No Groom at the Inn: A Dukes Behaving Badly Novella by Megan Frampton

experience.
    That was far more alluring than the most beautiful girl.
    He was very much looking forward to his self-prescribed Christmas gift, and he hoped it wouldn’t take him too long to receive it.
    “I slept well enough, Mother,” Jamie replied at last. It was only while sleeping, actually, he found he could remain still for longer than a few moments.
    Being unconscious would do that to a person.
    “Mrs. Green, may I compliment you on the softness of your pillows?” Jamie said, taking the last swallow of coffee and gesturing to the footman to refill his cup. “I have slept in some remarkably unpleasant places, and it is a treat to sleep in a proper English bed.” He paused, then something entirely wicked within him made him add, “I only wish I’d had someone with whom to revel in the comfort.”
    Sophronia had just taken a bite of something, but choked at his words, a whoosh of crumbs flying up from her plate as she coughed. She raised her head and glared at him, as much as saying, “how dare you,” and he wanted to laugh aloud.
    It was entirely too much fun to irk her, to watch the pink flow into her cheeks as he ruffled her feathers.
    “I order the bedding from a fine establishment in London,” Mrs. Green replied, apparently ignoring both Jamie’s words and the fact that her guest was choking on one of her breakfast offerings. “I do find that English goods are so much better than foreign ones, don’t you?”
    Mrs. Green, Jamie decided at that moment, was an actively obnoxious person. It was as though she were setting out to be deliberately unpleasant. Or at the very least, exceedingly protective of her own country’s goods. “Mrs. Green, I am not certain I can agree with you,” Jamie replied. “After all, my vocation is the purchasing of items outside of England that British people are desirous of.” He spread his hands. “If I did not believe that things outside of our fine country were valuable, I would be wasting my own time, wouldn’t I?”
    Mrs. Green’s mouth pursed, and her expression faltered, as though she was warring within herself to argue with him because she didn’t agree with him, or allow the point to pass, because she still had hopes for her daughter, regardless of Sophronia’s presence.
    She chose the latter course, and he had to say at least she was stubborn, as well. “Perhaps, Mr. Archer, that is so.”
    Jamie glanced over at Sophronia, who had gotten her breathing under control, and met her gaze, feeling the reassuring warmth of her understanding practically radiating out from her.
    There was something so addictive about that comfort, something he’d never experienced in another person’s presence in his entire life.
    With certain objects, yes—there was a carved statue of some ancient god or another he’d found while in Africa, and he’d kept the statue for longer than he normally would because of how he felt when he looked at it.
    He had felt it almost like a tangible loss when he’d finally let it go, but he didn’t want to be encumbered by anything—not an object, or a person, or anything that could tie him down, make him stay still for longer than a few moments.
    Or two to three weeks, depending on the circumstances.
    It felt as though he had the statue back in his possession, in fact, because of the way he felt when he looked at her. Knowing she understood, at least partially, some of what he was going through, what he was enduring in this enforced holiday.
    Speaking of which, at least he was being given opportunities to explore, to move, to see things that would engage his interest.
    Well, things that were in addition to the thing—the person—most engaging his interest, his pretend betrothed. Whom he didn’t have to pretend to find entirely engaging.

 
    Queem:
    1. The first bud of a flower; more generally, the first indication of Spring; behold, the queem of Spring.
    2. Pleasure, satisfaction. Chiefly in to (a person’s) queem: so as to be