As You Wish Read online

  He snorted, an involuntary acknowledgment of Lord Langston’s point. But on further consideration, he saw no reason to argue. He would not take his pride to unreasonable lengths. After all, the funds gained from selling his army commission would not last forever, and his importing investments had not yet begun to turn a profit.

  “Whatever suits Solebury,” he said.

  The viscount clapped him on the back. “Let us collect the ladies, then, and escort them upstairs to dress for dinner.”

  David agreed, eager to cast off his rain-drenched apparel--and the awkward encounter. He would have been better prepared to deal with animosity than with the compassion of his father’s friend. Somehow, it left him defenseless.

  When he had helped the viscount see the ladies settled, he retired to his own quarters and peeled off his clammy linen shirt and buckskin breeches. The fire in the room had not yet been lit, and the chilly air prompted him to towel dry quickly and scamper into fresh clothes. He had just squeezed a foot back into one of his sodden Hessian boots when a knock sounded at the door--hopefully signaling the arrival of a servant with wood.

  “Yes?” he called, balancing on one leg while he struggled to pull on the other boot.

  “Is that you, David?” Leah’s voice carried in from the hall. “Can I come in?”

  The mere thought of her entering his chamber pitched him forward so he had to brace himself with both hands on the scarred wooden floor. Under no circumstances could she come into his room and retain respectability--but especially not with him in his shirtsleeves and stocking feet.

  “I am . . . not presentable at the moment.”

  He thought he heard a muffled giggle--and, certainly, he would not put the impropriety past her. Jamming his foot into the second boot, he inched closer to the door.

  “What in creation brings you here?” he hissed through the crack between door and frame. He hastened to tuck in his shirt, as if she might actually be able see his state of deshabille through the wood. “Unless you have some urgent matter to discuss, you ought to be dressing for dinner. Now, please return to your own quarters.”

  “I’m finished dressing,” came her muted response. “And my room is so cold, I couldn’t stand it. I threw on my dinner dress and got out of there as fast as I could.”

  “Well, you will have to return.” He feared she would refuse to heed him and snatched his waistcoat from the bed, shrugging into the garment. “When I am presentable, I’ll fetch you and accompany you down to the dining hall.”

  She hesitated. “How long will you be?”

  He ran a hand through his damp hair, stepping aside to glimpse his reflection in a glass hanging above the small dressing table. He did not dare ask for a reasonable amount of time. “Allow me five minutes.”

  “Okay, but meet me downstairs, anyway. That big fire in the dining hall is calling to me. See you in a few minutes.”

  “Leah, you cannot go downstairs alone!” He fumbled with the latch and opened the door, but she had already gone. Poking his head into the hall, he spied her turning into the staircase.

  “Devil take it!” He pulled back into his chamber. Thanks to her, he would have to appear below with wet hair and a hastily tied cravat.

  He mastered a simple knot for the latter and snatched his jacket from the single wooden chair in the room. He finished his rushed toilette while hurrying through the hall and down to the ground floor.

  Leah sat with the innkeeper’s wife on a bench before the fire, a smile on her face and a steaming tin cup in her hands. She spotted him approaching the hearth and stood, holding out her drink toward him.

  “Oh, David,” she uttered in a tone of rapture. “Just wait until you try this mulled wine! I couldn’t have asked for a better drink to warm me up. Here, try some.”

  Her artlessness disarmed him, and he took the cup without thinking. She nodded her encouragement for him to sample the wine. He could not seem to look away from her sparkling eyes as he lifted the cup, wondering if her lips had grazed the same spot his own would.

  Cinnamon- and clove-scented steam wafted from the drink, and his mouth watered even before the sweet, apple-tinged wine washed over his tongue. His body seemed to fill with warmth, spurred by the luscious drink, the blazing fire and the flickering flames in Leah’s eyes.

  “Heavenly,” he heard himself say.

