The Rake's Inherited Courtesan

She quelled a sudden urge to laugh at his injured expression. ‘Then you have me to thank for a novel experience.’

He scowled.

She’d gone too far. She edged away a fraction.

‘It’s an experience I could have done without,’ he said. ‘And I’d liefer not go through it again. If it is not too much trouble, I would appreciate your behaving with suitable decorum at this next inn.’ Despite his repressive tone, he no longer sounded furious.

A sideways glance revealed his lips in a slight curve. ‘Gad,’ he muttered, staring straight ahead. ‘A novel experience.’

Her lips twitched. She pressed them together, but not before she knew he’d caught the beginning of her smile.

‘Don’t worry about your trunk,’ he said after a brief silence. ‘It will be safe at the Sussex Hotel. The landlord appears to run a tight ship.’

‘As we found to our cost.’

He smiled. ‘Indeed.’

Her breath caught somewhere between her throat and her heart. The grin made him younger, almost boyish. His eyes crinkled at the corners and danced with green pinpricks of light. Unable to resist, she smiled back.

The travelling must have sent her wits to sleep. Signs of friendliness posed risks she dare not entertain. Men were dangerous enough without encouragement. She straightened in her seat and braced herself for what might lie ahead.

At a crossroads, he slowed the horses and turned them off the London Road. Sylvia tried to read the signpost, but the faded letters flashed by too fast. High hedges and overhanging trees cast deep shadows in the rutted, twisting lane. A flutter of disquiet attacked her stomach. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Somewhere we will be welcome, of that I can assure you. It is not far now.’

Did he have to be so mysterious? This stiff young man at her side thought her a wanton. So he should. She’d behaved like a strumpet, gambling everything on his desire to be rid of her. What if he changed his mind? Alone with a young and virile man, who-knew-where, tasted of risk.

Better him, than one of those other men at the Sussex Hotel. Better? A sudden tremble shook her limbs. She clenched her fingers around her locket, a familiar anchor to her past in the storm-tossed ocean of an uncertain future. If it came to a confrontation, somehow she had to make him understand she was not like her mother.

The Bird in Hand’s mullioned windows flickered with warm light, a lighthouse in the deepening dusk. Wood smoke scented the cool air and the front door stood open in welcome.

Christopher hadn’t been here since his grandmother had died, but it looked the same as always. The blackened Tudor timbers breathed permanence, despite the green of new thatch and a recent extension to the adjoining stables. A plaque over the weathered oak door boasted of hosting Good Queen Bess in the year fifteen hundred and fifty-six—along with half of England’s other inns. He brought the horses to a stand.

A balding groom ran out from the stables and grasped the team’s bridles.

A wonderful aroma of roasted meat filled Christopher’s nostrils and set his mouth watering. If he could count on one thing, it was Mrs Dorkin’s cooking.

‘How pretty,’ Miss Boisette said.

‘Yes.’ Christopher rolled his stiff shoulders. ‘And I can guarantee we won’t be turned away.’

‘I am pleased to hear it.’ Strain edged her voice.

The paleness of her countenance startled him. Now she felt nervous? She should have been a little more concerned back at the Sussex, a great deal more worried, based on his judgement of Lord Albert’s intentions. The prancing ninny had his hands all over her. His gut churned.

But she had stood up to him, held her ground. He couldn’t but help admire her courage, when it would have been so easy to flee, or to give in to the lordling’s blandishments. And beneath the courage, he’d sensed a very real fear.

Thrusting the recollection aside, Christopher climbed down and reached up to help her alight. He caught her by the waist. Slender and lithe beneath his fingers, the heavy wool of her drab gown and grey cloak did little to disguise her womanly curves. The urge to bring her close and let her slide down his body shortened his breath.

Hell. He was no better than the popinjay at the inn.

Arms rigid, he placed her on the ground away from him, once more surprised by her small stature. For some reason, he imagined her taller. Something about her innate dignity and solemn demeanour added to her height. She had more pride than a duchess when she wasn’t playing the wanton.

