Read No Groom at the Inn: A Dukes Behaving Badly Novella Online
Authors: Megan Frampton
Otosis:
1. A skin affliction that causes discoloration.
2. Mishearing; alteration of words caused by an erroneous apprehension of the sound.
3. Remaining in a state of suspension.
“Y
our purchasing clothing for me is not part of our bargain,” Sophronia said as she walked hurriedly after Mr. Archer—her new betrothed.
He turned to look at her, a roguish smile on his lips. He had a remarkably lovely mouth for someone who appeared so otherwise masculine. Not that lovely mouths weren’t masculine, but she had never actually noticed a gentleman’s mouth before.
Now it seemed that was all she could think of. Well, that and that he was determined to buy clothing for her, when she was perfectly capable of buying her own.
Except she really wasn’t. She hadn’t even tried to get her money back for the coach. She knew that would be a fruitless endeavor, and what with the ale she’d bought and the rest of the money she’d carefully secured away so she could eat on the journey—she might have had enough for one sleeve.
And, her new betrothed told her, they were on their way to a house party. One where getting appropriately dressed was one of the ladies’ primary activities.
So while she could object, she knew he was right. She just didn’t want to make him spend more than he already had to—she was fairly certain that fake betrotheds, if there was a market price for them, cost far less than what she had demanded.
Who was to say he wouldn’t find another, less expensive betrothed somewhere?
But meanwhile, as soon as they’d shaken hands, he’d taken her from the inn and began walking, very quickly, toward a place he assured her would have gowns suitable for her, and that could be made in time so they could make the journey the day after next.
“Excuse me, Mr. Archer?” she ventured, wondering how he could walk so fast without it seeming to be a strain. Likely something to do with his long legs.
And now here she was thinking about his legs, and the long strength of them, in addition to his mouth.
Perhaps by the time their month together was complete she would have inventoried his entire self.
Although that was not something she should be contemplating.
“If we are to persuade people as to our relationship, Lady Sophronia, you should call me James. Or Jamie, that is what my mother calls me,” he said, flinging the words over his shoulder without losing his speed. “And I will call you—Sophy? My lamb? Sophycakes?”
“Sophronia will do just fine,” Sophronia replied, as stiffly as she could manage given that she wanted to laugh—Sophycakes?
“Sophronia is not nearly as much fun,” he returned.
He had a point.
“But what did you want to ask, Sophronia?” She didn’t have to see his face to know he was smiling—he spoke as though they were both in on the joke, whatever the joke was.
She hadn’t felt as though she’d been included in anything even close to a joke for a long time. It felt—lovely. Nice. Wonderful.
Again, she heard her father chastising her for saying basically the same thing three different times, but “lovely” was sufficiently different from “nice” and “wonderful,” wasn’t it? And now she felt all three.
“I don’t have a place to stay this evening. If you know of a respectable hotel
,” and can pay my bill
, “I can stay there this evening, and then join you on the journey to”—and she didn’t even know where they were going—“to the house party.”
He stopped and spun around to face her, so abruptly it made her gasp. But then again, that could be because she was struck, again, by just how handsome he was. Would anyone believe he had chosen her? It wasn’t that she thought ill of herself—she didn’t—but she did know that while nobody would bat an eye at his taking up residence in the Handsome Hotel, they would likely quibble if she were to attempt to book a room at the female equivalent—the Pulchritudinous Pub, for example, or perhaps the Ideal Inn.
Somewhere, she heard her father cheering her expansive language.
“You can stay at my house,” he began, only to hold his hands out to her as he saw her reaction. “That is, at my mother’s house. I am staying there as well, but she will be a more than suitable chaperone. Besides,” he added, his mouth quirking up in a rueful smile, “she will have many questions to ask you.” He frowned, as though struck by something. “We need to get you a lady’s maid, however. Mother will know something is awry if you just appear alone.”
Sophronia’s heart leapt. Of course, she would be able to be reunited with Maria, who was spending her last night of freedom at her sister’s house in Cheapside. “I have a lady’s maid I can obtain, that is no worry at all.”
“Good, good,” he said distractedly. “You can send a note to retrieve her while you are being fitted at Madame Fairfax’s establishment. And then we can return to my mother’s house, and I can introduce you. We will need to better acquaint ourselves with one another so as to make our story plausible.”
The enormity of what she—what they—were doing struck Sophronia so sharply she gasped again, and this time it was not in appreciation of his pulchritude.
“It will be fine, you will see.” It was as if he had read her mind, even though not a moment ago it had seemed he had been thinking of something else entirely.
