His servant covered him with an enormous umbrella, but rain soaked the ground, which had turned into a muddy mess. With a sigh of regret for the only shoes she had brought with her, which would get irredeemably wet, she stepped one foot on the step. Only to be swept into the marquess’s arms.
She squealed, grabbing onto his massive shoulders for support, and hopefully to make herself lighter to carry.
“Put me down,” she hissed.
“Your shoes will get dirty,” he replied reasonably as he strode towards the inn’s entrance. It was a short distance away, but seemed so very distant.
“You’ll hurt yourself carrying me,” she whispered.
He looked at her with such affront that she wondered if she had offended him somehow.
“Do you think I’m so feeble that I can’t carry a woman a few steps?” he asked, his tone full of disbelief and outrage.
“No, I don’t think you are feeble.” He was probably the strongest man she had ever met, if the size of his muscles wereany sign. “But I’m too heavy,” she added, humiliated at having to spell it out.
His indignant gaze turned tender as he shouldered his way into the inn and lowered her slowly to the ground.
“You are not too heavy. You are a delightful, proper armful.”
“Please, don’t patronize me. I know—”
He kissed her, hard and swift, interrupting her tirade. “Cease your protests before I carry you all the way upstairs, just to prove that I can,” he threatened.
She glared at him, but it lost its effect when her mouth twitched at the ridiculousness of their argument. “Fine. I’ll shut up now. But next time, give me a warning before you sweep me off my feet.”
“What fun would that be?”
The innkeeper, an older and distinguished-looking gentleman with a white beard and hair, greeted them warmly.
“Would you like to have a seat in the parlor while I arrange for our rooms?”
Thalia agreed with a nod and looked around. The inn’s parlor, with its plush armchairs and intricately patterned rugs, was just what a weary traveler needed. Warmth enveloped her as the soft glow of gas lamps and the rich scent of polished wood greeted her. The faint aroma of a delicious stew and freshly baked bread conspired to make her stomach grumble and reminded her she had only had one meal today, if the admittedly excellent tea service she’d enjoyed on the train could be called a proper meal.
She settled into a comfortable chair, right by the ornate fireplace that crackled merrily, giving off pleasant warmth on this rainy and cold day. But all too soon, the marquess was calling her.
“Would you join me for dinner, my lady?” he said, bowing and offering his arm. “I’ve arranged for it to be served in aprivate parlor,” he said. “And then to have baths sent up to our rooms.”
“Dinner and a bath sound marvelous,” she said as she took his arm, and they walked down a hall tastefully adorned with paintings and featuring gleaming brass fixtures.
The private dining room, with its table set with a crisp white tablecloth, sparkling crystal, and gleaming silverware, promised a culinary experience of the highest caliber. Liam led her to a chair and gallantly pulled it for her to take a seat.
Following fast on their heels, the servants entered with trays laden with covered dishes. They set everything up on the dining table and, after ascertaining that everything was satisfactory, departed unobtrusively. The service was as excellent as everything else in the inn.
“Thank you,” she said while removing her gloves and sitting down at the lavishly laid out table.
Liam sat across from her. Together, they uncovered the plates, revealing an array of sumptuous dishes that promised to satisfy even the most discerning palate.
An oxtail soup, hearty and aromatic, a generous slice of succulent roast beef, accompanied by fluffy Yorkshire puddings, roasted potatoes, and a medley of seasonal vegetables, all drizzled with a rich gravy and no less than three desserts. Everything looked and smelled delicious, and her mouth watered with delight.
Until she spotted Liam staring at her, barely paying attention to the food. She froze, reminding herself not to appear too eager for food. That was extremely unbecoming, especially for someone her size. She smiled, embarrassed, and dipped her spoon in the soup, taking a tentative sip.
The flavor was exquisite, and it tore a reluctant groan from her throat. She closed her eyes to better enjoy the taste, andwhen she opened them, Liam was pouring her a glass of wine, his gaze never straying from her mouth.
“Aren’t you going to eat your meal?” she asked, discomfited by his attention.
“I will. But it is such a pleasure to watch you enjoy your food. You eat with gusto, savoring the flavors.”
“You are making me self-conscious.” She put down her spoon and frowned at her food.
