No Groom at the Inn: A Dukes Behaving Badly Novella

The letter from her cousin had detailed all of the delights waiting for her when she arrived—taking care of her cousin’s six children (his wife had died, perhaps of exhaustion), overseeing the various village celebrations including, her cousin informed her with no little enthusiasm, the annual Tribute to the Hay, which was apparently the highlight of the year, and taking care of the chickens.

All twenty-seven of them.

Not to mention she would be arriving just before Christmas, which meant gifts and merriment and conviviality. Those weren’t bad things, of course, it was just that celebrating the season was likely the last thing she wanted to do.

Well, perhaps after taking care of the chickens.

The holidays used to be one of her favorite times of year—she and her father both loved playing holiday games, especially ones like Charades or Dictionary.

Even though he was the word expert in the family, eventually she had been able to fool him with her Dictionary definitions, and there was nothing so wonderful as seeing his dumbstruck expression when she revealed that, no, he had not guessed the correct definition.

He was always so proud of her for that, for being able to keep up with him and his linguistic interests.

And now nobody would care that she was inordinately clever at making up definitions for words she’d never heard of.

She gave herself a mental shake, since she’d promised not to become maudlin. Especially at this time of the year.

She glanced around the barroom she was sitting in, taking note of the other occupants. Like the inn itself, they were plain but tidy. As she was, as well, even if her clothing had started out, many years ago, as grander than theirs.

She unfolded the often-read letter, suppressing a sigh at her cousin’s crabbed handwriting. Not that handwriting was indicative of a person’s character—that would be their words—but the combination of her cousin’s script and the way he assumed she would be delighted to perform all the tasks he was graciously setting before her—that was enough to make her dread the next phase of her life. Which would last until—well, that she didn’t know.

Sophronia was grateful, she was, for being offered a place to live, and she didn’t want to seem churlish. It was just that she had never imagined that the care and feeding of poultry—not to mention six children—would be her fate.

She hadn’t been raised to think too highly of herself, an impoverished earl’s daughter couldn’t, no matter her bloodlines. But she’d thought her father had put by enough money to see her through to find a cottage somewhere, somewhere to live with her books, and her wit, and her faithful maid, after he’d left this mortal coil. But while her father had been very specific when it came to ordering which text of ancient Greek poems would suit his needs the best, he had been less so when it came time to providing for his daughter’s future after his eventual, and inevitable, demise.

He’d left her with practically nothing, in fact.

Hence the chickens.

Which was why she had spent a few precious pennies on a last glass of ale at the coaching inn where she was waiting for the mail coach to arrive and take her to the far reaches of beyond. A last moment of being by herself, being Lady Sophronia, not Sophy the Chicken Lady.

The one without a feather to fly with.

Chuckling at her own wit, she picked her glass up and gave a toast to the as yet imaginary chickens, thinking about how she’d always imagined her life would turn out.

There were no members of the avian community at all in her rosy vision of the future.

Not that she was certain what her rosy vision of the future would include, but she was fairly certain it did not have fowl of any kind.

She shook her head at her own foolishness, knowing she was giving in to self-pity by bemoaning her lot. It was more than many women had, even ladies of her station. She might have to take care of children and chickens—hopefully in that order—but she would have a roof over her head, food to eat, and clothing to wear. Perhaps the holiday season would be one of celebration. Celebrating a roof over her head, for one thing.

“All aboard to Chester,” a voice boomed through the room. Immediately there were the bustling sounds of people getting up, gathering their things, saying their last goodbyes.

Sophronia didn’t have anyone to say goodbye to. Her maid, Maria, had found another position, even though she’d wept and clung to Sophronia until the very last minute. But Sophronia’s cousin had made it very clear the invitation was for one lady in distressed circumstances—namely, Sophronia—and there was no room nor salary for a lady’s maid.

So she drained her ale and stood, rising up on her tiptoes for one last stretch. As tall as she was, it was difficult for her to retain any kind of comfort in a crowded coach for any period of time, and she knew the journey would be a long one.

That she would be cramped and uncomfortable for longer than the actual coach journey was a truth she was finding very hard to ignore.

“Excuse me, miss,” a gentleman said in her ear. She jumped, so lost in her own foolish (fowlish?) thoughts that she hadn’t even noticed him approaching her.

She turned and looked at him, blinking at his splendor. He was tall, taller than she, even, which was a rarity among gentlemen. He was handsome in a dashing rosy-visioned way that made her question just what her imagination was thinking if it had never inserted him—or someone who looked like him—into her dreams.

He had unruly dark brown hair, longer than most gentlemen wore. The ends curled up as though even his hair was irrepressible. His eyes were blue, and even in the dark gloom, she could see they practically twinkled.

As though he and she shared a secret, a lovely, wonderful, delightful secret.

Never mind that all those words were very similar to one another. Her word-specific father would reprimand her, if that gentle soul could reprimand someone, that is, and if he heard how cavalierly she was tossing out adjectives that all meant nearly the same thing.

But he wasn’t here, was he, which was why she was here, and now she was about to find out why this other he was here.

Far too many pronouns. Her attention returned to the tall, charming stranger.

