“Mouse droppings. I trust this inn has a private parlor?”
“Yes, but—but it’s occupied, sir!”
Mr. Penhallow flicked a coin onto the table where Livia had been laboring. “Clear it at once.”
“Yes, sir, right away!” Bagshawe scooped up the coin and hurried off.
Mr. Penhallow looked at her for a long moment. Livia lifted her chin and gazed back. It was then she noticed that his chin had a small dimple in it. How nicely it set off the firmness of his jaw. And what a delightful addition to his smile it would be. Had she ever seen him smile? Oh yes, last night at the ball, when he’d come around the corner and nearly bumped into her. (Was it really only yesterday? The ball seemed to have taken place years ago.) But that had been a superficial smile, a social smile, when he came upon her; it hadn’t reached his eyes. She wondered what his face would look like if he were really smiling. He would be even more devastatingly good-looking, that was for certain.
“If you’d care to accompany me, Miss Stuart?” he said coolly.
Livia blinked. How formal he was, how correct; that same dreadful imp of mischief goaded her to say: “Oh, but sir, I haven’t finished cleaning these dishes!”
Dark sleek brows drew together, and Mr. Penhallow took hold of her upper arm again. “Come,” he said in a low, tight voice, and led her out of the kitchen, across a dim gloomy passage where half a dozen disgruntled guests were making their way into the public taproom, and into an empty parlor where Bagshawe was obsequiously wielding a dirty napkin to dust off two chairs set close to the fire.
“All yours, sir. Shall I bring you some ale, then? Spotted Hare’s finest!”
“No. Have you a carriage?”
“No, sir. A pony trap, sir, though it’s been put away and the horse is stabled.”
“I’ll want it in half an hour.” Gabriel tossed another coin onto the low table near where he stood. “Find a competent driver, and have my horse readied as well. Now leave us. And see that we’re not disturbed.”
“Yes, sir!” Bagshawe snatched up the coin and swiftly left the parlor, closing the door with punctilious care, though to Livia the soft click seemed very loud in the suddenly quiet room. Perhaps even too loud. She watched Mr. Penhallow as slowly he turned to her.
I am master of myself, Gabriel thought. I am master of this situation. I am in control. I am a Penhallow. She is nothing to me—only a duty I must fulfill.
With deliberate insolence, he looked her up and down. She was positively unkempt. Her boots were soggy and their leather cracked, her apron filthy, the hem of her dowdy gray gown was torn and muddy, and her hair hopelessly bedraggled.
Yet . . .
Boots were only boots, a gown was only a gown.
Messy hair could be made tidy.
There was something about her.
That dangerous word came to him again.
Entrancing.
He saw the generous curve of breasts that narrowed into a slim waist, then flared again, creating a sublimely feminine form that could render a man helpless with desire. He saw, in the warm glow of firelight, that her tumbled hair wasn’t a single auburn shade but was formed from a variety of colors—red, brown, chestnut, even gold. How pleasing it was. He had never seen such thick, shining, lovely hair. How might it feel against his naked body? Like living silk?
Stop it, he commanded himself. Sternly he dismissed the too-tempting image of her—of him—together—from his mind.
I am master of myself.
I am master of this situation.
I am a Penhallow.
But it took all his willpower to summon again the cold rage he’d been nursing all the way here. It felt safer, much safer, to be angry, icy, in control.
He met her eyes.
And spoke.
“Your face is dirty.”
She reeled back a step, almost as if he had struck her. But then she seemed to gather herself.
“Yes, I’m sure it is. Does this mean our engagement is off?”
“Of course not. What’s done is done.”
“Good.”
He stared at her. “You’ve changed your mind? You’ve decided that being a scullery maid is worse than being married to me?”
“Well, at least being a scullery maid is honest work. You’re only marrying me because of your reputation. Your honor.” She sniffed, in a very credible imitation of his grandmother.
“You have no idea how the world works.”
“I’m learning. You’ve engaged yourself to a complete stranger—me—because you grabbed at me in the garden and got caught. My feelings don’t matter to you at all. I don’t matter to you. Well then, if this is the way of the world, I accept your offer. You won’t matter to me, either.”