  She beamed and turned to the landlady. “Can we have another one, Mrs. King? Make that two more. This one is going quickly.”

  The grandmotherly woman smiled and scurried toward the kitchen. David held Leah’s wine back out to her, but she shook her head.

  “Drink some more. I’ve already had half a cup.” She reseated herself on the bench, patting the spot beside her. “Isn’t this inn charming? I love this big, stone fireplace and the wizened old wood of the furniture. How old do you suppose the place is?”

  He sat down, taking another sip of the spicy confection. The features she indicated could not be called unusual, but with his feet warming by the fire and a beautiful woman beside him, he, too, felt the allure of the country setting. “Several hundred years, I daresay. But you may not find the building quite so delightful when you are confined to your chamber again tonight. Old inns are notorious for drafts.”

  “But the servants will light fires in our rooms before we go to bed, won’t they?” She shivered and leaned closer to the flames. “If not, I may have to sleep down here.”

  “I shall make a point to address the innkeeper on the matter,” he said, praying she only jested about bedding down in the dining hall.

  Suddenly, she looked at him with mischief dancing in her eyes. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if a whole building could be heated by a single, powerful machine, centrally located, say, in the cellar?”

  He stiffened, recognizing the hypothesis for one of her fantasies about a future world. For some foolish reason, he elected to debate her. “How could enough heat for an entire construction possibly be generated in one area? The building itself would catch on fire.”

  “A fuel, similar to . . . lamp oil, could be burned to produce heat, while a self-powered fan would propel the hot air through ducts running to all the rooms.” She took his cup and sipped the mulled wine, watching his face with a grin.

  “Nonsense,” he said. “How would the fan power itself?”

  “With electricity, like the lightning you see during a thunderstorm.” She handed him back the wine. “You have the rest. There’s only a sip left.”

  He took the cup absently. “And how would one harness the energy of a lightning bolt?”

  She shrugged. “I believe a lightning bolt itself is too volatile to control. The electricity comes from various other sources, too complicated for me to explain--or even understand. What am I--an engineer?”

  “You are a young woman with an active imagination and a bump somewhere on her head,” he said. He could only hope Phoebe proved right in venturing that a London visit might help uncloud Leah’s mind. “Even if you have no visible evidence of injury, I am certain you have one.”

  “Then we make a fine pair: I with an invisible bump on my head and you with an invisible chip on your shoulder.” She paired her observation with a smile. “Here comes the landlady with more mulled wine. Finish that one up.”

  The Langstons chose that moment to appear as well, so he and Leah carried their wine with them into the private dining parlor the viscount had reserved. Furnished with only a crude trestle table and benches, the room afforded little comfort. A good-sized blaze burned in the hearth, but the air was too chilly for it to have been lit long.

  “I apologize for the inferior accommodations,” Lord Langston said as they settled at the table. “With the rain coming so steadily, my wife and I thought we should stop here rather than go on to the inn where we usually stay. I had not realized quite how little this establishment has to offer.”

  “Whatever the inn lacks in luxury is made up for in character,” Leah said, once again seated beside David. She
gazed up at the cobwebbed beams supporting the ceiling, then around at the rather small windows currently pelted by rain. “Everything is so quaint. And if the food is anywhere near as good as the mulled wine, we’re in for a treat.”

  As though on cue, the landlady entered with a stoneware pitcher of the steaming drink. Leah urged the Langstons to fill their cups and had David pouring himself a third serving scarcely before he had finished the second. Her enthusiasm led them all to down several cups before any food came to the table. As a result, they grew quite a merry party.

  When serving girls brought out freshly baked sourdough bread, Leah declared she had never tasted better. And during dinner, she praised each course, entranced by offerings as simple as Yorkshire pudding. Lord and Lady Langston laughed over her appreciation, clearly as taken with Leah as she appeared with the food. Indeed, her enjoyment had a contagious quality, and David found himself savoring the simple fare--as well as the warm company--greater than he had at any dinner party he recalled.

