A Proper Mistress (8 page)

Instead she sat down on the bed—ah, it felt so good. Leaning over, she unlaced her half-boots and when her stocking-clad feet were free she wiggled her toes.

Would it hurt to just take five minutes for a lie down?

After all, would she not be far better company after a rest? And was it not part of tidying herself to do the inside as well as the outside?

With a guilty glance at the door, she stretched out on the narrow cot. Lumpy though the aged feather matters was, she had never felt anything so heavenly.

She let go a sigh. And her eyes closed themselves.

#

Theo waited downstairs, but after two mugs of ale—a decent dark porter with a sharp tang to it—he decided to see what was keeping his sweet Molly Sweet. Lord, how that woman liked to keep a fellow waiting!

He took the stairs two at a time and stopped before her door, uncertain. Did he just open the door and enter? Or knock and wait for permission? Or should he even go into her room? He had bought her time, but he had also presented her to the innkeeper as a respectable lady, and he was loath to do anything that might get them both tossed from the inn. He didn't fancy a night without a soft mattress under him.

Of course, if he could have something else soft underneath him, it might be worth it.

The image of Molly's lush figure pulled a smile from him and gave him encouragement enough. For the last five miles in the carriage, she had been brushing up against him—a touch of her shoulder against his, a rub of her cheek before she jerked upright, and even one sweet stroke of her breast against his arm. And he'd been unable to do anything since he had his hands full with four reins and two horses.

Not what a fellow really wanted to hold, blast it.

So why not see if he could now satisfy that ache she had stirred.

He knocked softly and twisted the doorknob, had it yield, so he stepped inside. He had not brought a candle with him, but one sputtered low in its holder on the dresser in Molly's room, giving a warm, yellow light to one corner of the room.

For an instant he almost thought she was not there. But the candle flickered and he saw the white shape on the bed.

She lay curled on her side, one hand tucked under her chin, her chest rising and falling with the deep even breaths of sleep. Her curls tumbled loose and free, a glorious spill of red that cascaded over bare, white shoulders. She wore nothing but a thin bit of white, cut low and nearly transparent, riding high enough to show her legs up to the swell of her thigh.

Entranced, he stood in the doorway, blood heating fast in his veins, tempted to shut the door behind them so he might join her in bed.

Her mouth curved up slightly. And, as he watched, she made a small happy sound and shifted ever so slightly, turning onto her back. His mouth dried as he took in the sight of those lovely breasts pushing against the thin fabric.

With a groan, he turned from the room and closed the door. He leaned there, eyes shut, still seeing her laid out and almost naked.  He ached to turn around and go back to her.

But—blast—she was supposed to be respectable here. And she looked so damnably comfortable. He had not the heart to wake her. Not for her dinner. And not for the hunger now stirring inside him.

The humor of it struck him and he opened his eyes and grinned at himself. Blazes, he'd bought a woman he couldn't have! He damned well hoped Terrance would appreciate all he was going through.

Pushing away from her room—and the too sweet temptation inside—he started downstairs to at least claim a meal for himself. Another pint or two wouldn't diminish that delectable image of Molly Sweet in nothing more than her under garments, but it would bloody well make it more bearable that he couldn't act on them tonight.

He would content himself with the thought of there always being another night to follow this one. And that a fellow ought to enjoy the chase of the hunt as much as he did the moment of glory that came at the end.

#

Crowing—raucous and far too energetic for the hour—woke Molly. Pulling open her eyes, she noted the gray light that filtered into her room from the single, small window. With a yawn, she sat up, pushed back her hair and peered about the room, wondering why it looked so odd.

Then she remembered.

She was not in her room at Sallie's house. She was not even in London. And she had slept through dinner, her empty, grumbling stomach reminded her. She covered her mouth for a moment, utterly mortified. Oh, she did so hope that Theo had not waited his own meal until it was too cold to eat. Well, nothing she could do about that.

She smothered a giggle. Here she had been worried about his taking advantage of her, and it seemed more apt to say that she had been doing nothing but taking advantage of his good nature. But she remembered as well his treatment of the innkeeper—Theo did not have quite that good a nature. And she would have to remember that.

With a yawn, she stretched. Rising, she went to the window, unlatched it and pushed open the hinged panes. She drew in a deep breath. Her childhood memories of morning were of spice-scented streets, of heat and moisture, and the wafting stench that came from the city of Madras when the wind changed. London, too, had its own unique scent—one of pungent coal fires, of horses in the streets and of the Thames when the tide was low. But here, ah, here, the air smelled fresh with promise. Aromas of bread baking set her stomach rumbling—warm smells of yeast and milk and egg and flour.

Gracious, but she could eat a cow!

With a skip and a smile, she set to taking care of her body's needs. She washed with cold water, her skin tingling at its touch. Why had Theo not sent someone to wake her? Would he be angry with her for sleeping and not keeping him company? Or had he perhaps not even noticed her absence?

Still, he had paid for her to come with him to Somerset—not to entertain him, really. Just to be a low, grasping woman.

She glanced at the green and yellow stripped dress she had worn yesterday. Shameful as it was, she still thought it a most attractive dress. The bright colors reminded her of a bird's exotic plumage. And that was just what she was supposed to be—an exotic bird. A captive one, at that. But she thought of the lady on the stairs. How wonderful it would be to be so...so elegant.

Ah, well. Might as well wish for wings, there, too.

