To Bed a Beauty (Courtship Wars 2)

Drew led the skittish grays inside while Roslyn quic

kly shut the door behind them to keep out the fierce gusts of rain. As he took stock of the shed, she leaned back against the door in obvious relief, her breath a little ragged. Through the dim light slanting through the one window, he could see she was soaked to the skin, with her hair plastered to her head. His coat had been useless in protecting her, but at least she was now safe from the ferocity of the storm.

There was only one stall, but it would serve to hold the horses, Drew decided, and there was even a forkful of hay in the manger to keep them occupied. He removed their bridles and turned the grays loose, but to his surprise, Roslyn followed them inside.

She had rummaged in a cupboard and found some rags, which she proceeded to use to wipe down their soaked hides.

“You don’t have to curry my horses, sweeting,” Drew said, relieving her of a rag.

She flashed him a damp smile. “I feel obliged, since they suffered enough abuse at my hands for one day. And it won’t be good for them to be put up wet.”

It didn’t totally surprise him that she would place the animals’ comfort and well-being over her own, but it did surprise him that a lady of her breeding would know how to properly care for blood horses.

“Where did you learn to groom?”

“My sisters and I had to care for our own mounts for the past four years, since our step-uncle wouldn’t let his grooms assist us.”

Drew found his jaw tightening at the reminder of the late Lord Danvers. The miserly curmudgeon had treated his step-nieces like supplicants, not only forcing them to work for their livings and become teachers at their academy, but to perform the tasks of menial servants.

“We didn’t mind,” Roslyn added when she saw his frown. “And Lily thrived on it. She would much rather spend her time in a barn than a ballroom.”

When they had finished, the grays not only were much drier but had calmed down significantly. They stood quietly munching hay, even though rain still drummed fiercely upon the roof and outside thunder rolled and lightning crackled.

Roslyn, however, had begun shivering in her wet clothing.

“Let’s move to the cottage,” Drew said. “It will be warmer there.”

“The doors may be locked,” she replied skeptically.

“Then we’ll break in. You can’t stay here in this condition.”

Leaving the shed, they made a dash through the rain for the front cottage door, which indeed was locked. Drew had to pry open a window in order to gain access. He climbed inside, then ushered Roslyn in through the door and slammed it behind her.

“I don’t think Mrs. Jearson will mind if we take refuge here,” Roslyn said breathlessly as she stood drenched and dripping, “but she won’t be pleased that we’ve damaged her home.”

“I’ll repay her, of course.”

The interior was cold and dark, since minimal light seeped in through the shutters. But it was spotlessly clean and quite comfortable-or it would be once they got a fire going in the hearth.

There were two rooms, Drew saw. The main one that served as living quarters and kitchen, and a smaller one to the rear that was obviously a bedchamber.

“The accommodations are not what a duke is accustomed to,” Roslyn said, moving to the kitchen. “Mrs. Jearson is a pensioner of Sir Alfred and Lady Perry-she was nanny to their children, but she has no other income.”

“It will do well enough,” Drew said with all honesty.

In truth, he was just as pleased that the widow wasn’t here. He hadn’t planned this debacle, but he was glad to have the chance to be alone with Roslyn. He not only wanted to clear the air between them, he wanted time to persuade her to accept his proposal of marriage.

Drew shook his head in sardonic amusement. The fact that he actually welcomed being caught in a chilling rainstorm so he could further his matrimonial goals was solid proof that he had gone a little daft.

A fire had been laid with logs, so he knelt on the rug in front of hearth to light the kindling, while Roslyn lit a lamp in the kitchen.

The glow helped present the illusion of comfort. The storm continued to lash the small cottage-wind shook the shutters and rain pounded on the roof-but inside the sounds were hushed.

“I don’t want to light the stove,” Roslyn said while searching through the cupboards, “since hopefully the storm will pass soon and we can be on our way. But I could make some tea at the fireplace.”

“Can you?” Drew asked.

“Yes. There is a canister of tea here and fresh water in an urn.”