  When the viscount and his wife got up to retire, he felt as though he had been doused with cold water.

  “So early?” he asked, standing automatically. An instant of dizziness surprised him. The wine had affected him more than he realized. “Will you not stay for one more drink?”

  “If you check your watch, you will find the hour is not so early, at least not when one is scheduled to travel in the morning,” Lord Langston said. He and his wife exchanged amused looks. “But you young people have more stamina than we. Feel free to linger over your wine.”

  Brilliant. Now the viscount had taken up matchmaking as well. David stole a glance at Leah, who smiled in return, her eyes and hair glittering in the firelight.

  “We had best retire as well, Le--er, Miss Cantrell,” he said. “We, too, must rise early in the morning.”

  “Can we stay for just one more drink?” she asked with an irrepressible smile.

  But he could not stay--not without longing, painfully, to repeat the previous night’s shame. “I have had too much already. Come. I will escort you to your chamber.”

  Thus the party filed upstairs together. The Langstons bade a quick goodnight and disappeared into their rooms, leaving David and Leah alone in the hall. He unlocked her door for her, glanced inside to ensure the absence of intruders, then handed her the key.

  She looked up at him, still smiling, her eyes focused tightly on his. His gaze dropped to her lips, beautifully formed and ripe for kissing. Could he not simply bestow one brief goodnight kiss on those lips?

  No. He knew he could not without demanding more. And he had no right to even a single kiss.

  He turned away, tossing over his shoulder, “Goodnight. Lock your door behind you.”

  Without looking back, he went to his chamber.

  Ten minutes later, he lay wide-eyed in the dark. A small fire burned, but the room retained a chill, and the narrow single bed made his back ache. The room also contained a second bunk, but it appeared as lumpy as the one he had chosen.

  A soft knock sounded at the door. Stunned, he froze in place.

  The knock repeated, this time followed by a whisper.

  “David, it’s me. Are you awake?”

  Good Lord! She was ready for Bedlam. If anyone saw her outside his door at this hour . . .

  He tossed off the covers and threw on his dressing gown. Hastily unlatching the door, he scanned the empty corridor and pulled her inside by the arm. He tried to rein in his panic, closing the door quickly but quietly. Only then did he allow himself to look at her, draped only in her nightrail and wrapper. The lantern she held cast alluring shadows over her body.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he hissed. “Are you well and truly mad?”

  She winced. “I know. I know I shouldn’t be here. But, David, the ceiling in my room leaks--not in one spot but several! The worst leak is dripping right on the bed, and the mattress is soaked through.”

  He could only stare.

  “Honestly, David, I was going to try to sleep on the floor instead, but that’s wet, too, and the room is freezing. I’ve never seen such a measly fire.” She walked toward the small blaze in his hearth and held her palms out to it. “Mine’s not even as good as this one.”

  There could be no doubt of her distress and, he admitted, she had cause to be disturbed. He tried to think what to do, his wine-addled mind churning slowly. He would have to offer her his room--but then where would he sleep? He had a choice of taking over her cold, wet room or sleeping with the servants, probably in the same bed with one. Not a pleasing prospect.

  “I shall take your room, and you can have mine,” he said. Truly, he saw no alternative. “If anyone notices, we can explain. I believe we have good cause for the switch.”

  “You can’t sleep in there.” She turned around, keeping her back close to the fireplace. “Even if you find a dry spot on the floor, the puddles are bound to spread into it by morning. The rain still isn’t letting up.”

  He frowned, rubbing his chin in thought. No new alternatives came to him.

  “Look, there are two beds here,” she said, pointing to the empty bunk. “It’s not like we have to sleep in the same one.”

  He blinked at her. “I should think not.”

  She sighed, shaking her head. “If only you understood how different things are . . . where I come from.”

  Naturally, she meant not where but when. He crossed his arms over his chest.

