He was not in love, of course. The captain did not believe in love at first sight, especially not with some bucolic beauty who was full of her own self-worth. He turned back to his door, the one marked MANAGER, and felt a touch on his arm.
“Sir?”
He looked down at the graceful gloved hand that sent a shiver right to his toes. Then he looked up, into her eyes. And what eyes they were, fawn brown, with green and gold flecks and black rims. They were honest eyes, trusting eyes, eyes that could mend a soldier’s weary soul. Or send him back into battle, to make her world right.
“Perhaps you can help, my good man?”
He was not her good man, Arthur considered, not good at all, not when he was having lewd and lascivious thoughts about the young woman’s luscious figure. “I am afraid there’s nothing anyone can do for you, miss, without a reservation.”
“But I do have a reservation. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell this dunderhead.” She put her carpetbag on the floor and untied the strings of her reticule to find a folded sheet. “See, I have confirmation for this date forward.”
She had a reservation and wasn’t just trying to bully poor George? No wonder the little dear was indignant. Why, Arthur would be tearing the walls down to find himself in London with no place to lay his head. Of course, he had Huntingdon House, the army barracks, any number of friends and acquaintances he could ask for a bunk, but he was not a well-bred young lady whose reputation had to be preserved at all costs. He could not begin to imagine what possessed her father to let such a beauty traipse off alone except for a dithery companion, but here she was, causing a righteous ruckus. None of the other top-drawer hotels would even accept an unescorted, single female, if there were rooms available, which there were not.
He looked at the clerk, who nodded. “But the ambassador said the princess needed the extra rooms. And it wasn’t like there was a deposit or anything. The mort—pardon, miss, the young lady’s name ain’t even mentioned in the reservations box.”
“Then it was erased. I was assured my accommodations would be available today, and I trust you gentlemen to make them available now, so poor Nancy can lie down.” She raised her chin. “Is that understood, George, and you, sir?” She turned inquiring eyes on the captain, whose tongue seemed to have lost touch with his brain.
“Arthur,” was all he could say. He could have said “Captain Hunter.” Hell, he should have said “Viscount Huntingdon,” since she seemed to think a title was a useful thing for tossing around. But “Arthur” was what he wanted to hear from those rosy lips. Of course he wanted to hear it lying down, with her beneath him, those shining curls fanned across his pillow. A baron’s daughter, of course, was not for dalliance, however.
“Mr. Arthur?”
He tried to recall his wayward thoughts. A bed, that was it. She needed a bed and it could not be his. That is, it could not be the bed he was currently occupying. “I do happen to have a suite of rooms that might be available.”
George coughed and rolled his eyes, but Miss Thurstfield gave Arthur such a smile that the clerk could have choked to death without Captain Hunter noticing. Why, that smile was enough to make Arthur forget that he was a crippled old soldier with a world of responsibilities on his shoulders. “They are on the t
hir
d floor, however.”
“But the only empty rooms there are yours,” George protested.
“Exactly. Mine to hold for emergencies. This counts as an emergency, don’t you agree, George?” He nodded encouragingly until George bowed his own head.
“If you say so, Captain.”
Miss Thurstfield was too excited to notice the byplay. “Oh, the stairs won’t matter. We have five stories in Interlaken, and neither I nor Mrs. Storke has the least difficulty. But these reserved rooms are not exorbitantly priced, are they?” She started to untie her reticule again.
“Oh, no. In fact, they are already
paid for.” Twice. And Arthur would likely have to bribe both George and Simmons their price again to forget that the suite was held in his name. Miss Thurstfield of Interlaken near Windermere could not be staying in a gentleman’s apartments. “That is, we don’t charge for them. Can’t, since your misplaced reservation was the hotel’s fault in the first place.”
“Why, that is quite generous. I am sure the hotel will continue to be a great success if you strive to keep your customers so content. You can be sure I will recommend your establishment to all my friends when they travel to the City.”
