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“I beg your pardon.”

Breathless, the top of her head not quite at shoulder level, she arched away, peering upward.

Her hood slipped off to reveal unbound hair, a shade somewhere between walnut and pecan. Not brown exactly, but not blonde either, though golden ribbons threaded the strands here and there.

Her pale, ice blue eyes—hyacinth blue—rounded in surprise but not embarrassment. A deeper azure green rimmed her irises which, if he wasn’t mistaken, shimmered with uncontained joy and ill-concealed amusement.

Directed at him.

Battling an inexplicable reluctance to do so, he set her from him. Not, however, before mentally noting the delicacy of the arms his fingers encircled or the refined planes of her flushed face. Or her bowed mouth, pinkish-red from the brisker-than-usual May air.

Since when did he notice a woman’s hair color?

Or wind-tinted lips, for that matter?

Must be the whisky—had him numpty. Which was why he rarely imbibed more than a single tot.

Disgruntled at his intense, unsolicited, and distracting reaction, he firmed his mouth whilst leveling her a reproving glance.

“Perhaps you ought to watch where you’re going and use more caution when opening doors.”

“Indeed, I should, sir.”

Not the least chagrined, she offered a winsome smile, and the most irregular sensation flickered in his chest.

Bloody whisky.

How could something so simple, the upward turn of her petal soft lips, transform her heretofore unremarkable features into breathtaking beauty?

And more on point, why ever had he noticed?

Because a man could fall in love with that radiant smile.

He shook his head.

By Jove, he hadn’t indulged enough to produce those kinds of fanciful musings.

Not he, the master of controlling his baser instincts and dark inclinations.

“Russell, might I have a towel or two?” the small tempest called to the innkeeper as she crouched and gave a rueful twist of her pretty rose bud mouth at the mess she’d made. After placing the other basket on the floor, she gathered the salvageable herbs.

The odors of crushed oregano, rosemary, sage, and other aromatic plants Chester couldn’t identify drifted upward.

Who was she?

Obviously, someone who’d moved here after Father disowned him. Though her simple cloak and the scuffed half-boots peeking from the practical woolen folds of her russet colored gown weren’t the first stare of fashion, neither were they the coarse garments of a commoner.

A young, lonely widow perhaps?

From beneath half-closed eyes, he scrutinized her, very much liking what he saw.

Not attractive in the classical sense, nonetheless, an unidentifiable allure surrounded her. Beckoned him. Caused unruly thoughts and inclinations to knock about ribs.

Most troubling were these rash musings. They bespoke a ruthlessness, an inherited characteristic always—always until now—meticulously controlled, lest he mirror the duke’s scurrilous behavior or tendencies.

Brushing his bare hand over his mouth and jaw, Chester narrowed his eyes.

He’d never entertained the notion of a mistress before, particularly upon just meeting a woman. But he’d need something—someone—to keep him sane the next few weeks or months.