"Agreed. And no disturbances after ten o'clock."
"Nine o'clock," Catherine countered.
"Nine-thirty."
"Done."
They shook hands with all the solemnity of nations signing a treaty, ignoring the delighted titters from their audience.His hand, Catherine noticed, was surprisingly callused for a gentleman—though everything about him suggested he was indeed that, from the excellent cut of his coat (visible now that he'd shed his greatcoat) to the unconscious authority in his bearing. Yet there was something else, something in the way he moved, the way his eyes constantly tracked movement in the room...
"Well then," Mr. Hartwell clapped his hands together with obvious glee. "That's settled! Tom will see to your luggage, so it can be salvaged from the storm. This way, if you please. Mind the leak in the corridor and watch the third step, it's coming loose..."
As they followed the innkeeper up the narrow staircase, Catherine couldn't shake the feeling that she'd just made either a very sensible decision or a catastrophic error. The stranger, Mr. Wrentham, walked behind her, and she was acutely aware of his presence, the way he automatically steadied her when she stumbled on the infamous third step, his hand at her elbow for just a moment before retreating.
"Thank you," she murmured.
"Can't have you breaking your neck before we've established all the rules," he replied, and she could hear that hint of amusement again. "For instance, we haven't discussed breakfast."
"What about breakfast?"
"Who gets the sitting room? Surely you don't expect me to take my morning coffee in my bedchamber like an ill person?"
"Perhaps you should have considered that before engaging in a bidding war you were destined to lose."
"I wasn't aware I had lost."
"Well, you're sharing accommodations with a complete stranger and her maid, aren't you? I'd hardly call that a victory."
"That depends entirely on the stranger."
Catherine turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. "Was that supposed to be flattery, Mr. Wrentham? Because if so, it needs considerable work."
"Merely an observation, Miss Mayfer. Though if I were attempting flattery, I might observe that you look rather charming with your bonnet in its current state of collapse. Very... extraordinary in taste."
Despite herself, Catherine laughed. "It's the latest fashion from Paris. 'Désolation après le déluge,' I believe they're calling it."
"Ah, French. How sophisticated. My valet would be impressed. If I had brought him. Which I didn't."
"No valet? How remarkably... independent of you."
They'd reached the corner room, and Mr. Hartwell fumbled with an impressive ring of keys, each seemingly more ancient than the last. "Here we are, then. The Blue Chambers, we call it, on account of the hangings. Though they're more of a greenish color in certain lights. My late wife, always insisted they wereturquoise, but between you and me, I think she just liked the sound of the word."
The door swung open to reveal a sitting room that was, Catherine had to admit, quite pleasant despite the slightly dubious color of the aforementioned hangings. A fire already crackled in the grate, casting dancing shadows across furniture that, while clearly past its prime, had once been quite fine. Two doors led off from opposite sides of the room.
"The ladies' chamber to the left," Mr. Hartwell announced, "the gentleman's to the right. Each with its own fireplace, of course. I'll have hot water sent up directly, and supper can be taken here or in the public room, as you prefer."
"Here," Catherine and Mr. Wrentham said in unison, then looked at each other with matching expressions of annoyance.
"Separately," Catherine added quickly.
"Obviously," Mr. Wrentham agreed.
Mr. Hartwell's grin suggested he was enjoying this far too much. "I'll have trays sent up then."
With that unsettling observation, he departed, leaving Catherine and Mr. Wrentham standing awkwardly in the sitting room while Martha attempted to disappear into the wallpaper.
"Well," Catherine said after a moment. "This is..."
"Awkward? Improper? Potentially scandalous?"
