Ethan tipped his head, barely suppressing a delighted grin. He pivoted around and headed toward the ladies in question before Kendall could change his mind.
Two hours later, Ethan found himself sitting in the private dining room of The White Horse and Griffin, enjoying a fine steak and ale pie in the company of Lady Allegra and Lady Whipple.
Ethan and Lady Allegra ate in silence as Lady Whipple recounted tale after tale of the people she had once known.
“I knew the Duke of Wellington in my youth, you see,” Lady Whipple said on a laugh. “At one point, I remember saying to my dear friend, the Duchess of Marlborough, that Arthur Wellesley would becomeSomeone Important. He cut far too dashing a figure tonotrise to great heights.” She punctuated this comment with an appraising look at Ethan.
The coal fire in the hearth radiated warmth through the room despite the continued patter of rain on the paned window. The occasional clank of cutlery or crack of laughter drifted in from the public dining room beyond their door.
Ethan dared a glance at Lady Allegra. Dressed simply in a dark blue gown impeccably tailored to skim her glorious curves, hair pulled into a thick chignon, she truly was the siren of his poem. Worse, at some point over the past day, she had ceased being the stilted, aloofLady Allegrain his thoughts and had becomeAllie—a wary, wounded woman with secrets and a treasure trove of brilliant thoughts he longed to unearth.
For her part, Allie clearly noticed his noticing. When Lady Whipple bent over her dinner, Allie sent him a raised eyebrow.
Nothing escaped his weeladra.
Finally, after a delicious dessert of treacle tart, Lady Whipple pushed back from the table.
Ethan immediately shot to his feet.
“I am for bed. My old bones are not quite used to sailing through violent tempests such as that of today,” her ladyship announced, turning for the door. “You have been a delight, Mr. Penn-Leith. I am glad we have your company. Will you see me upstairs, Lady Allegra?”
“Of course, Aunt.” Allie rose too, her meek behavior marred by the smirk she sent Ethan.
His eyes followed hisladrafrom the room, noting the wee nip of her waist and helplessly imagining how it would feel under his palms.
Silken warm, an infinity contained
Beneath fingertips sure yet trembling.
Unhelpful thought that.
With a deep breath, he sat back down and poured a glass of port, nursing it while staring into the fire.
This infatuation with Allie was rapidly becoming a hydra—every wee attempt he made to stem his admiration merely spawned a new behemoth of affection to be conquered.
It was the veriest madness.
Mmm, though the comparison might make an excellent poem.
So . . . not all was lost.
He was contemplating jotting down his ideas and seeking his own bed when the dining room door opened—bringing with it a burst of noise from the public taproom—and Allie slipped in.
His stupid, foolish heart leapt as he rose to his feet.
She closed the door, muting the sound.
“Is that wise?” He nodded toward the latch.
“Probably not,” she said, sliding into the chair opposite him. “But the noise is dreadful and who here in this inn will report our indiscretion? Kendall and his men are still with the ship, and Aunt Whipple all but shooed me away.”
Ethan sat back down.
They stared at one another for the space of two deep breaths.
He knew he should open the door. Propriety demanded it.
And yet . . .