“Yes, I just—” She paused, then blurted it all out. “I just want to be certain you will not regret this, we don’t even know how much it will cost for a cottage, and then there’s the expense of the clothing, and my maid, and the travel, and—” She heard her words roll faster and faster, and her heart sped up in rhythm.
“Breathe, Sophronia,” he replied, taking her hands in his. She gazed down at his fingers, noting how large they were, but still shapely, sprinkled with hair on the back of his hand.
She had moved on from his mouth and legs, it seemed. She heard herself laugh, a breathy, nearly hysterical laugh, and felt the rush of what this could mean for her—for her whole future.
She couldn’t ruin this, either for him or for herself. The rest of her life depended on it.
Taking a deep breath, she lifted her head and looked into his eyes. “I am breathing, James,” she said in a measured tone. Close-ish to the way she normally spoke, at least. “Thank you for the kind offer,” she said, feeling her mouth curl up in a half smile. “I promise you, I will do my best to be the betrothed you require.”
He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it, keeping his gaze on her face. “We are in this together, Sophronia. I promise you in return, I will uphold my end of the bargain and will also do my best to be the betrothed you are worthy of.”
Her throat got thick at hearing the obvious sincerity in his voice. And then she wondered if she was getting into even more than what she’d expected.
J
amie took his betrothed’s arm—Sophronia, not Sophycakes or even just plain Sophy—as they walked up the stairs to his mother’s house. They’d spent two hours at the dressmaker’s shop, and thankfully Madame Fairfax had exercised discretion, not commenting on how this young lady was so markedly different in looks and style than the other ladies Jamie had brought to her shop before.
He glanced over at her as they waited for the door to be opened. She was remarkably tall, so tall he would guess her to be only five or so inches shorter than he. It was refreshing not to have to bow his head down to look at her. And he found he did want to look at her—something in her face, something in her dark brown eyes, in her expression, made him want to discover who she was, why she was in that coaching inn, what made her needs so modest that a remote cottage would suit her.
He hadn’t been in London or among Society so much as to have the breadth of English aristocracy at his command, so he had no idea who her father the earl had been, or where she had lived before arriving at the inn. He knew, however, that she was a lady, in more than just the titled sense; there was something so elegant about her, her movements, her way of speaking, that was both appealing and off-putting. As though she were a beautiful diamond who would cut you if you got too close.
Jamie should remind himself of that, he thought—not to get too close. She wasn’t at all like any of the women he’d found intriguing before, but for some reason, she intrigued him.
“Ah, Mr. James,” his mother’s butler said, a welcoming smile on his face. Taylor had been with his mother for years and treated Jamie as someone to be tolerated for her sake. Jamie knew the warmth of Taylor’s smile was in direct correlation to how many times his mother must have sent Taylor outside to see if her son had returned yet.
He was surprised there wasn’t a path on the carpet in the hallway indicating the poor man’s footsteps.
“Yes, we are back. If you could inform my mother—”
“You’re back!”
“Never mind, Taylor, I see she is here.” Jamie took a deep breath before turning to face his mother. This was it. He had to persuade her that not only was he betrothed, but that he was deeply in love with his bride-to-be. He knew Sophronia’s favorite color was green, she preferred novels to poetry, she liked ale, and she had a way of pausing before she spoke that made him think she was truly considering her words.
He hoped his mother would keep her questions to those important topics so they wouldn’t be found out.
“Allow me to introduce my betrothed,” he said, drawing Sophronia forward. Her hand trembled. “Mother, this is Lady Sophronia Bettesford. Sophronia, this is my mother, Mrs. Archer.”
She withdrew her hand from his arm and held it out to his mother, who gaped at it, then stepped forward and gathered Sophronia into a hug, which meant the much taller woman had to stoop to be embraced. “I am so delighted to meet you, my dear. Jamie kept you such a secret, I didn’t even know he was acquainted with any lady who might be worthy of him, much less you!” She released Sophronia but kept hold of her arms, gazing up at her with an expression something close to rapture. “You are so lovely, I am certain we will be as close as though I was your own mother,” she said, her words coming out in a sob.
Sophronia darted a startled look at Jamie, but her expression was serene when she looked back at his mother. “I am delighted to meet you as well, Mrs. Archer. This was all rather unexpected,” she said, in such a dry tone Jamie nearly choked on his laugh, “so it is not surprising to hear this is the first time you have heard of me.”
“Come into the sitting room, dear, and let me hear all about you.”