“And I am sure the management will appreciate your kind words.” He turned the guest book for her to sign. “George, why don’t you find someone to carry Miss, ah, Hope Thurstfield’s bags up.” He pulled the key out of his pocket and placed it in her palm, forcing himself not to hold her hand, or squeeze it, or bring it to his lips. Damn, but he was acting like the veriest mooncalf. He was not in love, by Jove, Arthur told himself; he’d just been living the soldier’s life too long.
She gifted him with another heart-stopping smile—Lud, she had a dimple—and bent to pick up the satchel, which barked.
“You’ll have to keep your satchel on a leash, you know. Hotel policy.” Arthur was teasing, trying to work himself into confessing that he really was not part of the management staff. He had no excuse for letting her believe he was the concierge except that he’d been ensorcelled by a pair of brown eyes, which was, of course, no reason to continue her misconception. Besides, plain Mr. Arthur was no eligible
parti
for a peer’s daughter. Captain Hunter was passable; Lord Huntingdon was a premier catch.
Before he could speak up, however, Miss Thurstfield graciously bobbed her head and said, “You’ll be sure to make note of my room number, won’t you,
for when my intended arrives?”
Her intended? Miss Thurstfield was betrothed? Arthur’s feet hit the ground, with his heart plummeting after. That French cannonball hadn’t hit him half so hard. He nodded and turned to enter his room, the
one marked MANAGER. It might as well have said:
ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE WHO ENTER.
3
That all valuables be secured. The Hotel is not responsible for theft or loss.
Why should he bother with new clothes? The best tailoring in all of England could not hide Arthur’s limp. What need had he for a curricle? So the fashionable world could gawk when he clambered down? No, what he needed was some solitude and a bottle. Or a ladybird, and a bottle. If he paid enough, perhaps a Covent Garden convenient would not cringe at the sight of his mangled limb. For sure no proper young lady would look at him with admiration, affection, or
amour.
Not that he couldn’t find any number of modish misses willing to marry him; a title and wealth could sweeten any bitter pill. Was it too much to want a wife who wanted
him,
though, not his money or social standing?
Thinking of money reminded Arthur that he needed to visit his bank, no matter what other errands he put off for another day. Putting up at this hotel was putting a hole in his pocket.
*
“Oh, my, what a lovely suite of rooms!”
Mrs. Storke was fluttering between the sitting room and the two bedrooms, inspecting the water closet and the wardrobes while the hotel’s maids unpacked their trunks. Hope’s little terrier, Trumpet, was so excited to be out of his traveling bag that he managed to get in everyone’s way. Hope was equally as pleased to be so well situated. The rooms were the most luxurious she had ever stayed in, including her chamber at Thurstfield. Every amenity she could think of was provided by the hotel, from the bowl of fruit to a selection of books and newspapers. And her window looked out over a tree-filled park, so she would not feel so homesick for the country. “You see, Nancy, coming to London was not such a bad idea after all.”
“Oh, but what would we have done without that nice Mr. Arthur? I shudder to think what could have happened to us without his help.”
“He was everything accommodating,” Hope agreed as she placed the wrinkle-free papers on the floor in a corner for the little dog’s use. She only hoped the poor servant whose duty it was to iron the newspapers did not hear of their current use.
“And devilishly handsome, didn’t you think?”
She hadn’t thought of much else since the hotel manager had come to their rescue. Why, every maidservant on the staff must be smitten with his blond hair and blue eyes, his br
oad
shoulders and cleft chin. Even his hands were attractive, she’d noticed when he handed her the key, strong and capable, yet graceful in a manly way.
“Too bad about his limp,” Mrs. Storke was saying around a bite of apple from the fruit bowl.
“He limps?” Hope found a silver bowl filled with sugared walnuts, so she nibbled on one. Trumpet had located a plate of biscuits, so he whined till Hope fed him. Nancy just shook her head and left to direct the maids in unpacking their gowns and bonnets.
