“Goodnight Mrs. Bateman.” His accent danced along her body like silk.
“Bloomington.” She said.
“Yes, that’s what I said. Goodnight Mrs. Bloomington.”
His gaze settled on her lips, making the air feel heavy, laden with heat. Her racing heart skipped a beat, despite his promise not to kiss her. Aubrey chafed that her own conscience would keep her from ever experiencing…
“Yes. Of course. Goodnight, Mr. Bateman.” She slipped into the room, closed the door, and pressed her back against the wood.
Her entire body flushed with heat at the sound of Mr. Bateman’s chuckle as he sauntered away.
Chapter 4
Aubrey
“Just the tea and toast please.” Aubrey smiled primly at the maid serving their breakfast—the same maid who was doing her best to capture Mr. Bateman’s attention by bending forward, her bubbies almost spilling out of her bodice.
“And you, sir?”
“Eggs, kidneys, porridge, some toast, jam and current cakes and pastries if you have them. Bring me the works.” Mr. Bateman grinned. Of course, he must be used to this as a single, attractive gentleman.
Whose hair had been brushed and tied back neatly this morning, making the blue of his eyes stand out even more than they had yesterday. And who managed to exude a distinctly masculine scent, cleaner today, but still spicy and woodsy and still… toe curling.
Aubrey bristled a little at the thought of him kissing some other woman. Which was ridiculous, especially in light of the request she’d made of him the night before.
Still…
“Anything at all, sir,” the maid winked and then sashayed out of the private dining room he’d acquired for them once again.
“You must be very hungry.” She asked, her question drawing his gaze away from the maid’s swaying bottom.
“Oh, I won’t be eating all of it. I intend to share it with you.”
“No. I’m only going to have the toast.” Aubrey was already shaking her head, her mother’s voice, and Harrison’s, and Winifred’s reprimands well established into her habits. “Gluttony is a sin.”
And of course, he laughed at that.
“That is why you are hungry all of the time.”
“I’m not hungry all of the time.” And then the minute the words left her lips, she wondered if he wasn’t right.
“You ask for food. You look at it. You touch it, you even raise it to your lips, and yet you rarely actually eat it. If you would simply take a bite and then swallow, you would not feel so inordinately deprived.”
“For such a short acquaintance as ours, you certainly are confident.”
He shrugged.
“Do you know where we are?” She thought she’d change the subject.
“Difficult to know without a map,” He frowned. “But we must be nearing Bristol. By my estimation we’re still three, perhaps four days from London.” And then he tilted his head. “Have you even been to London, Miss Bloomington?”
“I have not. But Mr. Moyers, my late husband’s solicitor has assured me that living in Mayfair, I ought to have no difficulty entering Society. I do hope he is correct. I’d like to one day become a patroness of the arts.” The idea hadn’t sounded nearly so outlandish in her head, but saying it aloud now, she felt rather naïve. “Do you think I’ll have trouble?”
He studied her thoughtfully, frowning. His answer both surprised and pleased her. “No, Mrs. Bloomington. I think you’ll do just fine.”
“I’m also going to plant a flower garden. Harrison, Mr. Bloomington that is, said flowers would be a waste and only allowed me to plant vegetables. But once I settle in, I’m going to plant all sorts of flowers if I have a large enough garden.”
He stared at her as she spoke, not commenting, but watching her as though her opinion, her words and intentions, had some sort of value.
