He could not now imagine why he had not done so. And that morning, when she had discovered the loss of her jewels, he should have taken her home without further ado and enlisted help—her brother’s perhaps—to go after the thief.
He should never-never!—have consented to take to the open road alone with her.
And what he ought to do now, since he could not go back to amend the past, was rise with the dawn and convey her home with all speed. It was disastrously late to take such a course, but nevertheless it was the only course to take.
He would do it.
In the meantime, he would have to pluck up the courage to enter their shared bedchamber. Well, he thought, turning the key in the door resolutely, there was no help for it. And at least she had the modesty to be pretending to sleep. He had half expected to find her sitting up in bed in that shift or whatever else it was she had been wearing—or almost not wearing—when she had smiled down at him that morning, waiting to chatter his head off about something. The girl could certainly chatter. She had scarce stopped all day long.
But she was curled up so far to one side of the bed that she looked as if she were in danger of falling off. And the blankets covered her decently to the chin. She had her eyes closed, but she was breathing too quietly and too quickly to be sleeping. She had left a second pillow balanced at the opposite edge of the bed from where she lay.
Mitford looked at it longingly and at the floor with some distaste. It did not look quite as uneven as last night’s floor, but he realized suddenly that he was all over aches and pains. What he would really like more than anything in the world was to throw off all his clothes and step into a bathtub overflowing with hot soapy water.
He took off his coat again and pulled off his boots. The rest of his clothes would have to stay where they were, he thought regretfully. And he did not even have a clean shirt to put on the next day; He picked up the pillow and hurled it vengefully at the floor. At least it would be an improvement on his bag.
But every muscle screamed at him when he lowered himself to the floor and tried to cover himself with his greatcoat. It seemed that either his shoulders or his feet would have to be exposed to the night air.
But dammit, he thought with unaccustomed vehemence as he realized finally that there was no such thing as a comfortable way to lie on such a surface, there were three quarters of a soft looking bed and warm blankets waiting just above him. And perhaps she really was asleep. It had been a long and tiring day for her too.
He got quietly to his feet, rolled his greatcoat and set it carefully down the center of the bed, and climbed gratefully between the blankets on his side, balancing himself on the edge of the bed. He did not think he had ever in his life lain on a softer, warmer, more inviting surface.
But he did not have long to rhapsodize. He was sleeping within minutes.
All good things must come to an end, of course—sometimes sooner than necessary. He awoke with a jump when a bolt from heaven landed on his left eye. Except that it was not a real bolt, he realized as soon as he shook himself free of his dream, but a feminine fist.
The owner of the fist was not, apparently, awake. She turned over onto her side facing him—and when had he moved to the center of the bed facing her?—with a great deal of wriggling and rustling and sighing, had discovered that his shoulder was warmer and more comfortable than her pillow, and burrowed her head against it. There was some muttering, and the arm and hand that had smacked him curved around his waist. She settled back into deep sleep again. The rolled coat was still between them.
Oh, Lord! Oh, good Lord. Her hair was tickling his nose. And during the extended ten minutes of his absence at bedtime, she must have washed and put something on herself. Something with a soft feminine fragrance. Something good.
The Duke of
He should never-never!—have consented to take to the open road alone with her.
And what he ought to do now, since he could not go back to amend the past, was rise with the dawn and convey her home with all speed. It was disastrously late to take such a course, but nevertheless it was the only course to take.
He would do it.
In the meantime, he would have to pluck up the courage to enter their shared bedchamber. Well, he thought, turning the key in the door resolutely, there was no help for it. And at least she had the modesty to be pretending to sleep. He had half expected to find her sitting up in bed in that shift or whatever else it was she had been wearing—or almost not wearing—when she had smiled down at him that morning, waiting to chatter his head off about something. The girl could certainly chatter. She had scarce stopped all day long.
But she was curled up so far to one side of the bed that she looked as if she were in danger of falling off. And the blankets covered her decently to the chin. She had her eyes closed, but she was breathing too quietly and too quickly to be sleeping. She had left a second pillow balanced at the opposite edge of the bed from where she lay.
Mitford looked at it longingly and at the floor with some distaste. It did not look quite as uneven as last night’s floor, but he realized suddenly that he was all over aches and pains. What he would really like more than anything in the world was to throw off all his clothes and step into a bathtub overflowing with hot soapy water.
He took off his coat again and pulled off his boots. The rest of his clothes would have to stay where they were, he thought regretfully. And he did not even have a clean shirt to put on the next day; He picked up the pillow and hurled it vengefully at the floor. At least it would be an improvement on his bag.
But every muscle screamed at him when he lowered himself to the floor and tried to cover himself with his greatcoat. It seemed that either his shoulders or his feet would have to be exposed to the night air.
But dammit, he thought with unaccustomed vehemence as he realized finally that there was no such thing as a comfortable way to lie on such a surface, there were three quarters of a soft looking bed and warm blankets waiting just above him. And perhaps she really was asleep. It had been a long and tiring day for her too.
He got quietly to his feet, rolled his greatcoat and set it carefully down the center of the bed, and climbed gratefully between the blankets on his side, balancing himself on the edge of the bed. He did not think he had ever in his life lain on a softer, warmer, more inviting surface.
But he did not have long to rhapsodize. He was sleeping within minutes.
All good things must come to an end, of course—sometimes sooner than necessary. He awoke with a jump when a bolt from heaven landed on his left eye. Except that it was not a real bolt, he realized as soon as he shook himself free of his dream, but a feminine fist.
The owner of the fist was not, apparently, awake. She turned over onto her side facing him—and when had he moved to the center of the bed facing her?—with a great deal of wriggling and rustling and sighing, had discovered that his shoulder was warmer and more comfortable than her pillow, and burrowed her head against it. There was some muttering, and the arm and hand that had smacked him curved around his waist. She settled back into deep sleep again. The rolled coat was still between them.
Oh, Lord! Oh, good Lord. Her hair was tickling his nose. And during the extended ten minutes of his absence at bedtime, she must have washed and put something on herself. Something with a soft feminine fragrance. Something good.
The Duke of
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