  “What would be so wrong about my staying here? What would be wrong, even if we . . .” She trailed off, leaving him to fill in the blank with a dozen tantalizing thoughts.

  What would be wrong? Everything . . . or not a thing in the world. He let his gaze wander down over her silk-encased body, remembering how slender and pliant she had felt in his arms. Heat rose up his own body and haze over his mind.

  “Never mind,” she said, just when his will had begun to crumble. “I respect your point of view. You can have your side of the room, and I will stick to mine.”

  She walked to the spare bed, pulled down the covers and fluffed up the pillow. “I promise not to do anything to compromise your virtue.”

  “My virtue?”

  “I will sneak back to my room first thing in the morning. No one will know I was here.”

  He opened his mouth but closed it again, no longer certain whether he wanted to protest her staying or just her staying in a separate bed. Unaccustomed to extricating himself from one muddle after another, he found the task exhausting. He weighed his options. He could sleep in a freezing, water-soaked room. He could sleep in the same bed with a poxy servant. He could apply to Lord and Lady Langston like a damned pest. He could ravish the young woman left in his charge.

  The least troublesome choice seemed to be accepting the arrangements as they stood. If she failed to rise early and steal back to her chamber, he would go to the other room himself. He felt sure he would wake early, in fact doubted he would rest at all, knowing she lay only a few feet away.

  “Very well.” He went to the door and turned the key in the lock, checking twice to ensure the latch had caught. Refusing to look at her, he climbed into bed in his dressing gown and turned his face to the wall.

  “Goodnight,” he said.

  Even in his agitated state of mind, he made one resolution: Chaperon or no chaperon, he and Leah would make no overnight stops on the way back from London. They would have to travel from the crack of dawn until midnight to do so, but that hardly mattered.

  The sleep he would sacrifice would amount to no more than what he would lose tonight.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  David must have woke half a dozen times before the thin light of dawn finally filtered through his chamber window. A draft blew through a cracked pane and chilled his face--no doubt still flushed from dreams of the woman sharing his room. All night, his subconscious mind had pulled Leah out of her bed and into his . . . until he’d wake again and peer through the dark to spy her sleeping form, still across the r
oom.

  He wanted her now in reality--wanted to wake her gently, carry her to his bed and damn the consequences. She would come willingly this very moment, he thought, if only he asked her. Would he ask her? He didn’t know, but he rolled over to watch her sleep as he considered giving in to temptation.

  Her bed stood empty.

  The sheets and counterpane had been neatly made up, the pillow fluffed to obliterate all hints of use. He scanned the floor space next to the bed, searching for . . . what? A dropped hairpin, perhaps--any sign that she truly had slept only a few paces away from him. He looked to the closed door, then got up and laid his palm on the mattress of her bed. All warmth from her body had dissipated.

  A shiver jarred him. How cold the room had grown during the night! And how dull his senses felt, likely still sodden with mulled wine. He should have been relieved that Leah had escaped his chamber undetected. Instead, he felt numb, strangely lifeless. The wine had indeed plundered his sensibilities . . . all the better ones, anyway.

  He went to the dressing table and splashed water on his face, but his mind strayed during the whole time he shaved and dressed. Once he had made himself presentable, breakfast seemed a reasonable--if not quite desired--aim, so he wandered out into the hall.

  As he neared Leah’s door, he slowed his pace while his heartbeat quickened. Surely, he ought to confirm she had reached her chamber safely. With a glance down both ends of the empty corridor, he tapped on the door.

  “Who is it?” her voice sounded through the wood.

  He cleared his throat. “David. Are you dre–are you ready for breakfast?”

  The door opened and she stood before him, clear-eyed, smiling and dressed for travel. Behind her, the morning sun broke through the clouds and streamed through the window to grant her a halo-like glow. The clouds in his head lifted as well, and life surged into his senses.

  “Good morning.” Her smile tilted, taking on an impish air. “Did you sleep well?”