Page 31 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

After a quiet rap on the door to ensure no one was within, she entered to discover that Lord Ryland had been given a large and well-appointed suite, including a sitting room with a small table for dining and a bedchamber with separate dressing area. Instinctively, a flicker of annoyance, or perhaps jealousy, passed through her. Her money had paid for this luxury, after all—luxury she was not permitted to enjoy.

But he had not requested such accommodations, she reminded herself. The woman below had known his rank and simply assumed. Constantia thought of those faded pink draperies in his bedchamber in London. If one were a necessitous nobleman, it was no doubt difficult to pinch pennies without calling attention to circumstances one would rather not broadcast. Witness the fact that Ryland was at present suffering the noise of a crowded dining room rather than pay servants extra to bring his food here.

He would eat quickly, she decided, eager to retire to this private and pleasant space. She might not have much time. So, crossing the fingers of her bandaged hand for luck, she headed toward the bedchamber.

Like the sitting room, it might well have passed for unoccupied. The dark green coverlet was unwrinkled; no head had dented the plump pillows. Only in the dressing room did she find evidence of his presence: his greatcoat hung from one peg, the shirt and cravat he’d been wearing from another; his valise sat open on a stool; and the contents of his toiletry kit were spread in orderly fashion about the washstand.

Stepping closer, she touched the outside of the water pitcher. Warm, but not hot. He had not been gone long enough for it to turn cold. She dragged a fingertip over the prickly bristles of his hairbrush, paused to sniff his cologne. He’d changed clothes, taken some pains to make himself presentable, but he had not shaved.

From an artistic standpoint, she rather liked him with the dark shadow of a beard. It made his jaw sharper, his face more . . . interesting.

Though they were hardly necessities, she meant to pack his gift of crayons and paper in her bag. That way she would have the means to draw him from memory once she was safe. Reining in the thought, she turned to the valise.

At first she found nothing but the expected items of clothing: fresh linen, a nightshirt, another pair of stockings. Then her fingers encountered the crinkly paper in which the laudanum bottle was wrapped, used by apothecaries so that patients would know, even in the dark, what they’d got into their hands. She hesitated for a moment, then decided it might prove beneficial and tucked it into the neck of her nightdress, between her breasts.

Further searching found nothing more of use to her in the valise. Had he taken his purse with him to dine? It seemed possible, probable even. Nevertheless, she refused to be thwarted. Turning to the pockets of his greatcoat, she began to rummage through them. At long last, the clink of coins told her she had succeeded in her quest.

Withdrawing the leather pouch, she spilled the coins onto her bandaged palm. He’d spent carefully, she would say that much for him. And she did not intend to leave him without sufficient funds to pay the coachman or the bill for their lodgings. He had been generous—generous with her money, it was true—but too generous for her to reward him with humiliation. Counting off a suitable sum, she dropped those coins back into his pocket and was in the process of taking the rest when she heard the click of a door latch.

A servant, mostly likely, come to fetch the dirty water away. If she were caught here, purse in hand, everyone would assume she was stealing from her employer. To preserve his good name, Lord Ryland might have little choice but to cast her off. She’d be turned out into the night, all on her own but not as she’d planned, with nothing and no way to start again. She simply could not afford to be spotted in his rooms.

But no matter how frantically she scoured the corners and crevices, neither the dressing room nor the bedchamber offered any place for her to hide.

At least she would not have to wait long for her fate to be sealed. There was nothing in any other part of the suite that would require a servant’s attention for more than a moment or two. Footsteps approached the door to the bedchamber, and she thrust her hands behind her back.

Her pulse pounding in her ears had muffled those footfalls. Otherwise, she might have realized more quickly that they did not belong to a maidservant, or even a footman. No, what she’d heard had been the booted tread of a gentleman.

Lord Ryland appeared in the doorway to the room.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, his tone not precisely angry, but certainly surprised.

“I, uh—my, my headache has returned. Carriage travel never has agreed with me. I was looking for the laudanum.”

He nodded, though one dark eyebrow lifted in a skeptical quirk. “I’m sorry to hear that. But why didn’t you ring for a servant, have them find me? If you’re feeling unwell, you might better have been resting in your room.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. A much better idea. But I-I’m not accustomed to having servants, you see. I prefer to—”

“Do things for yourself,” he finished, moving toward her as he spoke, the way one approached a timid animal one didn’t wish to frighten. “Yes, I’ve noticed. Well, did you find it? Or shall I—?”

Eventually only the corner of the bed separated them. Not long until he discovered she’d taken more than the laudanum. And not long after that until he pieced together her intentions. He was rather cleverer than she’d given him credit for being. He would tell her that the risk of setting out alone was too great. He might even try to stop her. She needed a distraction, and she seized on the first that came to mind.

She launched herself forward and kissed him.

Lips and teeth met in an uncomfortable clash. Neither of them closed their eyes.

He didn’t kiss like a practiced rake, to be sure.

Not that she had a great deal of experience kissing rakes—kissing anyone. Kisses required a degree of proximity, both physical and emotional, that she made it a rule never to allow.

And to be fair, this might not be his best effort. She had startled him. Instinctively, both of his hands had risen as she’d approached. To push her away, she’d thought at first. Or perhaps to catch her, imagining that she’d stumbled.

Now they hovered not quite an inch from her body, one at her waist and the other at her head, almost but not quite cupping her cheek. She could feel the brush of his fingers against the blowsy halo of her hair, the way a cat’s whiskers sensed danger.

Why, then, was she tempted to nestle against his palm and purr?

Perhaps because his mouth had begun to soften. Almost imperceptibly, the kiss became something else, not an awkward embrace between strangers or the plundering conquest of a rake, but a tender, eager exploration. His eyes drifted shut, almost unwillingly, like a drowsy child resisting much-needed sleep. Or a proper gentleman succumbing to unwelcome desire. His charcoal-black lashes fanned over his cheeks in spiky shadows.

Her own eyes threatened to follow suit, to close, to surrender to the kiss. But another part of her wanted to go on looking at him forever.