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Chapter Fifteen
Fool. That was the only word to describe her.
Or halfwit, she supposed. Nincompoop too. Buffoon perhaps?
Very well, there were many, many words to describe her and none of them were flattering.
Chastity stared at the embroidered interior of the town coach, occupying herself with following the golden swirls with her gaze over and over. Anything to distract herself from her own idiocy. She gripped the leather seat beneath her as they bounced over a particularly rutted street. Valentine barely spared her a look.
Of course, there were numerous reasons to call her any number of things. Firstly, she had only thought to question the women in the household, believing this idea Julian was desperately in love to be behind his death, but did she not recall how John had died? Men rarely died at the hands of women.
Then she had decided to go back to her position as maid. She had given up comfort and pleasure to go back and work her fingers to calloused stumps. Oh yes, and to try to spend her time avoiding Valentine.
What an excellent job she had done of that so far.
To compound her stupidity, she had been so flustered at his appearance at her father’s house that she had forgotten to change and slip out of the back of the house so now she would have to hide behind a bush to change once more.
Or do it here.
She glanced at Valentine’s stoic expression. The wiry hair on his chin made her hands twitch. She recalled pushing her fingers through it and the tips of her fingers tingled. She’d only ever associated beards with elderly gentlemen or the portraits of ancestors from centuries ago. Never before had she thought them appealing but there was something wildly exciting about his lack of care for fashion.
Heck, if he could torture her with his stupid beard, she could torture him with undressing here in the safety of his carriage.
She contorted herself to find the top button of the gown.
His dark gaze met hers. “Whatever are you doing?”
“Unless...” She struggled to press the button through the loop, “...you wish me to try to undress in a bush again, I need to get back into my uniform.” She nodded toward the bundle upon the seat next to her.
“Stop that,” he ordered.
“I need to change.”
“Why you need to insist on changing all the time I do not know.”
“I cannot have the servants see me in a maid’s uniform. Word of my disguise will spread within hours. You already heard of this witness, after all.” The first button successfully popped through the loop and she narrowed her gaze as she focused on finding the next little fabric-covered button.
“I bet a man designed these,” she muttered.
“What?”
“A man probably designed these buttons.”
“I would have thought a modiste designed your gown.”
“My gown, yes, but not the idea of tiny little buttons.” She blew out a breath and shoved the next button through. “He probably decided it was a good way of making his wife’s life more difficult.” She affected a masculine voice. “Oh I know how to keep my wife from nagging me about how much time I spend at White’s. I shall simply ensure she has to while away the hours trying to get out of her wretched gown.”
“Not all men hate their wives.”
“In my experience, they do.” She pressed her lips together and let her hands drop to the side. Why had she said such a thing?
The clacking of the wheels on the dry ground and the gentle tap of the lamps on the side of the vehicle were deafening compared to the sudden silence that fell over them.
“I hate these gowns anyway.” He gestured up and down her.
“You do?”
“I cannot stand seeing you this way.”
