room. The chamber is a large one.”
A clap of thunder roared outside, and rain slapped against the door behind them. Tristan didn’t dare look at Miss Covington and didn’t bother inquiring about other inns in the area. He knew that in this stretch of countryside, lodgings would be a rarity. Vocal cords tightening, he said, “I would prefer to keep him with me. The, uh, trundle will be fine.”
She nodded, pursing her lips. “I reckoned as much. Well, me husband will show ye up. We’re done serving supper, but I can send some stew up to ye. I daresay the pot is still bubbling.”
He nodded and fumbled for money to prepay their shot—anything to lessen the time they would be here in the morning.
While the innkeeper showed them to the room, he could feel Miss Covington’s gaze boring into him, for once sharp with emotion. Was she angry at him? She had to know he’d had no choice but to accept the chamber without hesitation. Afraid, perhaps? Was it possible she might not realize he had no intention of actually sleeping in the room with her?
As soon as they entered, he practically shut the door in the innkeeper’s face. Grappling with the door latch, he said, “I shall sleep in the stables, of course. If the carriage is repaired early, perhaps I can move into that.”
He got the latch hooked and turned to find her inspecting the chamber, a surprisingly commodious and well maintained room. Her profile gave him no hint to her temper.
She leaned over a trundle bed in the far corner and dragged it away from the wall. Turning down a thick coverlet and examining the sheets, she asked, “How do you propose to explain to the stablehands why your valet is to sleep in comfort while you are exposed to the elements?”
Angry . He should have known fear wouldn’t be her style. The valet fabrication had been stupid of him, but hindsight was pointless. “Perhaps we can say that you’re ill...”
At last she met his gaze, her brows raised. “Shall we tell them I suffer from a putrid fever—cholera, perhaps? For you to sleep in the carriage I should have to be quite indisposed, don’t you think? And don’t you think such a story will get us both thrown out into the rain?”
He stood mute, a brew of mixed sentiments simmering under his collar. She had no right to be vexed. His lie had been poor but necessitated only by her poor disguise. Meanwhile, he was putting his entire future at stake for her.
The sole thing that kept him from venting his ire was a consciousness of what he owed her father’s memory. Hell, if not for Sir Francis’ encouragement, he might never have formed his political aspirations. An image surfaced in his mind of what the baronet would think if he could see his daughter now, trapped for the night in a thoroughly compromising position. He would turn over in his grave—and Tristan had facilitated the whole mess.
Miss Covington sighed and sat down on the cot. Just as he was about to apologize, she said, “Pray forgive me. I am a bit overset by the circumstances, but ‘tis only on my account that we’re in this predicament.”
“No,” he said. “I entered this plan willingly, despite having been about in the world more than you and having a better understanding of the risks. I ought to have known better. I should have come up with another, more practical—”
“Don’t be daft. You have done far more than anyone could expect of you.” She looked down at the coverlet, running a hand over the linen. “You know, for a trundle, this feels almost comfortable. I would be happy to sleep here myself, but I gather that you will insist I take the...the bed.”
Her tone wavered on the last words, and she wouldn’t look up at him. She was afraid after all, and rightly so, considering it seemed they must share the room. Yet she had resigned herself to accept the arrangement, a fact that astounded him.
While he stood scouring his mind for another possibility, she got up and walked to the bed,
A clap of thunder roared outside, and rain slapped against the door behind them. Tristan didn’t dare look at Miss Covington and didn’t bother inquiring about other inns in the area. He knew that in this stretch of countryside, lodgings would be a rarity. Vocal cords tightening, he said, “I would prefer to keep him with me. The, uh, trundle will be fine.”
She nodded, pursing her lips. “I reckoned as much. Well, me husband will show ye up. We’re done serving supper, but I can send some stew up to ye. I daresay the pot is still bubbling.”
He nodded and fumbled for money to prepay their shot—anything to lessen the time they would be here in the morning.
While the innkeeper showed them to the room, he could feel Miss Covington’s gaze boring into him, for once sharp with emotion. Was she angry at him? She had to know he’d had no choice but to accept the chamber without hesitation. Afraid, perhaps? Was it possible she might not realize he had no intention of actually sleeping in the room with her?
As soon as they entered, he practically shut the door in the innkeeper’s face. Grappling with the door latch, he said, “I shall sleep in the stables, of course. If the carriage is repaired early, perhaps I can move into that.”
He got the latch hooked and turned to find her inspecting the chamber, a surprisingly commodious and well maintained room. Her profile gave him no hint to her temper.
She leaned over a trundle bed in the far corner and dragged it away from the wall. Turning down a thick coverlet and examining the sheets, she asked, “How do you propose to explain to the stablehands why your valet is to sleep in comfort while you are exposed to the elements?”
Angry . He should have known fear wouldn’t be her style. The valet fabrication had been stupid of him, but hindsight was pointless. “Perhaps we can say that you’re ill...”
At last she met his gaze, her brows raised. “Shall we tell them I suffer from a putrid fever—cholera, perhaps? For you to sleep in the carriage I should have to be quite indisposed, don’t you think? And don’t you think such a story will get us both thrown out into the rain?”
He stood mute, a brew of mixed sentiments simmering under his collar. She had no right to be vexed. His lie had been poor but necessitated only by her poor disguise. Meanwhile, he was putting his entire future at stake for her.
The sole thing that kept him from venting his ire was a consciousness of what he owed her father’s memory. Hell, if not for Sir Francis’ encouragement, he might never have formed his political aspirations. An image surfaced in his mind of what the baronet would think if he could see his daughter now, trapped for the night in a thoroughly compromising position. He would turn over in his grave—and Tristan had facilitated the whole mess.
Miss Covington sighed and sat down on the cot. Just as he was about to apologize, she said, “Pray forgive me. I am a bit overset by the circumstances, but ‘tis only on my account that we’re in this predicament.”
“No,” he said. “I entered this plan willingly, despite having been about in the world more than you and having a better understanding of the risks. I ought to have known better. I should have come up with another, more practical—”
“Don’t be daft. You have done far more than anyone could expect of you.” She looked down at the coverlet, running a hand over the linen. “You know, for a trundle, this feels almost comfortable. I would be happy to sleep here myself, but I gather that you will insist I take the...the bed.”
Her tone wavered on the last words, and she wouldn’t look up at him. She was afraid after all, and rightly so, considering it seemed they must share the room. Yet she had resigned herself to accept the arrangement, a fact that astounded him.
While he stood scouring his mind for another possibility, she got up and walked to the bed,
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