“Andrew,” he said, nodding in greeting as they shook hands. “Thank you for the invitation.”
“We’re delighted you could both make it,” he said, his gaze drifting to where the women had paused by a massive flower arrangement. “Your fiancée is charming. Eleanor’s already smitten.”
He felt an unexpected surge of pride at Andrew’s words. “She has that effect on people,” he said, the truth of the statement hitting harder than he expected.
“Wilson will show you to your room,” Andrew said, gesturing to a stoic older man who appeared silently at his side. “Get settled, then join us on the terrace for lunch.”
Ronan nodded, glancing toward where their luggage had been placed near the foot of the sweeping staircase. “Room?” he asked, careful to keep his tone even. “Singular?”
Andrew looked at him. “Naturally,” he said, his voice dry with a trace of humor. “Eleanor and I may value tradition, Ronan, but we’re hardly Victorian. You’re engaged to be married—we wouldn’t dream of separating you.”
Heat crawled up the back of his neck—a sensation he hadn’t felt since his early twenties. He wasn’t embarrassed by the implication; he was unsettled by how his mind conjured images of her in a shared bed, her hair spilled across pillows meant for two.
“This way, sir,” Wilson said, already moving toward the stairs.
Ronan caught Devney’s eye across the foyer and gave a slight tilt of his head, indicating she should follow. She excused herself from Eleanor and joined him, her questioning look turning to confusion as Wilson led them up the massive staircase.
“Our room,” he said as they climbed. “Singular.”
“As in one?” she said softly, eyes widening.
He nodded.
“The Rose Suite,” Wilson said, pushing the doors open with reverence.
The room beyond was beautiful—spacious, with high ceilings, cream-colored walls, and accents of rose throughout. Sunlight poured through tall windows that overlooked the ocean, illuminating a king-sized four-poster bed draped in luxurious linens, a sitting area with a fireplace, and double doors leading to what he assumed was an en-suite bathroom.
It was elegant, refined, and romantic—a room designed for lovers to retreat from the world.
And there was, indeed, only one bed.
“Wow,” she said softly, her voice full of awe as she stepped inside. “This is gorgeous.”
Wilson nodded, pleased by her reaction. “Mrs. Beauchamp selected it personally for you.
She thought you might appreciate the view.”
“It’s perfect,” she said, moving toward the windows. “Thank you, Wilson.”
He bowed. “Lunch will be served on the east terrace in thirty minutes. May I show you the way?”
“We’ll find it,” Ronan said, noting their luggage had been placed discreetly near the expansive wardrobe.
Wilson nodded and withdrew, closing the doors behind him with a click that seemed to seal their fate.
The moment they were alone, she turned to him, her composed facade slipping. “One bed,” she said, stating the obvious.
“I see that,” he said, surveying the room more thoroughly. A small sofa sat in the bedroom—elegant but impractical for sleeping. Only five feet long, it seemed laughable compared to his height of well over six feet.
“You won’t fit on that,” she said, following his gaze to the sofa. “Not unless you remove your legs.”
“I’ll manage,” he said, unbuttoning his suit jacket and hanging it in the wardrobe to avoid wrinkles. “It’s only for two nights.”
She bit her lip, a gesture he was recognizing as a sign of genuine concern rather than her usual teasing. “We could alternate,” she said. “I’ll take the couch tonight. You take it tomorrow.”
He gave her a look that made it clear what he thought of that idea.
“Fine,” she sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Be chivalrous and uncomfortable. Don’t complain when you can’t stand up straight on Monday.”
