Page 24 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Chapter 6

Connor chuckled at her brave denial. He knew better. Her desire had been apparent in her breathing, in the way she’d focused on his mouth, in the little shiver that went through her body. He wouldn’t act on his impulse to kiss her, of course. Not only would that be unprofessional, but he knew all too well the gulf that separated his class from hers—not to mention Grant and Christian would cheerfully kill him if they learned he’d dared touch their sister in such an intimate way. Still, ruffling her feathers gave him something to focus on besides the growing awareness of the surprising woman in his arms.

He’d assumed her a spoiled, self-centered society lady, yet she’d borne her difficulties without complaint or hysterics. To his surprise, she’d aided wounded passengers without fussing about her own injuries. And to have walked all that way on bleeding feet… he shook his head. The Amesbury family produced unique individuals, to say the least.

All he had to do was deliver her safely to her brothers without giving in to his burgeoning desire for her. Then he could return to his normal life, minus difficult women.

“And furthermore,” she added in a ridiculously toplofty tone of voice. “Stop addressing me by my given name.”

He adopted the accent of a London street urchin. “Oi, o’course, Milaidy Hennessy.”

She pinned him with a glare that should have wilted him. Instead, he grinned. She let out a sigh of exasperation. Fun to ruffle, indeed.

Despite Margaret’s slender frame, Connor’s arms began shaking by the time they reached the inn. At the entrance, he set her down and opened the door. Inside, they found an empty common room. Margaret all but collapsed onto the nearest chair. Though she offered no complaint, her pain and exhaustion showed in her expression and her drooping posture. The bruises on her cheekbone and forehead had purpled, and her hair had worked its way out of its knot, or whatever women called that style.

Smells of sausage and bread, as well as voices from a back room, assured Connor the innkeeper was nearby. A moment later, a round little woman wearing a dingy white cap and an equally dingy apron lumbered in.

“Afternoon, sir. Ma’am,” the apron-clad woman greeted. “The bread’s not ready, but I can offer you bangers and mash.”

“What time does the stage headed toward London pass through?” Connor asked.

“One was due a few hours ago, but I heard it met with an accident. There won’t be another for two more days, but you might catch tomorrow’s mail coach. It runs every day.”

Connor nodded. “Do you have rooms available?”

“I do, sir.”

“Your cleanest one, please, and some water.”

The woman looked them over, clearly noting the bruises on Margaret’s face and their state of dishevelment. “Were you on one of them coaches what collided up the road?”

“Yes, we were in the stagecoach.”

Those were the magic words. Within moments, mingled with words of sympathy, the innkeeper brought them food and drink, clucked and fussed over them, and later ushered them to a bedchamber upstairs with a large bow window.

“Me best room,” she said proudly.

The old, thick windows allowed in very little of the view of the outdoors, but the setting sunlight turned the nearly opaque glass into a glorious orange and gold watercolor. A boy knelt at the hearth, lighting a fire. He scurried out of the room at their approach.

“A bath for you, milady?” The innkeeper asked Lady Margaret.

“Ah, lovely. Thank you.” She sat on the bed and peeled off what was left of her blood-stained and ragged slippers, hissing in her breath.

“Right away.” The innkeeper bustled away.

Connor picked up the basin on the stand, poured water from the pitcher into it, and took it to her. “Here, soak your feet, Margaret.”

Lady Hennessy, Connor mentally corrected himself. He really ought to stop being so informal with her when they were in private. She was born the daughter of an earl and married a marquis. Ladies didn’t come much more titled than that. And as Christian and Grant Amesbury’s sister, she deserved respect. Connor must think of her as Lady Hennessy, not Margaret.

Wearily, she grumbled, “Stop calling me that.”

Opting for ruffling her feathers, he grinned, “Sure, Maggie.”

She let out a huff. “Barbarian.”

“I’ve been called worse, Lady Hennessy.”

She glanced at him. “I have never truly cared to be addressed as Lady Hennessy, either.”