Scandalously Yours (Hellions of High Street 1)

“There is a hamper of food under the seat,” she went on. “We can eat while we drive.”

A final jangling of brass and leather announced that the harnessing of the new team was finished. The horses stomped and snorted, their breath forming pale puffs of vapor against the thickening shadows. The earl turned abruptly and swung a boot up to the foot rail—he, too, appeared impatient to be off.

“Very well, I shall take you at your word,” he said, climbing up to his perch and gathering the reins. “But I warn you, the going may get a little rough.”

Rough.

Hours later, as she gingerly climbed down from the cabriolet, Olivia had to admit that the ruts of the shortcut to the Andover toll road were worse than any she had experienced in Albania. Her bottom was bruised, her bones were aching, her joints were stiff…

John steadied her stumble, saving her from pitching headfirst into a rather foul-looking pile of horse droppings.

“Come,” he murmured, taking a firm hold of her arm. “I shall rouse the proprietor and order up a hot meal.

She squinted at the darkened inn. “Never mind a meal. Let us hope they have an empty bed.” In truth, she was willing to tussle with the tavern cats for a spot on the rag rug by the hearth. Anything, as long as it was softer than oak planking and marginally warm.

“It’s important to eat,” insisted John. “We must keep our strength up.”

Too tired to argue, Olivia let herself be led to the front door.

Summoned by the earl’s insistent knocking, the sleepy innkeeper undid the locks and escorted them to a small private parlor adjacent to the empty tap room. John accompanied him back into the corridor, then reappearing several minutes later. “Despite the hour, he has agreed to serve us. It will be simple fare—a venison stew and day-old bread—but hot and hearty.” He gave a rueful grimace. “Thank God for my sister’s purse. However, no amount of coins could change the fact that there is only one bedchamber available.”

“Mmmm?” Eyes half-closed, she hitched her chair a little closer to the hearth and held her hands out to the freshly stirred coals. “Sounds delightful.”

John raised a bemused brow.

“What?” mumbled Olivia, catching the tiny twitch.

“Nothing,” he replied, moving to her side and adding a few logs to the fire. A few skillful jabs of the poker quickly raised a cheerful blaze.

The heat chased the numbness from her hands and toes. “Oh, how blissfully divine.”

So was the hearty stew. Despite her assertions to the contrary, she quickly consumed a large helping, along with a glass of claret that John insisted she drink.

“Feeling better?”

“Much.” Heaving a sigh of contentment, Olivia was aware of a mellow drowsiness stealing over her. It felt as if unseen hands were wrapping all the little aches and pains in cotton wool…

Somehow she found herself floating up the narrow flight of stairs. A latch clicked, a door opened and then closed. The flame of the earl’s guttering candle illuminated a small room with a large featherbed, a narrow dressing table and washstand—with precious little space left over for the diminutive bureau wedged beside the dormer window.

“I apologize again for the accommodations—or lack thereof.” John set the light down. “I shall, of course, sleep on the floor.” Looking a little dubiously at what little there was of it, he added, “Or, if you prefer, I could seek a pallet of straw in the stable.”

One bedchamber. Olivia shook off her muzziness as his earlier words suddenly took on a clearer echo in her head.

“D-don’t be absurd,” she replied. “The bed is large enough for the two of us to sleep comfortably.”

He shook his head. “No, no, it would be awfully ungentlemanly to impose—”

Olivia cut him off with a chuffed sigh. “I appreciate your notions of nobility, Wrexham, but I thought we agreed to dispense with such things for the duration of this journey. You will be driving hard tomorrow, so it’s imperative that you get some proper rest. If anyone should sleep on the floor it is I.” She rubbed at the crick in her neck. “Although since I fully intend to spell you at the ribbons, I wouldn’t mind something softer than a plank for a bed.”

His mouth twitched.

A smile? She wasn’t sure.

“You are pluck to the bone, Miss Sloane.”

“Oh, please, don’t mention the word ‘bone,’” she muttered, wincing as she gingerly took a seat on the eiderdown coverlet. Even the softest of feathers felt horribly hard.

This time, his amusement was unmistakable. “I swear,” he said with a low chuckle, “you are quite unlike any other lady I’ve ever met before.”