T
he rest of her day passed less pleasantly.
Harold came in just after they’d finished serving lunch. Ordering a pint, he sat at a table at the rear of the tap—and broodingly glowered at her whenever she hove in sight.
Oscar kindly offered to throw her uncle out on his ear; she debated, but in the end declined. She’d rather have Harold under her eye than sneaking around behind her back.
He was still there when the twins came down after their afternoon lesson with Issy. Descending the stairs in the girls’ wake, Issy noticed, and deftly distracted her half sisters with promises of scones, and thus diverted them into the kichen. Leaving them under Hilda’s matronly eye, Issy sought out Em in her office.
Looking up from her order book, Em nodded. “Yes, I know he’s there.”
Issy looked worried, and a touch torn. “Are you sure it’s all right for me to go to see Joshua? I don’t need to go if you need me here.”
Shutting the book, Em shook her head. “No—go. I’ll stay with our two terrors and make sure they don’t do anything they shouldn’t.”
Issy usually walked to the rectory once her day with the twins came to an end; she would meet Henry and Joshua there, spend a little time with Joshua on his front porch while Henry finished his work inside, then she and Henry would walk home.
All perfectly innocent and aboveboard, and Issy deserved the moment of peace and pleasure after taking care of the twins all day.
Standing, Em shooed her off. “Go on—we’ll manage perfectly well.”
Issy pulled a face at her. “If you’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Go!” Em pointed in her sternest fashion. Issy laughed, and went.
Smiling, Em followed her out of the door. She stood watching while Issy, utterly ignoring Harold—or was that, in light of her preoccupation as attested to by the soft smile on her face, not seeing him at all?—walked through the inn’s common room and out of the door.
Standing in the concealing shadows of the little hall—such a useful spot it had proved—Em continued to watch their uncle until she was sure he wasn’t going to follow her sister.
Relieved on that score, she headed for her next responsibility—keeping the twins occupied.
Contrary to Issy’s belief, the twins had seen Harold. Em spent the next hours being highly creative in keeping her half sisters out of the common room, where they normally gravitated in the late afternoon—usually to sit by the hearth, ears flapping as they listened to the older women gossip, and otherwise providing attractive color with their angelic little-girl looks.
They nearly drove her demented, but in the end she prevailed. Not, however, without a few acid thoughts about inn owners who might have helped had they thought to call.
Somewhat to her surprise, said inn owner didn’t come by that evening, either. She’d grown used to seeing him in the rear corner of the tap, nursing a single pint through the evening, chatting with the locals and otherwise fixing his dark gaze on her whenever she passed by. She missed feeling its weight, that was all; she told herself that was the cause of the niggling disquiet—a sense of something not being right—that insensibly grew through the evening.
Harold eventually departed after regaling himself with dinner and a bottle of red wine; whenever she’d glanced his way, he’d glowered at her. She wasn’t pleased to see him return later, when there were many fewer in the common room. He called for a glass of whiskey. Edgar glanced her way, and at her nod, obliged; she knew Harold’s drinking habits—one glass would have no effect whatever.
It didn’t, but…her sense of unease grew as she noticed he was no longer directing black looks her way, but rather at everyone else.
He was waiting for them to leave…so he’d have her to himself. And for once, her white knight wasn’t there.
As the minutes to closing time ticked by, Em revised her opinion of protective gentlemen. She felt herself growing tenser and tenser, waiting for the moment when the last customer left and Harold made his move. What would it be this time? In the end, however, Harold’s ploy was defeated by an alliance of locals, who, suspecting his motives and deducing that he intended to wait them out, moved in on him instead. Led by the sometimes garrulous, sometimes belligerent Oscar, they surrounded Harold, offered to buy him a pint so he could share in their bonhomie, then, despite his declining, proceeded to regale him with the highlights of their lives.
As it became perfectly plain they were prepared to continue into the future, and if necessary into the afterlife, Harold capitulated and with very bad grace—and a filthy look her way—left.
Everyone heaved a sigh of relief. She thanked her unexpected saviors and promised them a drink on the house the following evening; the instant they left, Edgar locked up, then departed.
