Page 38 of Tempting the Highland Spy
Grace slid to the edge of the mattress. She dug her toes into the plush rug at the edge of the bed as she slipped the wrapper over her gown and cinched the sash around her waist. “A modest newlywed.”
“Dear, at the risk of appearing vulgar—and I do apologize if by some chance you’re still an innocent—but it’s not likely a new bride with a man such as your husband would be overly concerned with modesty. Remember, this is not an arranged marriage, but a love match. We do need you to act the part.”
Grace flashed a little scowl. “Love match? Might I suggest you have this discussion with Dr. MacMasters. Acting is certainly not one of his talents.”
“You’d be surprised,” Mrs. Carmichael said, nearly under her breath. She glanced at the door connecting their chambers. “He’ll be expecting you. You’ve nothing to worry about. He won’t take advantage of the situation.”
And more’s the pity.
Since they’d left Edinburgh, Harrison had been nothing if not a gentleman. If anything, he’d gone out of his way to avoid the slightest intimacy. When they’d arrived at the Kirkland House hotel not quite twelve hours earlier, he’d played the role of an attentive but utterly proper husband. No public displays of affection complicated their masquerade. Queen Victoria herself might have been impressed with their dignified reserve.
She should thank the heavens he’d displayed none of the desire they’d experienced nearly a year earlier in the Highlands. The Harrison she’d lain with that night had been passionate and deliciously, wildly enamored—nothing like the stiff-upper-lipped man who’d put as much distance as humanly possible between them in the carriage during the journey from Edinburgh. Of course, she should be grateful for his restraint. But something about the way he held himself so rigid in her presence got under her skin. Goodness, he scarcely looked at her. She understood his disapproval of what she’d done. In her mind’s eye, her far-too-tempting fantasy of Harrison flashed a look of scorn. How fitting—even the imaginary man had turned against her.
Mentally shrugging off the ridiculous thought, she sat on the bed and slid her feet into her slippers. Mrs. Carmichael could hurry her all she wanted, but Grace had no intention of enduring chilly toes in the process. The woman could jolly well wait. Even if a maid did slip into the chamber, there were any number of plausible reasons why she might’ve been in the company of her social secretary.
Her tempting fantasy Harrison strolled back to the forefront of her thoughts. Good heavens, if only she could find the will to make him put on a shirt. He bestowed the slightest of smiles, then turned away. Just as the real Harrison tended to do. During their journey, he’d seemed to forget he intended to hold her in disdain, only to resume his impossibly stiff, reticent demeanor a few moments later. He was here to ensure she accomplished what they needed her to do. She understood that all too well. But the blasted man didn’t need to make his attention as scarce as if he feared he might be transformed into a hunk of stone. It wasn’t as if she’d turned into Medusa in the months while they were apart.
Perhaps it would have been better if Mr. Jones had accompanied her. The agent was handsome enough. She could not deny that truth. But the man occupied no place in her fantasies. No place in her heart.
If only she could say that about Harrison.
Rising, she opened the door Mrs. Carmichael had unlocked and crossed the threshold with the matron following close behind.
Gaslight from the chamber she’d shared with Mrs. Carmichael streamed through the portal, illuminating the otherwise darkened space. Harrison sat on the edge of the bed, his hair still tousled from sleep, a loosely tied robe covering his body. Slowly, he ran his gaze over Grace from the hem of her nightgown to the hair flowing unrestrained over her shoulders. For a heartbeat, his attention rested on her face before he turned to Mrs. Carmichael.
“Are you sure this is necessary?” he said wearily.
“We can take no chances,” the matron said. “Surely, you must understand that.”
“Surely.” The faintest trace of mockery colored his tone as he came to his feet. His robe splayed open to the waist, revealing several inches of lean-muscled chest. The dim light glimmered against a feathering of dark hair.
A little, soundless sigh escaped her. Oh, my, the man in the flesh was even more tempting than the rogue who sauntered through her fantasies.
If he sensed the direction of her thoughts, he gave no indication of it. With quiet footfalls, he moved to the upholstered chair by the window, then motioned to the bed.
“Well, then, Miss Winters, make yourself at home.”
Without offering a reply, Grace lit the bedside lamp. Settling into the wing chair, Harrison sprawled his long legs out before him, his bare heels resting upon the plush Oriental carpet. The robe parted just a bit more, revealing another inch or so of all-too-appealing male chest.
A pronounced vee etched between Mrs. Carmichael’s thin, arched brows as she seemed to search for the right words to express herself. Whether she found fault with Harrison’s inelegant posture, the amount of skin he displayed, or the fact that he did not appear to carry on their charade to her satisfaction was up for debate.
After a long moment, a sound came from the matron’s throat. Not a word, but a heaved sigh worthy of an actress in a melodrama. “If the staff suspects you arenottruly married—”
He plastered on a puzzled expression, even as a smile played on his lips. “You know I am a gentleman at heart. I wouldn’t think of lounging in bed while Miss Winters struggles to make herself comfortable in the chair.”
“Is it your intention to be obtuse? I do not recall that characteristic being part of your natural state.”
Leaning back, he narrowed his eyes. “There is nothingnaturalabout this situation. I’ll conduct myself as I see fit.”
Mrs. Carmichael gave anotherhmmph, this one far more vigorous. “Well, I never—”
“Perhaps, Mrs. Carmichael, that is the problem.”
“Oooh, you arestillincorrigible,” Mrs. Carmichael said, her voice whisper soft, yet sharp as a cutlass.
Harrison grinned. “Am I now?”
Mrs. Carmichael’s frown softened ever so slightly. “I trust you know what you’re doing. Your brother has great faith in you.”