His mother took Sophronia’s arm and led her into the room, chattering nonstop about her general delight at Jamie having brought her home. “Even though an indication that this was happening would have been nice,” she said, with a sharp look directed at Jamie. He followed them, feeling some of the knot of tension in his chest untie, just a bit, that the first encounter seemed to be going well.
Now they just had to get through the next two, perhaps three, weeks without anyone realizing they’d met only earlier in the day, and that neither one of them had any intention of marrying the other.
Jamie had once successfully negotiated the purchase of artifacts that were reportedly the only things keeping the town from being destroyed by angry gods, so he thought he could handle the relatively minor endeavor of persuading his mother and the guests at a house party that he was, indeed, engaged to be married.
Even though he rather wished he were back facing those superstitious villagers rather than attempting this subterfuge.
Vecordy:
1. Senseless, foolish.
2. A harmonious sound.
3. The change of seasons.
“M
y lady!” Maria shrieked as she was shown into Sophronia’s bedroom. She’d been given the best bedroom, according to her new not-yet mother-in-law, and Sophronia had to admit it was substantially better than the place she’d lived in most recently, when she’d still held out hope that something could keep her from her cousin, and his chickens.
And now, just when she had given up and was resolutely headed to become an unpaid chicken-and-children herder, he’d appeared.
“Maria, how lovely to see you, and isn’t this incredible?”
Maria hugged her, and Sophronia felt immediately better—she had spent only a day or so on her own, without any kind of human discourse (beyond the purchasing of the coach tickets, not to mention the ale), and she hadn’t realized just how bereft she had felt without anyone to connect to. Until Maria wrapped her in an embrace.
“Now, now, my lady, why are you crying?” Maria sounded perturbed, as she should—Sophronia never cried, not even when she’d come to the conclusion that her father had, indeed, left nothing for her. “Why are you here? Is there anything I can do?”
Sophronia drew back from her friend’s embrace and shook her head. “I am fine, this is really an amazing story, I just—I think I am just overwhelmed.”
Maria nodded toward the bed. “Let’s just sit down and you’ll tell me all about it. I have to say, you could have knocked me over with a feather when the note arrived, telling me to come here posthaste.”
Thankfully I will not be knocked over by any kind of feather, not if I do this properly
, Sophronia thought to herself. It seemed she could leave the chickens behind, but they would not leave her.
“S
o you just have to pretend to be engaged to the gentleman?” Maria said after Sophronia had related the details. Put that way, it did sound rather easy.
“Yes, and I have to persuade his mother that I am a suitable bride for her son, which is the most important element.” The lady was so sweet, and obviously adored her son. Already Sophronia felt bad about her part of the deception, at fooling the woman who only wanted her son to settle down and have a family. A fact she had repeated no fewer than a half dozen times while they were having tea and getting “better acquainted.”
If all the people she was to meet in the ruse were as talkative as Mrs. Archer, there would be no concern about having the lie discovered—she had barely gotten a word in edgewise, and the words were limited to “yes, please” and “just milk.”
“You will do fine. And then—and then you’ll have enough for us to go to the country?” Maria’s tone was hopeful and wistful; they’d talked about what they wished they could do when they knew there was no chance of it. That Maria was still hesitant about the possibility made Sophronia’s heart hurt, even as she was thrilled their dream could become reality.
And then what?
a voice asked in her head.
You buy a cottage, you and your maid go to live there, and then what? You spend the rest of your life alone?
She had to admit the voice had a point. She hadn’t thought much past leaving London and being able to survive without having to become a poor relation. What if that was all there was to her life? Things that were less bad than something else?
Was that a way to live? Now it was her father’s voice talking to her, and she frowned. It was because of his daydreams, his refusal to settle for less than the best, to look to the future, that she had been landed here in the first place. He didn’t have a say in what she was going to do for the rest of her life, given how he hadn’t thought of it at all while he was alive.
She would just have to adopt her father’s viewpoint, ironic though that felt; she would get to the point where she was in the cottage, but wouldn’t think beyond that.
“Yes, we’ll be able to go to the country, and buy a little cottage, and live there. Forever.” Even to her own ears, she didn’t sound delighted at the prospect, but thankfully Maria was focusing on the words, not how she said them.
“Thank you, my lady,” Maria said in a fervent tone. “We will persuade all of them. We have to.”