Who was talking to her. Waiting for her response, actually, since she had spent a minute or so contemplating his general magnificence. And words, and her father, and whatever other non-chickened thoughts had blessedly crossed her mind.

“Can I help you, sir?” Sophronia asked. He was probably lost on his way to the Handsome Hotel where they only allowed Exceedingly Handsome guests.

That he might think she’d know where the Handsome Hotel was gave her pause. Because she was not handsome, not at all.

But what he said next was even more unexpected than being asked to provide directions to some establishment where one’s appearance was the only requirement for entry.

“Would you marry me?” he said in a normal tone of voice, as though he hadn’t just upended Sophronia’s entire world.

Cachinnator:

1. One who cashes in on an opportunity.

2. A loud or immoderate laugher.

3. The element of a spinning wheel that feeds the wool through.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

“I
t will be two weeks. At most, three.” His mother beamed at him, as though the prospect of a house party in the country during the holiday season with people he did not know was some sort of rare treat.

It most definitely was not.

Jamie began to walk around the room, unable to stay seated for longer than a few minutes, at least when he was at his mother’s house. Which usually made him regret being so generous to her, since she had most of the things he’d sent her on display, which made walking around even harder. “And who will be in attendance?” There had to be a reason she was so insistent he accompany her. It wasn’t just that she didn’t get to see him enough; he knew that look in her eye. The one that said, “I’ve got plans for Jamie, and they are probably going to bring him very little joy.” Not that she thought that, of course. She only thought about what she thought he might like, and he always felt like the worst kind of ungrateful wretch when it turned out he did not like what she’d presented, whether it was a special meal, or a new watch, or a house party when he’d rather just stay in London, when everyone else was gone.

He’d gotten very good at pretending to be pleased when that was not what he was at all. But that was better than watching her face fall in disappointment.

He’d seen how his father hadn’t been able to pretend, how it ate away at him. How he compromised what he truly wanted in order to keep someone else happy. Jamie was determined not to let that happen to him.

She shrugged, as though it wasn’t important. Which only meant that it absolutely was. “The Martons, the Viscount Waxford and his family, and Mrs. Loring and her daughter. Oh, plus the hosts, of course. The Greens are the loveliest people.”

“And how many of them have unmarried daughters?”

She shifted in her seat.

Jamie stopped pacing to look at his mother. “That many, hm?”

She couldn’t seem to quite meet his eyes. “Well, I have heard that Lady Marigold Waxford is a beauty. All golden curls and bright blue eyes. The Greens’ daughter is apparently quite studious, she is usually away at school, but has returned home for the holidays. She has quite a tidy fortune, and is said to be a good conversationalist. And the other two, well yes, they have daughters who are friends with the Green girl.”

Jamie swallowed through a suddenly thick throat. “Four young ladies, then?” Could just the thought of four young women at a house party make a person choke to death?

It felt like that, even though he desperately hoped not.

But his mother wasn’t paying attention to how difficult it was for him to breathe, nor could she know how her words seemed to wrap themselves around his neck. “You never know, James, when you might find someone you like. When are you going to settle down?”

Jamie opened his mouth to reply, but snapped it shut as he thought about her question.
When are you going to settle down, Jamie?

It was a question she had been asking, off and on, since the first time he had left England to go on one of his “funny trips,” as she called them.

That his funny trips were as necessary to him as breathing wasn’t something they discussed. He’d tried to, once, but she’d merely grabbed her handkerchief and sobbed quietly into it as he told her how he felt as though he might explode if he stayed in one place too long.

He had seen the same thing play out when he was a child, when his father tried to change the way things were. It just wasn’t done. Which was why Jamie had to do it.

It wasn’t as though he didn’t love his mother; he did. And it wasn’t as though he needed the money that his funny trips brought. His father had left him more than enough money, even if all the elder Mr. Archer had done was sit on a sofa and drink wine. No, Jamie lived for the adventure of it, the finding of a treasure that was hidden in plain sight, something that only he could discern. He was doing the thing his father, he thought, had always wanted to do himself. Finding treasures.

Jamie always brought the treasure back to England and sold it to someone who craved adventure as much as he did, but had to be content with experiencing it through objects, not actual living. He rarely kept a treasure, not for himself.

If Jamie ever stopped, he thought he might die.

And yet—and yet sometimes, when he was lying awake at night in another place that wasn’t England, he wondered if it was enough.

Of course it is
, his mind would go on to assert.

But his heart begged to differ.

“Actually, Mother, I have something to tell you,” he began, knowing he was making possibly the stupidest decision he’d ever made—and that included the purchase of something he’d thought was an ancient papyrus that turned out to be a creative child’s way of demonstrating how annoying she thought her parents were—but unable to stop himself once he’d started. “I am betrothed.”

For once, his mother had nothing to say.

A
s soon as the proposal left his mouth, Jamie had the urge to punch himself in the face.

Judging by the expression on the lady’s face, she felt the same way.

At least they were in agreement.

He closed his eyes and grimaced. “That wasn’t exactly what I meant,” he said, letting out a deep breath as he spoke.

“So you’re saying you don’t wish to marry me?” At least she wasn’t screaming or hitting him. That was something.

