Page 41 of A Convenient Fiction

He gave the door a gentle push. It swung wide, revealing a marble fireplace, an imposing mahogany wardrobe, and a silk-draped dressing table littered with feminine bric-a-brac. His gaze drifted over the crystal perfume bottles, enameled containers, and set of silver-plated hairbrushes.

How easy it was to imagine her sitting there, arranging her ebony hair. His chest tightened with unwelcome emotion at the thought of it.

Helpless frustration followed.

What the devil was he doing? Lurking about outside Miss Hayes’s bedroom like some starving stray dog outside of a butcher’s shop?

But the room called to him, just as its owner did. Home, it seemed to say. A place of respite, and peace. Of crisp sheets and soft pillows.

The orphanage had had none of those things. There, he’d slept in a cold dormitory with dozens of other boys, housed two to a bed. He and Tom Finchley had shared a mattress of perpetually damp, insect-ridden straw. It had never been clean enough. Warm enough.

It had never been a home.

Not like Bramble Cottage. And not like Miss Hayes’s room, the intimacy of it beckoning to him so sweetly. It took an effort to withdraw from her door and return back the way he’d come.

He’d spent the past three days avoiding her. As much as she could be avoided when she was acting as companion to Henrietta Talbot.

And now, here he was, in her house—practically in her room—not avoiding her at all.

If he had any sense he’d return to the vicarage. There was no reason to remain now that Mrs. Bainbridge was settled. No reason save a flicker of curiosity about Miss Hayes’s brother—and a nearly overpowering concern for Miss Hayes herself.

“Mr. Archer?” She emerged from her brother’s room, holding the door open. “If you’d like to come in?”

It was a large room, not unlike her own, except for a general sense of masculine clutter. An enormous black-and-white cat sat on the bed. It regarded Alex with large, unblinking eyes.

Miss Hayes gave it a scratch beneath its chin. “This is Magpie.”

Alex stopped briefly to pet the cat. The smug beast permitted his touch, much in the way a god might permit obeisance from a worshipper.

Miss Hayes advanced into the room. “And this is my brother, Edward Hayes.”

Near the window Miss Hayes’s brother was seated in front of a desk in a wheeled chair. He was in his shirt sleeves, a conspicuous ink stain on his right cuff. “You may call me Teddy,” he said, extending his hand. “Everyone does.”

Alex shook it firmly, surprised at the young man’s strength. “Then you must call me Alex.”

“Are you staying long in Lower Hawley?”

“If things go well.”

And they were going well. Squire Talbot seemed to genuinely like him. He’d taken Alex out on the estate more than once. Had shared brandy and cigars with him in his study. Had even solicited Alex’s opinion on installing a private gasworks.

Things with Henrietta Talbot were advancing at equal speed.

Not only had they progressed to addressing each other by their given names, only yesterday he’d come very close to kissing her. She’d been flirting with him all afternoon in that haughty way of hers. And he’d been flirting right back, inclining his head to hers to make some teasing remark. She’d swiftly turned her face up, bringing her pouting lips a fraction of an inch from his.

Her intention had been unmistakable—and very much in accordance with his plans. And yet…

And yet, he’d drawn back from her, as sharply as Miss Hayes had drawn back from him that day under the yew tree.

It had annoyed Henrietta. And it had left Alex angry and confused—and more resolved than ever to avoid Laura Hayes.

She stood at the tall window near her brother’s desk, her slim hands clasped loosely in front of her. Her dress was clearly her Sunday best. It was dark blue silk, with unflounced skirts, wide sleeves, and a delicate velvet ribbon belt. A dated fashion, but it flattered her figure, brought out the blue of her eyes, and gave her fair skin a luminous glow. “Mr. Archer has come to Lower Hawley to court Henrietta Talbot,” she said.

Alex stiffened. More than anyone else in the village, Miss Hayes saw him for exactly what he was. A fortune hunter. A villain. Even so, something about her blunt statement rankled.

“Miss Laura?” the housekeeper’s voice sounded from the threshold. “Your aunt is asking for you.”

“Yes, Mrs. Crabtree. In a moment.” Miss Hayes looked to her brother. “Will you—”