A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

He raised a brow, then offered his arm. She took it. He led her to the door, opened it, and murmured as she passed him, “I’ll remember that the next time we play at man and wife.”

Dinner was a relaxed affair, the food excellent, the wine more than passable. Comfortable and secure in the small private parlor, Clarice directed the conversation, determined to give Jack no further opening to discompose her. The next time they played at man and wife, indeed!

They filled the time discussing the various points they’d uncovered while combing through the sheets of information James had supplied. They’d spent the better part of the journey comparing one list to another, connecting time, place, and people James had spoken with. It was tempting to speculate on exactly what facts the allegations against James hinged upon.

“There’s really no way to tell, not until we see the details presented to the bishop.”

She wrinkled her nose but had to admit Jack was right. Still, it was hard simply to wait and not plan.

“You’ll just have to possess your soul in patience.”

She glanced across the table, met his amused but understanding gaze, and humphed.

The maid entered to clear the dishes, followed by the innkeeper with a bottle of port. Clarice seized the moment to beat a strategic retreat; pushing back her chair, she nodded to the innkeeper. “Please convey my compliments to your wife. The meal was excellent.” Rising, she looked at Jack, who tensed to stand, then recalled they were supposedly married. She smiled lightly. “I’ll leave you to your port.”

To her surprise, he changed his mind, uncoiled his long legs, and rose. He waved her to the door. “I’ll take a glass in the tap.”

The innkeeper beamed and bustled away. She headed for the door; Jack followed.

He paused just outside, briefly scanning the hall and the stairs. “I’ll be up shortly.” His eyes returned to hers. “Don’t lock the door.”

One of the little things one had to remember. She read the message in his eyes. Elevating her nose, she turned to the stairs, and for one of the few times in her life, swept away with no pithy parting shot.

Discretion was sometimes the wiser course.

Especially given he stood in the hall and watched her until the upper gallery hid her from his view. Although she could no longer see him, she would have wagered her pearls that he stood listening until she shut the door to their room. Then and only then would he have stirred and headed for the tap.

She suspected he intended to learn who else was passing the evening at the inn, whether there was anyone whose notice they needed to avoid when they left in the morning.

It was what she, in his place, would have done; as she stood before the dressing table and unpinned her long hair, the notion that she trusted him in the same vein she would herself floated through her mind.

Definitely strange. Definitely not something that had happened with anyone else.

Oddly, that only made her more determined to be undressed and in bed before he came up. Nonsensical to feel shy given all that had passed between them in the folly, yet there was something quite different about undressing before him in a fully lighted room.

Illogical, of course. She considered that while she quickly brushed out her hair. She was rarely illogical; why now, over this?

The answer popped into her mind as she laid her gown neatly over her trunk, then reached for the hem of her chemise. It was the implied domesticity that struck her as unwise, as belonging to those scenarios they’d agreed didn’t apply to them.

Pondering that, she drew off the chemise, dropped it on her gown, reached for her nightgown—and heard his voice in her head. No point.

And, perhaps, one domestic touch she didn’t need to make.

Turning, she crossed naked to the bed.

Chapter 11

Jack climbed the stairs congratulating himself on having chosen the Maiden & Sword. Not only was the inn comfortable, but situated as it was just on the London side of the major posting town of Reading, it was generally overlooked by tonnish society. There were no members of the aristocracy or the upper echelons of the ton staying that night. A few well-to-do merchants, businessmen, and their wives, a clientele that no doubt accounted for the inn’s quality, but no one who would place either Clarice or him.

He opened their door to a room steeped in darkness. He glanced around; Clarice had doused all the candles and left the curtains over the windows drawn. All he could see of her was a mound under the covers on the window side of the bed. She’d loosened the bed-curtains but hadn’t drawn them tight. Closing the door, cutting off what little light had come from the corridor, he crossed soft-footed to the window and drew the curtains wide.

Pale moonlight spilled in, enough so he could see. He sat in the armchair and eased off his boots, then unhurriedly undressed, hanging his coat in the wardrobe, draping shirt and waistcoat over the straight-backed chair.

Eventually naked, he went to the bed, lifted the covers, and slid under them. The instant his weight settled into the mattress, Clarice rolled into him.

He’d expected that; she hadn’t.

She valiantly smothered a shriek; he wisely smothered a chuckle as he caught her, then expertly juggled her until they were face-to-face, nose to nose.