“No, I mean, yes, I mean—” He gestured at the chair she’d just risen from. “Could we sit down and discuss this?”

She glanced over his shoulder, a concerned look knitting her brows together. “I am supposed to get on the mail coach, the one leaving in a few minutes.”

“This will take only a few minutes to explain,” Jamie replied, hoping to God it was true.

She tilted her head and gave him a look of appraisal, then nodded her head. “Very well. Only a minute, mind you. I can’t be late for the chickens.”

Jamie opened his mouth to ask about that, but snapped it shut again as she sat. He didn’t have time to ask questions about what she might possibly mean, not when his future as an unencumbered bachelor was at stake.

He sat down, as well, scooting his chair forward so he could speak quietly to her.
Speaking in a low voice will not make this any less outrageous
, a voice in his head reminded him.

But it could perhaps persuade her that he was not actually insane. Or remarkably presumptuous.

“The thing is,” he said, speaking both quickly and quietly, “I am in need of a fiancée, but just for a short time.” Judging by the expression on her face, he was not doing any better at explaining himself. “The thing is,” he said again, wishing he could just snatch her up and present her to his mother without having to bother about explanations and such, “I might have just told my mother I am engaged to be married.”

“And you are not.” It seemed she understood a bit of it, at least.

“No. Nor do I wish to be.”

“Despite what you just asked me.” Now she sounded amused, and he allowed himself to feel a little hope that she would understand him, at least, even if he failed to convince her to help him.

He had to admit he hadn’t planned on asking a random stranger to marry him—few people did—but when he’d burst out of his mother’s house, having told her he was engaged, of all things, he’d known that a drink was in order, and he also knew where the nearest place to obtain said drink was.

And then he’d strode in, desperate and thirsty, and had seen her. A slender woman sitting by herself, looking off in the distance like some wise goddess, Athena or Minerva or whatever she was called, a simple traveling bag at her feet, a worn cloak wrapped around her against the cold.

She was entirely alone. Alone and traveling during one of the coldest months of the year, close to the holidays when families got together. Only he didn’t think she was going to her family—her expression would have been expectant, not resigned. Unless she had an unpleasant family, in which case perhaps she would be just as happy to leave with him as on the mail coach.

He liked to think he was a better choice than an unpleasant family, especially given what he had to offer her.

“My mother is here, living in London, only she’s taken it in her head to go to a house party in the country, and there are many unattached young ladies there. And, and you haven’t met my mother—”

“I haven’t even met you,” she interrupted in a tart tone.

“Right, well, Mr. James Archer at your service.” He held his hand out and she regarded it with one arched eyebrow, as though contemplating what he might do if she allowed him to take her hand.

It honestly hadn’t occurred to him to do anything, but now that she had that eyebrow raised, and her manner seemed to waver between entertained and aghast, he wondered just what she’d do if he took her hand and walked her out of the inn.

Probably scream. So that was not a good idea.

Thankfully, she did allow him to grasp her hand for a brief handshake. “I am Lady Sophronia Bettesford,” she replied. She spoke in a measured way, as though every word was held up for examination before being released from her lips.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Sophronia.” Jamie tried to summon up his most charming smile, but even with his ingenuity with women, he was at a loss when confronted with this situation—how did one behave toward a woman one might have deliberately not proposed to?

“And yours, Mr. Archer.” She glanced to the door, where people were lining up to board the coach, presumably. “But I do have to be on that coach, and while I appreciate the opportunity not to marry you, I cannot take any more time.”

She had a title—he hadn’t anticipated that; he’d just seen she was Quality. She was well-spoken, she seemed to take things in stride, and she was relatively attractive.

He was not going to find a better potential bride-not-to-be anywhere.

“What would it take for you to do this? It would last a month, at most, and then you could get on your coach and go to wherever you are planning to go.” He heard the desperation in his voice, and hoped it would sway her toward him, rather than making her want to run away.

She knitted her brow and stared at him, so intently he had the feeling she could see inside to his soul. Hopefully she’d see how much he wanted his mother to be happy, not any of the things he knew might make him seem to be a bad person—his ability to talk a potential seller into letting go of that treasure for a lower price than the seller had asked for, his equal ability to persuade women to give up their treasures in bed, his need to be on the go, constantly.

His selfish wish to live the life he wanted even though it might—it did—hurt his mother.

“I would want enough to purchase a cottage somewhere. I have no idea what that would cost, and it is likely far more than you’d want to pay for a pretend betrothed,” she said, lifting her chin as though in defiance. As though now he was the one who might run away screaming. “And I would want your assurance that this is all the time you would require of me, that you wouldn’t need me to return and pretend to be your wife or anything later on.” She took a deep breath. “If you can give me those things, I will do this for you.”

“Last call to Chester!”

They both glanced to the door, to where the stable boy was calling.

“Well?” she asked, reaching down to her valise.

“Done,” he said. His happiness and his mother’s happiness—in opposition to one another—were worth whatever he’d have to pay.

“Then we have a bargain, Mr. Archer,” she replied, raising her hand from the valise’s handle and holding it out to him.

“A bargain,” he repeated, shaking her hand.