Alone at last, she heaved a massive sigh, then turned down the last lamp and headed for the stairs.
And her room—her empty room—and her equally empty bed.
Climbing the stairs, she lectured herself that that was how it should be. How it ought to be. Always.
Some part of her—the Colyton part of her—grizzled and grumped, sulked and slumped. She went into her parlor, closed the door, then, picking up the lighted candle Issy had left burning on the dresser for her, crossed to her bedroom. She didn’t want to even let the thought form, but she couldn’t duck the knowledge that her wearying evening would have been a lot less tiring, a lot less trying and wearing on her nerves, if Jonas had been there.
She would have felt much safer, much more confident—not nearly as watchful and wary.
“Humph!” Grimacing, she sat before her dressing table, lighted the two candles in the holders flanking the mirror, then started pulling pins from her hair. She’d had to hunt high and low for them that morning; they’d been scattered over the bed and on the floor.
She’d just shaken her hair loose, was running her fingers through the tresses, when she heard the stair tread one from the top creak.
Her heart leapt to her throat, but then she heard a firm footstep—recalled they now had guests staying at the inn. One must have gone downstairs…why?
Before she could start imagining unwelcome scenarios, a light rap sounded on her parlor door.
Frowning, she rose and headed for the door between bedchamber and parlor—froze in the doorway as the parlor door swung open…
Jonas walked in.
He saw her, smiled, shut the door—and locked it. Then he walked toward her.
She blinked, shook free of her senses’ distraction. Frowned up at him as he neared. “What are you doing here?”
His brows rose. Halting before her, he set his hands to her waist—and steered her back into her bedroom. She realized and tried to dig in her heels, but by then she was in the room, and so was he.
With one booted foot, he nudged the door closed behind him. Expression impossibly mild, he held her gaze. “Where else would I be?”
She glanced pointedly at the clock. “In some room at the Grange?”
He shook his head. Lips curving, he turned away, shrugged out of his coat, and carefully set it over the back of a chair. “It’s time for bed.”
“Precisely!” She stepped to the chair, picked up his coat, and held it out for him to put back on. “So you should go home to your room and your bed.”
He looked at the coat, then raised his eyes to her face—all the while unbuttoning his cuffs. “I prefer this room—and your bed. At present it has a highly pertinent advantage over mine.” Cuffs undone, he set his fingers to the buttons on the placket of his shirt.
She frowned, watched his fingers move down the row of buttons…realized, bludgeoned her wits into order, forced herself to think. Felt compelled to ask, “What advantage?”
He grinned—wickedly. “Your bed has you in it.”
She narrowed her eyes, dropped his coat back on the chair. Just as, buttons all free, he stripped off his neckerchief and shirt. Her eyes went wide. “Jonas!”
Dropping both garments on the chair, he raised his brows. “What?” His expression remained studiously mild, yet amusement lurked in his dark eyes.
Dragging in a breath—difficult given her reaction to the blatant display of male charms—she pointed a finger at his chest, waved to encompass the expanse. “You can’t—we can’t…you shouldn’t be here, doing this.”
“Why not?”
“Because, despite last night,
this
cannot be. I will not be your mistress.” She hadn’t had time to think things through, but of that she was certain.
“Of course not.” He sat on the chair and proceeded to remove his boots and stockings. “I couldn’t agree more.”
She stared at him. “But…if I’m not to be your mistress, what are you doing here?”
He cocked a brow at her. “After last night, I would think you’d be able to answer that yourself.”
She felt totally at sea, but she wasn’t going to simply surrender—to him or to her inner self’s urging. Folding her arms, she fixed him with her sternest look. “While I realize last night might have given you an incorrect impression, I will not consent to being your sometime lover.”
He frowned, opened his mouth to respond—she silenced him with an upraised hand. “No—just listen. Regardless of any inclinations, this—you and me and
this
—simply cannot be. We cannot indulge our passions at will.”
Slowly his brows rose in question.
She frowned him down, tightened her arms beneath her breasts. “You know very well
why
. My reputation would be ruined, and as this is such a small village, in the circumstances you wouldn’t escape unscathed, either. And on top of that, we’re both working to restore the inn to its former glory, and any scandal will immediately drive away all the females we’ve managed to attract. Regardless of how we feel, our reputations and the inn are too important, not just to us but to many others as well, for us to so cavalierly risk all.”
