Page 77 of If the Slipper Fits
He would not take advantage of her again. For that was exactly what he’d done, misapprehension about her situation or no. He had noted her incongruous innocence, and nearly made love to her regardless. Then he’d learned of her married status and insulted her to boot.
Dear God. Anna was—had to be—a virgin. Bloody hell.
He cleared his throat and shoved up from the chair. He carried it back to its place near the window and sat. Outside, the storm had finally died down. If it cleared up by morning, he’d be heading for Derby. And Anna? Did she plan to continue the journey with him?
As if he would give her a choice. She would accompany him to Chissington Hall, and that was final.
“Let’s see if I can work out the rest of your story. You left Bolton’s that evening, took those letters of recommendation you’d so presciently forged straight to an agency, and somehow lucked into your position with Lady Wentworth.”
“You have the gist.” Anna stretched and made a sound that was half sigh, half yawn. “I endured a terrifying if successful visit to the pawn brokers and a rescinded offer of employment before Lady Wentworth happened upon me. She hired me on sight, thanks to having no time to verify my references. I don’t understand how she came to know thedetails of my marriage, nor why she went to so much trouble to assure my safety.”
“Perhaps she looked into your background after hiring you on, as a precaution. The natural affinity the two of you share probably explains the rest.”
“Perhaps…” Bending her knees, she drew her feet up to curl them under her skirts and rested her cheek against the wingback cushion. She stared into the glowing grate as if it held the answers to all life’s mysteries.
In the reflected firelight she looked beautiful and fragile, like fine-boned china. But she wasn’t weak. Far from it.
He found himself smiling, despite her harrowing tale. There was only one other woman he knew with such a strength. Kitty, his brother’s wife. She would like Anna, he decided.
Her face softened and her eyelids drooped as exhaustion overtook her.
“You should go to bed. You’re half asleep already.”
“I’m fine here. You take the bed.”
“I insist. Go lie down.” He rose and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” she asked, sitting up.
He un-shot the lock and wrapped his hand around the cold brass lever.
“You’ll want to change into your night dress before getting into bed.” He swallowed hard and continued in a voice that sounded almost normal, “I’d rather that happen while I’m gone.” Without waiting for her reply, he let himself into the hall.
***
He stalked down the dim, musty smelling corridor to the wide staircase. He trotted down the stairs, anxious to put distance between himself and Anna.
He was in serious trouble. The ache to make love to her was now compounded by an even greater desire to fold her up in his arms. He wanted to cherish and protect her so no harm befell her, ever again.
Absurd. He was no Prince Charming, and well she knew it. He’d offered her proof positive at the Fenton’s when he berated her after nearly bedding her.
Lucky for both of them he had a compelling need to step out. A baron had claimed Caden’s chamber tonight. Certainly, England boasted more than a few. Could be a coincidence. On the other hand, it couldnotbe one.
With grim certainly, he knew a fool-safe method to determine whether Bolton was on premises. He need only visit the bar.
He crossed the vacant lobby. Shouldering aside the red velvet-drape divider, he passed through an archway into the inn’s pub-style eatery. The smell of moldering bar mats, stale tobacco, and too-oft spilled-upon carpets warred with the kitchen’s hardy fare, to permeate the air.
Well past the dinner hour, all of the wooden tables lining one wall of the narrow establishment sat empty, but a fire still burned in the grate and a barman still manned the short bar.
A lone man stood before him, huddling over what appeared to be a snifter of brandy.
A tall man, he wore a coat and trousers fashioned of black superfine. At first glance, the patron’s attire reflected wealth and status. But upon closer inspection, the suit of clothes had a shoddy, faded appearance that matched the man himself—a man Caden recognized all too well.
Baron Bolton had lost the air of vitality that had made him seem somehow larger than life the few times Caden had the misfortune to encounter him. He’d lost some height and his broad shoulders had narrowed. His thick cap of hair, once dark brown, had gone dingy gray, and was badly in need of a cut.
Oblivious to Caden’s perusal, Bolton carried on a one-way conversation with the barman. He gestured, snifter in hand, then threw back his head and laughed uproariously.
A chill ran up Caden’s spine. That laugh. Like time reversed, he saw himself, nine years old, trailing after his father as he made his social rounds. In his youthful naiveté he’d imagined his presence might sway his father from his usual debauched lifestyle. He’d told Zeke as much, prompting his older brother to predict Caden would only provide an audience for their father as he drank and gambled his way across town.