‘Mr Christopher.’ Gladness rang in the voice calling out through the door and Christopher turned to greet the generously proportioned matron who burst into the courtyard. She wiped her hands on her snowy apron and held them out in welcome.

He winced. Heaven knew what she’d say about him turning up with an unchaperoned female. He smiled. ‘Mrs Dorkin. How are you?’

‘Why on earth didn’t you write and tell us you were coming?’ she said in mock-scolding tones and her forefinger wagging. ‘I would have aired the sheets special, just like your mother always ordered at the big house.’

Bloody hell. As if he needed more tender care than he’d suffered already. ‘Mrs Dorkin, this is a friend of the family, Miss Sylvia Boisette.’ He turned to Sylvia. ‘Mrs Dorkin cooked for my grandparents at their estate near here.’

‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ Sylvia murmured with a smile.

Relief washed through Christopher. At least she wasn’t giving dear old Mrs Dorkin her frosty face. In the old days, the cook had been his only ally against the army of doctors who insisted he eat nothing but gruel. Fortunately, she believed a lad needed his nourishment.

‘We were supposed to lodge at the Sussex Hotel tonight,’ he said, opening his arms in a gesture of regret. ‘But somehow they let our rooms go. I do hope you can accommodate us?’

Mrs Dorkin placed her hands on her ample hips. ‘The Sussex Hotel, is it? And you no more than a stone’s throw from the Bird? I’m surprised at you, Mr Christopher. Come in, do. It’s late and you must be tired.’

She waved a hand in the direction of the front door. ‘I’ve a nice bit of roast pork on the spit and there’s some cottage pie and I think a capon or two—cold, mind—left over from Sunday. Now then, Mr Christopher, I know that finicky appetite of yours, I’ll expect you to let me know if none of it takes your fancy.’ She shook her head. ‘Mercy me, I am sure to find some cheese somewhere and I baked bread this afternoon.’

The warm chatter eased his tension, the way it had calmed him as a boy racked by fever. He gestured for Miss Boisette to step inside. Shadows like bruises lay beneath her huge cornflower eyes. She looked exhausted and scared.

Damn it. The wench had been bold enough an hour ago in the face of the innkeeper’s rudeness and Lord Albert’s obviously dishonourable intentions.

Christopher clenched his jaw. He couldn’t entirely blame the young rakehell. He’d acted like any other hot-blooded male faced with an irresistible opportunity. And Miss Boisette certainly was all of that. Why the hell had she not stayed with her friend? Suspicion reared an ugly head. Perhaps she had followed him, thinking him an easy mark after his generosity.

Mrs Dorkin pitched her voice into the back of the house. ‘Pansy! Dratted girl, never around when you need her.’

A scrawny wench came at a run, her cheeks as red as if she’d been roasting her face instead of the pork.

‘Show the young lady up to the second-floor bedroom.’ Mrs Dorkin smiled at Sylvia. ‘You’ll find that’s the best room, miss. Quiet.’

‘Thank you,’ she murmured.

Christopher grinned at the plump matron, much as he had when he had lived at his grandmother’s house. ‘Mrs Dorkin, we are starving. Anything you could do to hurry dinner along will be much appreciated.’

‘Dinner in half an hour, don’t be late.’ Mrs Dorkin’s voice faded away as she travelled into the depths of the old inn. ‘Maybe I have some of the nice fruitcake I baked for the vicar last Sunday. You always liked fruitcake…’

Shoulders slumped, Sylvia started after the maid.

Christopher put a hand on her arm. ‘I should have warned you. She’s a dear, but she loves to talk.’

‘She seems very kind. I hadn’t realised just how famished I am. All that talk of food…’

The faintness of her voice, weary posture and attempted smile caused him a pang of guilt. Curse it. No wonder she looked ready to wilt, she’d eaten almost nothing at lunch.

Unwelcome sympathy stirred in his chest. This was the first time today he’d seen her control slip. His questions would wait until after dinner.