Hope could not seem to get the handsome hotelier out of her mind. She knew he found her comely, too, for she’d seen that look in a man’s eyes often enough in her nineteen years to recognize masculine admiration. What foolishness, though. As if her papa would
let a mere
Mr.
Arthur court his daughter. He swore not
to settle for anything less than a baronet. In truth, Hope could not envision herself living behind a reservations desk as Mrs. Arthur. But he was certainly well spoken and refined. She supposed he must be educated to hold such an important position, managing this enormous establishment.
Heavens, she told herself, it was more important than ever to locate Sir Malcolm, if her eye and imagination were wandering to upper servants and tradesmen. Papa would have her married to their gouty neighbor, Lord Ormsby, in a flash, if he suspected such a possibility. He’d given her this one last chance to enjoy herself at the victory celebrations and to find her errant intended.
Contrary to her papa’s oft-stated belief, the intentions were not solely on Hope’s part. Sir Malcolm Fredenham had spoken to her of his respect and affection, and they had sealed their understanding with a kiss. Before he could make a public announcement, however, Sir Malcolm had to inform his aunt and uncle in London, the relatives who were going to remember him fondly in their wills. And he wished to purchase a ring, he’d said, no trumpery bauble like those found in the hinterlands. Only the best would do for his bride-to-be, only a London jeweler’s craftsmanship and artistry.
A month after he’d left, Hope had received a letter, the only letter she was to get, stating that Sir Malcom’s uncle was ailing, begging his nephew to stay on. That was four months ago. The man must be either recovered by now or dead. As for her ring, that London jeweler had enough time to mine a deuced diamond, much less set it in a ring. Five months was long enough for a man to be away from the woman he loved, and too long for her father’s patience. By the end of December, Lord Thurstfield had decreed, she’d be married and out of his house by the new year or he’d give her hand and handsome dowry to his good friend,
Lord Ormsby. Ormsby
was forty if he was a day, and covered in snuff and orange hair. Worse, he owned a vicious cur he entered in dogfights. No, Hope could not marry such a man. Trumpet would be a crumpet for the beast.
Hope believed her father’s threats were occasioned by the recent arrival of a dashing young widow in the neighborhood. The widow’s virtues, or lack thereof, were not suitable topics of conversation for innocents such as Miss Thurstfield but were the talk of the shire, nevertheless. The baron would never entertain the notion of inviting Mrs. Longstreet to his daughter’s drawing room; entertaining her in his own cold, lonely bed was another matter entirely, an inviting matter that Thurstfield would dearly like to address before some other enterprising gentleman extended the widow his protection.
Hence Hope’s journey to London, with her papa’s blessings, but without her papa. His own duties and dislike of doing the pretty kept him in the country, he claimed, Mrs. Longstreet’s name hanging between them. Of course, Lord Thurstfield believed his precious girl was traveling with her godmother, Lady Mildred Maythorpe. Lady Mildred knew everyone in Town, and was received everywhere. She fully intended to introduce Hope to every unmarried gentleman of her acquaintance. She did not intend to break her ankle tripping over her own cat.
Hope saw no reason to mention Lady Mildred’s mishap to her father, since the news would only upset him. She left for London anyway, accompanied only by her companion and friend, not caring that she wouldn’t receive invitations to Carlton House or the other grand social events. She only wanted to find her fiancé. Unfortunately, he’d never mentioned his uncle’s name or address, nor any other friends. Surely someone in the vast city could give her his direction.
If she could not locate Sir Malcolm, however, Hope would not be precisely heartbroken, although she had
found the baronet’s countenance, company, and com
pliments everything pleasing. The decision to accept his hand had less to do with her heart and more to do with her head, and her father, telling Hope that she was nearing her twentieth birthday, and she’d already
turned down every gentleman in the north of England, by her father’s reckoning. She wanted to be married, to have a home of her own, and babies. She did not want those babies to be little Lord Ormsbys, covered in snuff and ugly orange hair, patrons of blood sports. So she had to find Sir Malcolm Fredenham, or find some way to meet other eligible
partis
before her funds and her father’s patience wore out.