In Bed With The Duke

In panic, she dropped her stays so she could tug at the handle with both hands. But she wasn’t quick enough. He’d come right behind her. Was reaching up. Over her head.

And drawing the bolt free.

The bolt. In her panic to escape she’d forgotten all about the bolt.

‘Allow me,’ said the man, opening the door and making a mockingly courteous gesture with one hand.

Before putting the other on her back.

And shoving her out onto the landing.

The beast. The rude, nasty, horrible man! He hadn’t even let her pick up her stays! Not that she really wanted to be seen running round an inn with her stays in full view in her hands.

But still— Her lower lip trembled. If she’d had a drop of moisture in her parched body she was sure tears would have sprung to her eyes.

She rubbed at them, but got no relief. The gesture only made the landing spin, and then sort of ripple—the way the surface of a pond rippled when you threw in a pebble.

And there was something else odd about the landing. It all seemed to be the wrong way round. True, she hadn’t spent much time exploring the place when they’d arrived, but it had been such an odd little space, up under the eaves, that it was bound to have stuck in her mind. The owner of the inn had made clever use of his attics, fashioning three rooms around three sides at the top of his property, with the head of the stairwell and a broad landing taking up the fourth side. Last night, when she’d come up the stairs, she’d had to go right round the narrow gallery which bordered the stairwell to reach her room. But now she was standing right next to the staircase, which meant she hadn’t been in her room just now.

But his.

Why had she been in his room? Could she have stumbled, sleepily, into the wrong room last night?

No...no, that wasn’t it. She distinctly recalled starting to get ready for bed and her aunt coming in with a drink of hot milk.

A sound from inside the room she’d just shared with a total stranger made her jump out of her skin.

She shouldn’t be loitering here. Who was to say he wouldn’t change his mind and drag her back inside?

With legs that felt like cotton wool, she made her way round the gallery. She passed the door to the room where her aunt and her... She shook her head. She still couldn’t think of her aunt’s new husband as her uncle. He was no relation of hers. It was bad enough having to share her home with him, let alone address the old skinflint as though he was family.

She stumbled to a halt in the doorway that stood open. This was her room. She was sure this had been her room. The bed was just where it should be. And the washstand. And the little dormer window with the seat underneath on which she’d knelt to peer down at the view. She’d been able to see along the road that led to the market square. Even from this doorway she could just spy the top of the market cross.

But—where were her things? Her trunk should be just there, at the foot of the bed. Her hatbox beside it. Her toiletries, brush and comb should be on the washstand.

Confused, she tottered round the landing to the back of the house, to the room her aunt and the vile Mr Murgatroyd were sharing. There was nothing for it. She’d have to intrude, even though they might be—she shuddered—embracing, which they tended to do with revolting frequency.

She braced herself and knocked on the door. When there was no reply she knocked again, and then gingerly tried the handle. The door opened onto an empty room. No luggage. No personal clutter on the washstand or dresser.

As if they’d gone.

She blinked a couple of times and shook her head. This must all be part of the same nightmare. That was it. In a minute she’d wake up, back in... Back in...

She pinched her arm—hard.

But nothing changed. She was still standing on the landing at the top of an inn, in a little town whose name she couldn’t remember. After waking up in bed with a naked man.

It couldn’t be happening.

Her aunt and her new husband must be downstairs. Paying the bill. That was it. They couldn’t have abandoned her. They just couldn’t have.

Her heart fluttering like a butterfly trapped in a jam jar, she turned away from the empty room and ran down the stairs.

Chapter Two (#ulink_ff604277-1060-586a-9e11-a01e4604aaf7)

‘We run a respectable establishment,’ said the landlady, glaring at Gregory as she folded her arms over her ample bosom.

‘Really?’ If this was what passed for a ‘respectable’ establishment, he hated to think what she considered unrespectable. Disrespectable. He gave himself a mental shake. Why couldn’t he think of the word for the opposite of respectable?

‘So we’d be obliged if you’d pay your shot and leave.’

‘I haven’t had my breakfast.’

‘Nor will we be serving you any. We don’t hold with putting our guests through the kind of scene you caused this morning.’

‘I didn’t cause any kind of scene.’

Why was he bandying words with this woman? He never bandied words with anyone. People did as they were told or felt the force of his displeasure.

‘Well, that’s not what my Albert told me,’ said the landlady. ‘Came to me with tales of guests complaining they’d been woken up by screaming women in the halls, naked girls in rooms where they didn’t ought to be, and—’

He held up one imperious hand for silence. Very well, he conceded there had been a scene. In which he’d become embroiled. Now that he came to think of it, did he really want to break his fast here? The last meal he’d eaten under this roof, although palatable, had ended with him sinking into a state of oblivion so profound it appeared a band of criminals had attempted to perpetrate some kind of...of crime against him.

Dammit, he’d thought his mind was getting clearer. He’d managed to summon up words like palatable and perpetrate. Why, for heaven’s sake, had he been unable to come up with another word for crime?

It felt as though someone had broken into his head and stolen three-quarters of his brain. When he’d first awoken he’d likened it to the kind of haze that followed a night of heavy drinking. A state he disliked so much he’d only very rarely sought the form of release that alcohol promised. And then only when he’d been young enough to know no better.

And the landlady was still standing there, hands on her hips now, glaring past him at the state of his room as though expecting to see the naked girl he’d ejected the moment she’d put on her clothes. That sounded wrong. As though he’d only tolerated her in his room while she was naked. What he’d meant was that of course he wouldn’t have thrown her out until she was dressed. That would not have been a decent thing to do.

While he was standing there, wondering why his thoughts were in such a muddle when he was used to making incisive decisions about complex issues in the blink of an eye, the landlady’s eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared. He followed the direction of her fixed stare to see what had put that disgusted expression on her face. And spied a stocking. A lady’s stocking. Dangling from the mirror over the washstand. Looking for all the world as though it had been thrown there during an explosion of frenzied undressing.

He stalked across the room, wrenched it from the mirror and shoved it into his pocket, feeling...cheated. If he really had torn that girl’s clothing from her in a burst of passion so overwhelming he’d thrown her stockings clear across the room, then he ought to be able to remember it. Remember being so out of control that he’d not only scattered her clothing all over the room but his own, too.

He shivered in distaste at the recollection that his shirt had spent its night on the floor. A floor that was none too clean.

‘I will be down directly,’ he said, coming to a sudden decision to shake the dust of this place from his shoes. As he’d had to shake the dust from his shirt a short while ago.

The landlady gave him one last basilisk stare before very pointedly stepping over the stays that lay on the floor by the door through which she exited.

He strode to the door and slammed it shut after her. Picked up the stays. Glared at them. Wondered for a moment why he felt such reluctance to leave them lying exactly where they were.

Because he didn’t want any trace of himself, or whatever had happened here, lingering after he’d gone, he decided. Which was why he thrust them into the one meagre little valise he’d brought with him. Then he went to the washstand and rolled up his shaving kit, tossed it into the valise with the stays and the rest of his things.

Not that the stays were his.

And who was likely to look in his valise and imply that they were?

Nobody—that was who. Not once he’d returned to where he belonged. Which he planned to do as soon as possible.