His eyes had narrowed on her face. He nodded, rather curtly. “Very true.”
She inwardly frowned at his suddenly terse tone. “So you agree?”
“You haven’t said anything I haven’t already thought of.”
She let her puzzled frown materialize. “Then why are you here?”
His lips thinned; he looked down, then rose. “I never imagined you as my mistress, and even less as a ‘sometime lover.’ And while all you said is indisputably true, there’s a simple solution, one that will allow us to eat our cake and have all that, too.”
She tried to think of it, failed. “What solution?”
He looked at her then, met her eyes. His were very dark. “All you have to do is marry me, and all will be well.”
His tone was all reasonableness on the surface, but strong emotions roiled beneath.
“Marry you.” She’d stared at him before; now she felt as if her eyes would pop. “
Marry
you? But…but…” He held her gaze; in his eyes she saw his strength, the rock-solid steadfastness she’d sensed from the first. Her head whirled, her wits in absolute disarray. She uttered the first words that came into her head. “Are you serious?”
His eyes narrowed to glinting shards. “I always was.”
Jonas looked into her face, saw the depth of her astonishment, knew it was real, and felt his temper race. “I’m
deadly
serious. What the devil did you imagine my pursuit of you was about?”
She blinked, searched his eyes. “Passion. Desire. Uncontrollable urges. How was I supposed to know you meant marriage?” She flung her hands wide. “I’m your
innkeeper,
for heaven’s sake!”
“You were supposed to know because I
told
you I was wooing you.” His jaw tightened. “I also pointed out that gentlemen like me don’t seduce innkeepers.” He jabbed a finger in the direction of her nose, making her weave back. “And
don’t
bother telling me you’re my innkeeper! Everyone in the village knows you’re a lady who—presumably to escape your uncle Harold, an entirely understandable endeavor—have
temporarily
taken a position as an innkeeper. No one believes you’re
actually
an innkeeper, because you aren’t.”
He locked his gaze with hers. Eyes bright, awash with uncertainty, she stared back. Her expression, her frown, underscored her confusion. She honestly hadn’t realized…and didn’t know how to react.
That last gave him pause. Her refusing to be his wife didn’t feature in his plan.
The mere idea doused his temper, allowing the wisdom of not scaring her, or in any way pushing her so that out of stubborness or uncertainty she uttered the word “no,” to take root in his mind. Once she refused, she would feel obliged to stick to her guns, and his road would be much harder. Getting her to make up her mind in his favor was one thing; getting her to
change
it was a task he didn’t wish to face.
Straightening, he lowered his hand, manufactured a long-suffering but patient sigh. “Em—” He broke off, then cocked a brow at her. “Is that your real name?”
She considered him, then nodded.
“Beauregard?”
She lifted her chin. “That’s my real name, too.”
It just wasn’t her surname. Em felt as if she’d stepped from one reality into a completely different one. Marriage? She’d been mentally revisiting their encounters, all he’d said, why she’d thought…and had to concede that yes, he might have meant marriage all along,
but
…
More sure of herself, she folded her arms—the stance made her feel safer—and frowned more definitely at him. “You never actually said. If you’d uttered the word, or any of the associated ones, I would have known.”
He looked a little peeved at her tone. “Yes, well…” He held her gaze, then grimaced. “I knew it was marriage I wanted from the first,
but
…I didn’t accept that conclusion, not straightaway. That was what was in my mind from the first, but I didn’t want to admit it, not in words to you, or even to me. It wasn’t until a week ago that I realized there was no point fighting it, or pretending my intentions were anything else.”
He moved to stand directly before her, his dark gaze trained on her face. “But I intend to marry you and that was always my aim.” His jaw tightened again. “And—”
“And it was wrong of me, knowing you’re an honorable gentleman, to imagine you intended anything else.” She nodded, accepting the rebuke and his justifiable anger. “
But
…” She returned briefly to her recollections of their earlier encounters, then refocused on him. “While I admit I encouraged you, you
did
seduce me.”