She’d hugged him earlier. He’d felt like a king with her sweet arms around him, squeezing him with all her might and all her heart. Of course, he was a big oaf and she was hardly strong enough to give him much of a squeeze. It was the thought that counted.
He liked that she needed him. But he truly detested these social games played, the malicious poison these so-called ladies delighted in using to destroy reputations and tear others down.
“I’ll reserve a table for us for seven o’clock. Look yer best. No weepy eyes. If I see so much as a drip, I’ll cancel the reservation and we’ll dine in.”
“She’ll look like a duchess,” Gwenys assured them, casting him another of her bright smiles.
He strode down the hall to the dining room, his gaze alert for the Lawsons and their friend, Lady Trowbridge, but they must have gone out or retired to their rooms, because he encountered no one familiar.
After making the reservation, he returned to his suite, and spent the next hour attempting to relax. He settled on his bed and read one of the books on military tactics that he had purchased at the bookshop.
He soon gave up reading because all he could think about was kissing Miranda behind the shop’s bookshelves and how badly he ached to kiss her again.
Since it was approaching suppertime, he rose and began to prepare himself for the impending debacle.
Of course, he would have to look his best. Elegant, powerful. Dressed in ducal splendor.
A complete bother. But he would do this for Miranda.
He tossed off his clothes, then washed and shaved. He had just finished grooming himself when there came a knock at his door.
“Bollocks,” he muttered, wrapping a towel around his waist, since he hadn’t a robe or banyan to cover himself, and marched to the door.
However, he did not open it. What if Miranda or Gwenys were on the other side? He was naked beneath his towel.
“Who is it?”
“A letter for you, Your Grace,” said a female voice that he assumed was one of the inn’s serving maids.
“Slip it under the door.”
“Oh, it’s too thick to slide under, Your Grace.”
There was something in her tone that he did not like. It sounded mocking to his ears, perhaps even a bit suggestive. Certainly not a tone any servant would ever employ with him.
“Leave it at the door.”
“As you wish,” she said, still sounding as though this errand was a lark for her.
He waited a few moments before opening the door, for something did not sound right about that maid. Perhaps she hoped to make a few bob by offering her services to him. It happened often enough.
He heard nothing more, so he thought she had left the letter and gone away, as he’d instructed.
But when he opened up, he found a lady staring back at him with predatory cat eyes. No tame house cat, either. This woman was a dangerous jungle cat, and he realized this had to be Lady Trowbridge.
“Well, isn’t this convenient? You are even more handsome than Lady Lowery described,” she purred. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“No’ on yer life.” He held her back when she attempted to march into his suite. The witch did not waste any time, did she? Some men might have thought her attractive, for she had golden hair, an ample bosom that was a hairsbreadth from spilling outof her gown, and was batting her eyelashes at him over a pair of deep-blue eyes.
But Bram saw the harsh lines on her face. To him, she looked old, bitter, and used.
“I dinna know who ye are, nor do I wish an introduction. Who put ye up to this?”
He nudged her into the hallway and was about to shut the door in her face when Miranda suddenly opened hers and stepped out looking concerned as she held a note in her hand. “Solway, did you—”
The breath rushed out of her.
Bram groaned. Of course the witch had set this up. No doubt she’d expected Miranda would find them together in his bedchamber.