With that, she turned her attention away from useless feelings and into the tasks at hand. She had learned to do that years ago, when that had been the only way to survive a world turned terrifying.

Starting to hum, she dressed in the green and yellow again.

She struggled with the ties at the back, but finally got them done up. She left off the jacket. A shawl from her trunk covered the loose lacing at the back anyway. And she went downstairs only to find herself the first guest to rise.

Her presence earned her suspicious stares from the innkeeper and the plump, black-haired woman who looked to be his wife. But the woman brought her tea, and Molly asked about what might be for breakfast and if she had smelled cinnamon and that got them started on food.

Molly didn't notice the time passing.

By the time Theo came downstairs to the main parlor, Molly was still having her tea. She was seated with a stout, dark-haired woman, the remains of breakfast on the polished pine table. Molly seemed to be writing something in a small book as the stout woman spoke, her Berkshire accent strong.

"Mind, now, use a good strong beer. Some hold as its molasses you want, but I say treacle. Aye, and black pepper and allspice—fine ground, mind—for a stronger taste."

"And it's bay salt you use?"

"Aye. After the saltpeter finely beaten, mind."

"Saltpeter? What in blazes is that for?" Theo said, striding into the room.

Both women rose, but Theo kept his eyes on his sweet Sweet. Only a redhead with that transparent skin could redden with such a strong rush of color. It surprised him again that she could blush like a maiden. And left him uneasy. Was she new at her line of work, and still able to feel a sense of shame? That was not what he had wanted to hire.

She tried to tuck the small notebook behind her skirts, but he took her hand, asking, "What's this?"

Tugging from his grasp, she glanced at the other woman. "Mrs. Weld, would you bring coffee and ale, and some more of that ham? Would you like bread and toasting folks as well?" she asked Theo, turning back to him, a smile in place, but also moving away, that book of hers now behind her skirts.

"Blazes take the toast. Beef and ale will do for me."

Mrs. Weld bobbed a curtsy and hurried away to bring the food, and Molly used the chance, he noticed, to place herself on the opposite side of the table from him. Well, at least she seemed to be something of a natural actress, for she was taking this acting like a lady quite seriously. Perhaps the crimson on her cheeks had been from the pleasure of seeing him—a nice thought that.

He leaned his palms on the back of a straight-backed wooden chair. "Well, my lady-wife, or soon to be so at least for my father's notice, you had best seat yourself, unless it's your wish I eat standing."

She sat down, and he did the same, eyeing the book that she had in her lap now, "And what in blazes were you writing?" He frowned as a thought struck. "You aren't one of those bookish types who go about taking down everything everyone says in some ghastly diary?"

Stiffening, she glared at him as if he had insulted her. "Bookish? Certainly not. And all I was taking down was Mrs. Weld's recipe for smoking ham. If you had some yourself, you'd see why I asked for it."

Eyes narrowed, he stared at her.
Ham?
Why in blazes would a strumpet care about ham? Or was she making some sort of ribald play on words? If she was, it certainly hadn't come with any suggestive looks. So that led him back to wondering why a bird of paradise, such as her, would care about ham?

Her nose wrinkled, and she said, her tone clipped, "Do you think a woman of easy virtue to be a woman of no virtue at all? I'll have you know that all Sallie's girls can set a tidy stitch, and they at least know how to boil water for tea. Do you think they—we all sit about thinking only of...of...of cavorting?"

He grinned. "Cavorting? Come now, why not use a nice old Anglo-Saxon word for it? Or don't you like to be blunt about your trade?"

She blushed fiercer than before. "Even a working girl has to consider domestic necessities."

"Such as recipes?"

"I like food," she said, her chin lifting and her green eyes glittering hot.

His let his glance stray to her plump curves. "Well, you need not eat me. I've nothing to complain of in that. I like a girl with a healthy appetite." His grin widened, and he turned as the innkeeper's wife came back, a tray in hand with a platter of cold beef and a pewter mug of ale. "Speaking of such—Mrs. Weld, you are an angel to be so prompt. And my Molly tells me I must try some of your ham."

Molly watched him charm her and flirt with innkeeper's wife until he had her blushing as well, and giving his hand a playful slap before she left to fetch for him. That smile of his, Molly decided, probably got him his way in most things. That and those dark, dramatic looks of his. But when he grinned, his expression did away with the soulful, romantic impression stirred by that handsome face, the one that made him look angelic.

Dangerously so.

It would be a mistake, she knew, to ever think this one an innocent lad.

Almost as if reading her thoughts, he winked at her over his tankard of ale. It was as if a hand clenched around her throat. She glanced away, face warm. This whole adventure might have been easier had he been as unappealing as the florid banker that Sallie had once introduced to her. Of course, it would not have been as much fun. Nor would she have taken it on.

Her lips curved up.

My Molly.

How nice that sounded. But she really must remember that she was his only because of the fifty pounds he had paid for her. No, not for her. For her time, she amended. Just as Sallie paid for her time and cooking. Even so, she squirmed in her chair. There seemed to be far too thin a line between selling her body to him for his pleasure, and selling herself to him as a pretend wife.

Still, that line existed. Or at least she hoped it did, for about all she had left to anchor herself in this world was her self-respect.

When he finished his ham and beef, and had praised both to Mrs. Weld, he suggested a stroll along Hungerford's streets, saying, "We've time before the horses are harnessed."