Page 13 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
"But miss..."
"Go. That's an order."
Martha bobbed a quick curtsey and fled, her footsteps pattering down the hallway. Catherine stood in the darkness for a moment, acutely aware of the silence. Well, not silence exactly—the storm still raged outside, and she could hear voices from below, urgent and worried. But her room felt very empty suddenly, and very dark.
She moved to restart the fire, kneeling before the hearth in her nightgown and wrapper. The poker was heavier than she expected, and she fumbled with it, sending a small shower of sparks up the chimney.
"Curse it," she muttered, then immediately felt scandalized at herself. Ladies didn't curse. Though ladies also didn't share rooms with strange gentlemen at coaching inns, so perhaps she'd already crossed the limits of propriety.
A soft knock came at the connecting door.
"Miss Mayfer? Is everything alright? I heard voices."
Catherine's pulse quickened. She pulled her wrapper tighter. "Yes, quite alright. My maid was called away because there has been an accident with our coachman."
"Is he badly hurt?"
"A head wound, apparently. Martha's gone to help tend him."
There was a pause. Then: "So you're alone?"
The way he said it, not predatory, but concerned, made something warm bloom in her chest. "I'm perfectly safe, Mr. Wrentham. The door is locked, and I'm quite capable of defending myself if necessary."
"With the two pistols in your reticule?"
She could hear the smile in his voice. "Exactly."
"May I... would you prefer some company? The sitting room, I mean. It must be unsettling, being alone with the storm and worry for your coachman."
Catherine knew she should refuse. Every rule of propriety demanded it. But propriety hadn't kept her warm on the frozen road, hadn't offered her shelter from the storm, and certainly wouldn't keep her company through what promised to be a very long night.
"I'll need a moment to make myself presentable," she heard herself say.
"Of course. Though I should warn you, my own standards of being presentable have rather declined. My valet would be appalled."
"The valet you don't have?"
"The theoretical valet. He's extremely particular."
Despite everything, Catherine smiled. She lit a candle from the newly revived fire and moved to the mirror. Her hair was a disaster, tumbling around her shoulders in waves that no amount of pinning would quickly tame. Her wrapper was at least modest, a deep blue silk that had been her mother's, worn over her white nightgown. She looked like someone ready for bed, not for entertaining gentlemen.
But then again, he'd already seen her resembling a drowned rat. This was practically an improvement.
She unlocked the connecting door and stepped into the sitting room. He was already there, standing by the window watching the storm. He'd removed his coat and cravat, wearing only his shirt, waistcoat, and trousers. His hair was disheveled, as if he'd been running his hands through it. When he turned to face her, something flickered in those grey eyes; a heat that made her stomach tighten.
"You came," he said softly.
"You sounded worried."
"I was. I am." He gestured to the small table where a bottle of brandy sat with two glasses. "I convinced Hartwell to partwith some of his better stock. Thought it might help with the worry. For your coachman, I mean."
"You're very kind."
"No," he said, pouring two glasses. "I'm very selfish. I wanted an excuse to see you again."
The honesty of it caught her off-guard. "Mr. Wrentham..."
"James," he said, offering her a glass. "If we're going to be thoroughly improper, we might as well use given names."
