his. He released it with more care than was probably necessary. “Take your seat. We’re almost there.”
She sat down slowly and with a subdued air about her that he found as unsettling as the shadow in her gaze. “My hotel is at least another ten minutes away. I would prefer to procure my own transport.”
“We’re not going to your hotel.”
That announcement perked her up a little. “You cannot mean to take me all the way to Derbyshire in a public hackney.”
“We’re not going to Derbyshire. My house is in Belgravia.” On the very, very uttermost edge of it, which was the only slice of Belgravia he could afford without begrudging the cost. He’d just as soon live elsewhere, frankly. But his work sometimes required he entertain clientele at his home, and his clientele were the sort of men and women who expected to be entertained in homes with fashionable addresses.
“Why are we going to your house?”
“I imagine you can figure that out. I’ll send someone to the hotel for your things.”
Now she looked quite like her bristly self again. “No. Absolutely not. I am not staying with you. It isn’t decent.”
“Isn’t decent ?” Of all the arguments an unmarried woman dressed in widow’s weeds might produce “it isn’t decent” had to be among the most absurd. “You cannot be serious.”
“I’ll not be a source of gossip for your staff.”
“We’ll tell them you’re my cousin.”
“People marry their cousins.”
“Then we’ll tell them you’re a client.” She wouldn’t be the first individual with an assumed name to spend time under his roof. Granted, she’d be the first woman to do so, but his servants were accustomed to the peculiar necessities of his work. Not one of them would bat an eye at her presence, nor breathe a word of it outside of the house. He had chosen each member of his staff with extraordinary care.
“Do your female clients often spend the night?”
He almost told her yes, just to put an end to the argument. And he very much wanted this argument to end, as the carriage was already rolling to a stop in front of his house. But the lie would probably bring him more grief than it was worth.
“What does it matter what my staff thinks?” he asked. “You’ll never see them again.”
“It isn’t just your staff. Lottie will find out. And so will Peter. Lord knows you’ll tell Renderwell and Gabriel. And Renderwell’s sisters might hear of it, which means his mother certainly will, and she’ll tell everyone in the village and—”
“All right, all right.” Bloody hell. “I’ll take you to the hotel after I’m done here.”
He imagined that, given the circumstances, Esther’s immediate family wouldn’t much care that she’d spent the night under his roof, but he couldn’t be absolutely certain. And damned if he had to haul the woman all the way back to Derbyshire, only to be subjected to a lecture on decorum from the Walkers, of all people, for his troubles.
Resigned, he threw open the carriage door, hopped down, and offered Esther his hand.
She wouldn’t take it. “I am not going in with you.”
“Fine. Keep the doors shut and the curtains drawn. If you attempt to run off, I will return you to your family trussed up like a duck.”
She gave him a pretty smile. “What if I’ve a mind to run off to Derbyshire?” Then she reached out, grabbed the handle, and closed the door in his face.
Samuel growled at the carriage door. Sometimes, when it came to Esther, a grunt simply wouldn’t suffice.
He wasn’t particularly worried that Esther might try to run away. If she wanted to escape, she’d have tried at the station. Still, he thought it prudent to flip the driver an extra coin.
“Wait here.” He thought about it, then added another coin. “Ignore everything the lady tells you.”
Two
There had been a time, not so very long ago, when Samuel could expect to be greeted at his door by one of his maids. She would take his coat and
She sat down slowly and with a subdued air about her that he found as unsettling as the shadow in her gaze. “My hotel is at least another ten minutes away. I would prefer to procure my own transport.”
“We’re not going to your hotel.”
That announcement perked her up a little. “You cannot mean to take me all the way to Derbyshire in a public hackney.”
“We’re not going to Derbyshire. My house is in Belgravia.” On the very, very uttermost edge of it, which was the only slice of Belgravia he could afford without begrudging the cost. He’d just as soon live elsewhere, frankly. But his work sometimes required he entertain clientele at his home, and his clientele were the sort of men and women who expected to be entertained in homes with fashionable addresses.
“Why are we going to your house?”
“I imagine you can figure that out. I’ll send someone to the hotel for your things.”
Now she looked quite like her bristly self again. “No. Absolutely not. I am not staying with you. It isn’t decent.”
“Isn’t decent ?” Of all the arguments an unmarried woman dressed in widow’s weeds might produce “it isn’t decent” had to be among the most absurd. “You cannot be serious.”
“I’ll not be a source of gossip for your staff.”
“We’ll tell them you’re my cousin.”
“People marry their cousins.”
“Then we’ll tell them you’re a client.” She wouldn’t be the first individual with an assumed name to spend time under his roof. Granted, she’d be the first woman to do so, but his servants were accustomed to the peculiar necessities of his work. Not one of them would bat an eye at her presence, nor breathe a word of it outside of the house. He had chosen each member of his staff with extraordinary care.
“Do your female clients often spend the night?”
He almost told her yes, just to put an end to the argument. And he very much wanted this argument to end, as the carriage was already rolling to a stop in front of his house. But the lie would probably bring him more grief than it was worth.
“What does it matter what my staff thinks?” he asked. “You’ll never see them again.”
“It isn’t just your staff. Lottie will find out. And so will Peter. Lord knows you’ll tell Renderwell and Gabriel. And Renderwell’s sisters might hear of it, which means his mother certainly will, and she’ll tell everyone in the village and—”
“All right, all right.” Bloody hell. “I’ll take you to the hotel after I’m done here.”
He imagined that, given the circumstances, Esther’s immediate family wouldn’t much care that she’d spent the night under his roof, but he couldn’t be absolutely certain. And damned if he had to haul the woman all the way back to Derbyshire, only to be subjected to a lecture on decorum from the Walkers, of all people, for his troubles.
Resigned, he threw open the carriage door, hopped down, and offered Esther his hand.
She wouldn’t take it. “I am not going in with you.”
“Fine. Keep the doors shut and the curtains drawn. If you attempt to run off, I will return you to your family trussed up like a duck.”
She gave him a pretty smile. “What if I’ve a mind to run off to Derbyshire?” Then she reached out, grabbed the handle, and closed the door in his face.
Samuel growled at the carriage door. Sometimes, when it came to Esther, a grunt simply wouldn’t suffice.
He wasn’t particularly worried that Esther might try to run away. If she wanted to escape, she’d have tried at the station. Still, he thought it prudent to flip the driver an extra coin.
“Wait here.” He thought about it, then added another coin. “Ignore everything the lady tells you.”
Two
There had been a time, not so very long ago, when Samuel could expect to be greeted at his door by one of his maids. She would take his coat and
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