Page 25 of The Baronet’s Bartered Bride

Instead, London had brought more penury, disappointment, and struggle. What did it matter to live in Europe’s grandest city, when one was poor? Inez was never likely to see a theater production on Drury Lane, though she peered down the street as they passed. She could look at these houses but she couldn’t imagine what life was like for the grand or rich, those who had no worries about where to find the next day’s food, or repair their clothing, or find medicine when their mother was ill.

She had tried, once, to be more than a maid, and that had come to a horrible end. She didn’t have the skill to be a tradeswoman, and she had promised her mother she would not become a woman of the street. She would be trapped in other people’s houses for the rest of her life, in service to other people’s dreams and not her own.

Joseph didn’t speak, and at first, his chest against her back was as unyielding as a brick wall. Then, in time, he relaxed and let her relax against him. She grew lulled and drowsy by the heat and the pleasant scent of him, a counterpoint to the foul and varied odors of the streets they passed through.

He rode well, his body in fluid motion with the gait of the horse, and his arm around her, his hand with the ribbons resting on the pommel of the saddle before her, promised he would not let her fall. His body cradled hers, the way hers had cradled his when he pressed her against the wall and kissed her.

She oughtn’t dwell on this kiss, particularly with the way the memory and the awareness of him flushed her blood and heated her skin. She was acutely aware of the tops of her breasts, exposed without her neckerchief, freely available to his view.

Was he looking? Did he want her still? What would have happened in Dark Lane if she had pulled him into a room, a room with a soft and available bed, and there had been nothing to stop their desperate seeking?

She had not thought he desired her, and he did. The knowledge lit her like a spill. Anything she touched would take flame.

At the same time, she felt encased by him. Protected. Sheltered, and utterly safe. He had fought for her, freed her from the monster, pried her from the clutches of the man she had feared for more than two years, and now he was taking her to his home, their home, and then⁠—

The drowsy, contented feeling evaporated like mist shaken from a cloak. And then what?

He went first to the Blue Posts to return the horse, and her legs wobbled beneath her as Joseph lifted her down in the cobbled courtyard, his hands gripping her waist. His hands with the knuckles bruised and covered with dried blood, as was the side of his head where Wigsby had struck him. She had thought Joseph the mildest of men, a scholar with soft hands and a magnificent mind. And he brawled like a sailor home on shore leave.

There might be so much more she’d never seen in him, never sensed.

She held herself tensely as they walked the short distance down George Court to the house, his lean fingers wrapped around her palm. As if he were holding her so she couldn’t bolt. He, too, seemed tense, and he swore to find the latch stood free and the front door opened easily. Anyone could have come in and rifled the place while he was absent, though they would have had a time dealing with Mrs. Frost, and with her sturdy hall boy, were he about.

By the time he tugged her up the stairs, hauling at her arm like a sack of potatoes, Inez realized Joseph wasn’t protecting her any longer. He was angry.

Well, so was she.

He half dragged, half shoved her into the narrow room that held her bed and a small washstand. It had once been a dressing room but converted, since Amaranthe, when she had lived here, paid little attention to dressing. Inez stumbled, her shoe catching on the hand-woven rug when he suddenly released her.

His beautiful face was a mask of fury. Much like when he had faced Lord Wigsby, only this time, Inez was the focus of his disdain.

“So that is where you go when you leave me?” His voice was a snarl, but not a shout, as if he had some awareness there were always eyes, and ears, in that house. “You go there to hire out as a whore?”

Inez rubbed her wrist, not because he’d hurt her, but because without his warmth and solid nearness, she felt off balance and cold. His about-face in temper was more disorienting than anything else.

“I was taking work as a maid. Not a Vestal.”

“That is a place for whoring. Tamara told me what happens in Dark Lane.”

That he didn’t know already left an odd spot of tenderness in her heart that made her all the angrier with him. Why couldn’t she turn hard, like he did? He had no right to become judgmental when he didn’t know anything about her. When he didn’t know the promise she’d made and clung to, even when it would have been easier to submit.

He was suddenly quite close, his face dark as he glared down at her. “Is that what Wigsby wanted from you? Is that why he was so angry—because you denied him? Or because you did not?”

“I told you. I stole—he thinks I stole from him.”

All of a sudden, facing him, Inez was aware what a sight she must look. Her cap wrinkled and her hair in all directions. Her apron and gown stained with the contents of the spilled tray. She tore free her apron by its strings and threw it on the floor. Who knew how many washings it would take to remove the chocolate stains.

She threw her hands to her hips, heaving for breath. “I am not a whore.”

His gaze fell to her breasts, and he stared, riveted as a starving man led before a feast. “But you keep leaving. I never know where you’ve gone. I never know when you’ll be back. And you told me…all those men...”

“Just because they ask doesn’t mean I say yes! I made a vow. I haven’t been with a man since…since…”

His eyes flew to her face. “Since?”

“Since my husband died,” she whispered. The bruise on her throat had turned into a boulder, pressing on her windpipe.

His expression turned pole-axed. “You were married?”