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Chapter 4
Lucas returned to the roomand unlocked the door precisely twenty minutes after taking himself off to wander the stable yard. Lavinia Fernley had been exhausted enough to fall asleep sitting up earlier. He suspected that she wouldn’t dillydally about preparing herself for bed.
He’d been correct in his assessment. By the dim light of the single lit candle she’d left for him, he could see her burrowed under the blankets, a huddled lump of a person with only the top of her head poking out. His curiosity about her appearance—whyhe was curious, he had no idea—would have to wait until morning to be satisfied.
He turned away from the bed and noticed, much to his surprise, that she had folded a blanket and laid it on the floor next to the fireplace, along with one of the pillows, for him to use.
He quickly stripped out of his coat and waistcoat and tugged off his boots and neckcloth. The rest of his clothing would remain on for propriety’s sake. His good friend Anthony had merely been caught kissing a woman and had found himself thoroughly entangled in the parson’s trap. Now, here Lucas was spending the entire night alone with a strange female who had announced to all and sundry that he was her husband. If he wasn’t exceedingly careful, he could find himself similarly stuck. Anthony had been fortunate; he’d at leastseenAmelia and had known he cared for her before being compelled to offer for her hand. Things had turned out remarkably well for them, considering the circumstances.
Lucas lay down on the blanket, setting his coat next to him in case he needed it for warmth come morning, and blew out the candle. He wasn’t willing to bet that he would have the same good fortune, based on what he’d deduced about Miss Fernley so far. Her appearance, with her large cap, greasy face, and baggy sack of a dress, hadn’t offered much information. When she’d been in his arms, she had at least felt surprisingly normal, but that was the only positive he’d been able to discern thus far.
There was also more to the situation than she had told him. She was to meet up with friends, she’d said, traveling to a property she apparently owned. And yet she’d felt the need to travel in disguise. It had more to do with hiding her identity than merely keeping safe, Lucas was certain. Why would she feel the need to do that?
He bent one knee and braced his foot against the floor, then stared upward at the ceiling, not that he could see anything. Only a little starlight was making its way through the window, and there was no moon. He shut his eyes and tried to sleep. He could hear the evenness of Miss Fernley’s breathing and knew she had fallen asleep already, but then, she was in a soft bed, wasn’t she? The floor was hard under his back. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t endured before—he’d slept on the ground more times than he could count, but he’d obviously readjusted to the comfort of a bed since his return from Spain. He plumped the pillow beneath his head and shifted his position to get more comfortable.
The fire in the grate had been banked, the coals barely sharing their low red light and providing only the merest bit of heat along one side of his body. Blast it all. He’d meant to burn Isobel’s letter, but he’d forgotten. He sat up and removed the letter from the pocket of his coat and tossed it in the grate, then watched as it gradually caught fire, flared briefly, and turned to ash before lying down again.
Isobel had called him “her brother and friend.” The words still rankled. Of course, Lucas knew he was her brother. Brother-in-law, to be precise. And they had been friends growing up. The closest of friends.
But Lucas, in his youthful foolishness, had thought it more than friendship. When he’d gone off to Cambridge, he had thought there’d been an understanding between the two of them. Not many weeks after, he’d received a letter from his mother informing him of Isobel’s betrothal to his eldest brother, Thomas.
They had celebrated a Christmas wedding. Lucas had attended the nuptials and had enlisted in the army the following day.
Miss Fernley let out a sigh and shifted on the bed.
Lucas shook his head at the irony of it all. He was returning home to his family, which now included the girl he’d loved his entire life but who was off-limits to him, and on the way, he’d gotten himself—through no fault of his own—“shackled” to a female of unknown origin, dubious motives, and questionable appearance. He finally managed to drift off to sleep, the image of Isobel’s face his last waking thought.
Lucas awoke abruptly at dawn, as had been his habit in Spain, and it had not changed since his return. Miss Fernley—he really must remember to refer to her as Lavinia while they were here at the inn—was still asleep. It was just as well; he had several things he wished to take care of this morning before he must contend further with her.
He rose from the floor and donned his clothing, then built up the fire in the grate before taking himself to the stable yard, where he could wash and see to his basic morning needs.
If he was to free himself from his temporary wife and begin his journey home, he determined as he splashed cold water from the stable pump on his face, he must first reunite her with her friends. A gentleman would do no less. And that meant finding a nearby inn with the name White Hart.
* * *
Lavinia awakened with a start. It took only the briefest of moments for her mind to clear and for her to remember that she wasn’t in the small house she had rented and shared with Hannah, Delia, and Artie. She was in a hostelry, after accosting a stranger and unwittingly pulling him into her plans.
He was not currently in the room, although he had taken the time—and the courtesy—to rekindle the fire before taking his leave.
She had heard him return last night. She’d barely settled herself in the bed when she’d heard the key turn in the lock. She’d pretended to be sound asleep—she was good at that, having played death scenes on stage numerous times. And feigning death in front of a large audience was infinitely more difficult than feigningsleep. Thankfully, the muffled noises she’d heard him making had told her he’d been settling down for the night and had no intention of disturbing her.
Perhaps he really was an honorable gentleman, although she’d never met one before, and he’d seen her only in disguise thus far, so she wasn’t entirely convinced. She was reminded again how impulsive her actions from the night before had been—and how fortunate she was, considering he may have proven to be as bad and untrustworthy as every other man of her acquaintance had been. Excepting poor Artie, of course.
The soft light coming through the window told her it was still fairly early in the morning. She bounded out of bed and quickly washed and donned her gray dress, then sat at the small dressing table next to the bed and unpinned her hair.
It felt good to pull out the pins and loosen the braids after having her head assaulted by them all night long. She ran her fingers through her hair, separating the woven stands that reached nearly to her waist.
Too late she heard the key turn in the lock. She jumped quickly to her feet, pulling her hair over one shoulder in a vain attempt to twist it up and hide it.
The door opened, and Lucas Jennings stepped inside.
Lavinia knew the exact moment her appearance hit him—not the ugly gray dress and drab cosmetics this time but her own features, most particularly her hair. Her dratted, garishly red, unavoidably obvious hair. He inhaled sharply and took a step back, his eyes wide with shock.
Lavinia boldly returned his gaze while he stared at her, his mouth hanging open like a fish gasping for water. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Now you understand why the face paint and cap were necessary,” she said.
“I—” he stammered.
“Precisely,” she said, sitting again and picking up her brush. “If you think you are the first man to react in such a foolish manner, you would be wildly inaccurate.”