And that was the truth of it, wasn’t it? “Yes, we will.” Sophronia walked to the wardrobe in the corner of the room, opening the doors to reveal a few gowns that Madame Fairfax happened to have on hand. The rest she’d promised for the following day. Sophronia hated to think of what the workers would have to do to make that happen, but she needed the clothing in order to make this work, so she couldn’t spare sympathy for a tired dressmaker. Hopefully the women there would be compensated. She’d tell her betrothed of her concern, perhaps ask him to send them some of what he had promised to give her. “And here are some of my disguises, so you can help me dress for dinner.”
Maria followed her, her hand reaching in to touch the gowns with a near palpable reverence. “Oh, my goodness, these are lovely. Not only will we get our cottage, you’ll have these gorgeous gowns, as well.”
“And no chickens to waste them on,” Sophronia muttered under her breath.
J
amie wasn’t prepared for the sight he saw as Sophronia walked down the stairs for dinner. He’d known she was tall, and slender, but beyond that, he hadn’t noticed much except her suitability for the task.
But now, dressed in one of Madame Fairfax’s gowns, she was a different word than “beautiful”—she was glorious. The amber sheen of the silk brought out the gold highlights in her brown hair, and made her brown eyes glint gold, as well. The gown was simply adorned, something Madame Fairfax had insisted on, since Sophronia was so tall, and any kind of furbelow would make her look awkward.
Jamie had to admit that Madame was correct. Sophronia looked like she was a goddess in truth, descended from Mount Olympus to take pity on mere mortals by blessing them with her presence. Her figure was flattered by the cut of the gown, the soft swell of her breasts showing above the fabric, the center dipping down in a V that made him want to see what was underneath.
Her waist was tiny, and then the gown flared out below, no doubt hiding long, lissome legs. She met his gaze, a hesitant look in her eyes, and he felt his chest tighten that she didn’t know, that she didn’t enter the room knowing what she looked like, and the effect she was having on him.
But given that this was an entirely fake betrothal, perhaps it was good that she didn’t realize any of it. He was intrigued, of course, but he most definitely did not want to become entangled—that was the whole purpose of this deception, to keep his way of life and make his mother happy.
Although the thought did cross his mind that they were technically betrothed, after all, so he might have to do some of the things one did with one’s betrothed.
If one were quite, quite intrigued.
And not determined to leave the country at the earliest possible moment.
“You look lovely, Sophronia,” he said, taking her hand in his and raising her fingers to his mouth. Her eyes widened as his lips made contact with her skin, and he wondered for a moment what she would do, how she would react, if he were to turn her hand over and press a kiss into her palm.
And then immediately vowed to himself he absolutely should not satisfy his curiosity. It would not be fair, either to her or to himself, to mix that possibility into their business agreement.
They were to be intimately acquainted for less than a month, and then they would leave one another, him to travel, knowing his mother was pleased, and her to her cottage, wherever that might be.
“Let us go in to dinner. Mother is waiting,” he said, retaining her hand in his and leading her to the dining room.
“Just one moment, please.” She sounded shaky, and he had to wonder if she was having second thoughts.
“I don’t—I just wanted to say thank you for this.” She uttered a little snort. “Thank you for the opportunity to pretend to be someone I am not so I can avoid having to deal with poultry for the rest of my life.”
That explained the chickens—somewhat. “You are welcome,” he said.
“Only,” she asked, “what will you tell your mother later on? I won’t be in London when this is over. How will you explain that?”
“Easy,” he said smoothly. “I will make some excuse about why we have to get married elsewhere, then we will leave to do just that, and then when I return, you will be staying there, taking care of our numerous children.”
She blanched. “Numerous—?”
He exhaled. “Well, that part probably isn’t wise. Mother will wish to see her grandchildren. I might have to kill you off, I hope you don’t mind.”
Her eyebrows rose up, her eyes wide. “Kill me off? How are you going to do that?”
He waved his hand in the air. “An inconvenient snake, a village uprising. Don’t be concerned, you will be far away by the time you die.”
“Good to know,” she replied drily.
He hadn’t quite worked out all the details, honestly, but he had to deal with the situation one step at a time. Or, rather, one false betrothal at a time. He knew well enough he could persuade his mother of anything; she had believed him when he’d told her he had developed a sudden, but not fatal, illness that could only be cured by eating an entire apple pie. He’d been five at the time. He hadn’t eaten apple pie since.
“Now, let us go persuade my mother we are hopelessly in love.”
He held his arm out for her, and she looped her arm through his, fitting perfectly to his side.
Her skirts rustled as they walked into the dining room, and Jamie detected a faint floral scent—he couldn’t identify which flower, just that it wasn’t overpowering and he found he liked it more than he might have originally thought.
Or was that just her?