But Auntie was pragmatic enough to know she was nearing the end of her life. “When I’m gone,” her aunt would say, “all that I have will revert back to the estate of my father’s lawful heir. You will be alone. And penniless.”
For those reasons, Aunt had been pleased when Emma was given the opportunity to make her home in London.
Dare she trust that Mr. Birmingham was truly a gentleman? Could she trust him not to tell anyone he had shared a bedchamber with Miss Emma Hastings? Her gaze fanned to the beautiful bed. How she longed to climb upon it and rest her weary limbs. She was so exhausted, she understood how Mr. Birmingham could have collapsed upon the chaise. She could easily sink down on the mattress and fall into a deep sleep.
Given her lack of alternatives, that is what she would do.
But she could not undress in front of Mr. Birmingham, even if his awakening was about as likely as Uncle Simon knocking upon her chamber door. She tiptoed to her portmanteau and quietly opened it to retrieve her sleeping gown. Then she tiptoed to the bed and climbed upon it. She drew the fully lined bed curtains all the way around the bed for privacy and stripped off the damp traveling clothes she had worn for two days. After slipping into her linen night shift, she buried herself beneath the covers and promptly feel asleep.
* * *
He wasn't at all sure he could lift his head. It felt as if it had been bashed with a cricket bat. Repeatedly. He opened one eye. Then the other. He had fully expected to see the familiar blue bed coverings in his bedchamber, but he did not. Good lord, was he once again waking up in a strange bedchamber? A light rose scent tempered his disorientation. Now that he thought about it, though, he realized he was not actually on a bed. His gaze moved. The first item he spotted was a turquoise clock. He'd bought the blasted thing himself. Did that mean . . . he was at his own house?
He bolted up.
And locked gazes with a young woman who smelled of roses. She was not much more than a foot away from him. She sat in a chair facing the chaise longue he'd slept on. He was about to press some coins into her hands and send her on her way when he thought better of it.
He took a long look at her. The last time he'd seen her, he now remembered, her hair had been wet. Now that it was dry he could tell it was a warm brown, the color of tree bark. Quite an ordinary color. In fact, everything about the young lady was ordinary. She was not a great beauty as Maria had been. Yet all of her features were pleasing. And so was her sweet rose scent.
As for her age, he would put it somewhere between eighteen and twenty, though she was not much larger than a twelve-year-old girl.
She smiled at him. Her teeth were even and white, and when she smiled, she was pretty—in a quiet way.
Before he could respond, he remembered something else about her. She was not a doxy. Even though everything about him was impaired, he knew he had not taken advantage of this girl.
Which made his presence in her bedchamber all the more offensive. What vile depths had he sunk to? How repulsed she must be over his drunken behavior. How embarrassing that this maiden had likely been exposed to the obnoxious roar of his snores!
He stood and bowed. "Allow me to apologize for my unforgiveable behavior."
She regarded him stiffly, in much the same manner his mother had when he'd been a naughty lad. "It's your home, Mr. Birmingham. Even if you are a Godless hedonist, I am grateful that I had a warm bed in which to sleep, and I shall be even more grateful if you never, ever reveal that you and I shared a bedchamber."
"'Pon my word, I am a gentleman, even if that presently seems inconceivable to you. I'm not always in my cups. I had a very good reason for my intoxication."
"Maria," she said with a nod.
He grimaced. "I told you that?"
She nodded ruefully, then quickly changed the topic. "It was actually awfully kind of you to allow me to stay here. I will own, I was blindsided that no one was at my uncle's house." She stood. "Surely he'll be there this morning. It's no longer raining. I'll just get along. One of Uncle Simon's servants can collect my portmanteau later." She walked toward the chamber door, then turned back. "I beg that you deceive your servants into thinking you slept in your own chamber last night."
At the surfacing memory of who her uncle was, he thwacked his forehead. He needed to tell her the truth. But he'd rather eat his boot than do that. "Don't go."
She raised a fine brown brow and stared at him with her hazel eyes. Perhaps they were a smidgeon above ordinary.
He couldn't stay in a bedchamber with a maiden. "Please, come with me to the library. There's a matter I need to discuss with you."