Page 16 of Love Wasn’t Built in a Day

Hetty got up, intending to go to the window and look out, but forced herself to sit down again.

Mr Bramwell would be here when he got here, and no amount of gazing forlornly down the driveway would make him appear quicker. She really ought to stop acting like such a fool. It wasn’t as if she even liked the man. He was arrogant and rude, and he thought she was a frivolous nitwit. But that hadn’t seemed to matter much when she’d gazed at his powerful forearms. They’d been tanned and muscular, covered in coarse, wiry hair that she’d had the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch. She hadn’t, obviously. She wasn’t completely insane. But it had been harder to resist than she’d liked to admit.

The truth was, Mr Bramwell bothered her.

He’d bothered her from the first time they’d spoken when he had refused to dance with her, and it appeared to be growing worse. Still, spending more time with the man ought to cure her of whatever odd ailment had afflicted her and driven away her peace of mind. If he vexed her sufficiently, she was bound to lose her temper and then he’d do likewise and any spell he’d cast over her would surely be broken in the aftermath.

Not that she would go out of her way to vex him. She truly was interested in the hotel and wished to help make it a success. Perhaps it was silly but finding that fault in his plans and improving upon it had made her feel valued and… seen, in a way she had never known before. Not because she had proven a point and shown him up, not that, well, not entirely that. But the respect that had glinted in his eyes—that had been a heady thing. She wanted to see that look again, to prove herself worthy of it.

“Mr Bramwell to see you, my lady.”

Hetty jumped at the sound of Howard’s voice and a swift surge of colour tinged her cheeks. It was ridiculous to feel embarrassed for her thoughts when Mr Bramwell could not know she had been thinking of him, but all the same. She met his serious grey eyes with as much self-possession as she could muster.

“Good evening, Mr Bramwell. May I offer you some tea, or perhaps a cool drink,” she amended, seeing that his hair was ruffled and his neckcloth had wilted and appeared more disordered than usual.

“Something cold would be welcome, thank you,” he agreed, glancing about the room with a frown.

“I shall see to it at once,” Howard said, and left the room, careful to leave the door ajar.

Mr Bramwell shifted uneasily.

“Where is the dowager? I assumed—”

“Why?” Hetty asked in surprise when he did not finish the sentence, only looking increasingly ill at ease. “Surely you don’t want both of us picking holes in your plans?”

“No,” he replied, his fingers flexing upon the leather folder he carried. “But for propriety—”

“Oh, that.” Hetty waved this away. “You are quite safe within the confines of this house, Mr Bramwell. The staff here would walk over hot coals for the dowager. They would do nothing to upset her, and gossiping about her guests certainly comes under that heading.”

“Still, shouldn’t you have a maid or—”

Hetty ignored the comment and frowned, considering.

“Perhaps I ought not include the entire staff. Alfonse would as soon smother her in her sleep, I think.”

Mr Bramwell’s eyebrows shot up. “Who is Alfonse?”

“Her French chef. They are forever at odds, though I believe they both thrive on their little disputes. In any case, I believe it is unlikely Alfonse will accost us in the library. Dear me, where are my manners, do please put your papers and plans down upon the table.”

He nodded, moving to the table and setting down the leather folder before sliding the plans out of the large tube he carried under his arm.

Hetty walked over to stand beside him. “Well then, where shall we begin? How about in the—” She had been about to suggest, in the bedrooms, but caught herself just in time. Her cheeks burned. “The drawing rooms and parlours?”

Mr Bramwell gave her an oddly searching look but then nodded, uncapping the tube and sliding the plans carefully out. Hetty helped him to unroll them, using glass paperweights to keep the corners from curling back in.

Feeling suddenly very self-conscious, Hetty leaned over the plans.

“They truly are very elegant,” she admitted.

A breeze from the open window drifted into the room, bringing the scent of the roses that climbed this side of the house and loosing a lock of Hetty’s hair. She pushed it out of the way, tucking it behind her ear, and glanced up to see Mr Bramwell watching her.

“I’m glad you think so.”

She looked away, wishing his attention didn’t do such odd things to her equilibrium. It was most unsettling. “Where does the afternoon light come into the building?”

She dared another glance at him, in time to register the flicker of surprise glinting in his eyes, but Mr Bramwell indicated the little compass at the bottom of the drawing. “The hotel faces south, so the afternoon sun comes in through these windows on the west side. The morning sun will be enjoyed most in the breakfast parlour.”

Hetty looked up, impressed. “Excellent,” she replied, aware of the amusement in his eyes. Was he just placating her, or did he truly value her opinion? Uncertain, she turned her attention back to the drawings. He’d made sketches and watercolours of what the rooms would look like fully furnished. Some even had fashionable ladies and gentlemen sitting at their ease or walking around.