only to know there was someone who might listen to her complaints and also witness her piousness.” Oh, but Aubrey sounded like the most ungrateful woman who ever lived. Likely by the end of their meal he would believe she was filled with only bitterness, when in fact, she was quite hopeful for her new life. “Tell me about your family, Mr. Bateman. Did you grow up in France?”
He set his utensils on the table and leaned back. “Until I was seven.” He smiled as though remembering his childhood fondly. “My father met my mother when she was visiting Paris. They lived in the French countryside, initially, but my mother missed her family. She is English. My father only ever wanted to make her happy, and so he moved all of us here.”
“Do you consider yourself English, or French?” He must have been torn for the two countries to have been at war with one another.
“My head is that of an Englishman, but my heart, I believe, is French.”
Which made perfect sense. He seemed to be a practical man, and yet, he’d openly shown affection to his horse. And then another thought struck.
“War time must have been difficult for your family.”
He nodded. “I stood with the English.” He added, turning his attention back to his food. “My grandfather, my mother’s father, purchased me a commission when I finished school.”
“Going to war cannot have been an easy decision.” He’d had to fight his own countrymen then, perhaps even some with whom he was related. The war had ended nearly ten years ago.
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