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Willow detected no mockery in either his tone or expression. In fact, she believed there might be an iota of genuine admiration in his words. If she were the sort of woman to blush, she’d pinken for certain, but as she wasn’t, she simply slanted her head. “You are most kind, my lord.”

They’d arrived at the entrance to the rooming house, but instead of leaving her at the door, as she’d expected, he gave the panel a sharp rap with his knuckles.

“Thank you for your assistance, my lord, but you needn’t delay on my account any longer. I’ll inconvenience you no further.”

She angled her head to offer a farewell smile. The muted light from the windows illuminated his features, and she barely stifled a gasp, trying not to gawk like an open-mouth country bumpkin.

Lord above.

He was quite the most striking man she’d ever seen. And his eyes were so, so blue. A luxurious navy like the hour before dawn and before twilight. Gold flecks dotted the iris ringed with indigo. She could gaze into those eyes for eternity.

Her empty stomach toppled over itself as she unabashedly stared. Such a face must’ve been carved by the hand of God himself. He stood imperious and elegant. Arrestingly handsome. Tantalizingly taciturn.

And quite—quite!—oblivious to his effect on her.

That knowledge rather deflated her.

The distinct sounds of locks being turned announced that his knock had been heard, and with considerable effort, she dragged her attention from his beautiful features.

The door creaked open a mere three inches, and a pert, freckled-face maid glanced between them through the small space. Her narrowed, suspicious gaze dropped to Willow’s bag. “This is a respectable rooming house. We’ll have none of that kind of sculduddery here.”

She made to slam the door.

A peculiar, foreign heat flashed up Willow’s cheeks.

Good Lord.

Was this blushing? Now of all times?

She didn’t blush.

Of course, she’d never experienced essentially being called a loose-woman either. She couldn’t compel herself to look at Lord Scarborough. His chivalrous gesture had been grossly misconstrued. Surely, he was as discomfited and chagrined as she.

With astonishing alacrity, his lordship shoved his polished Hessian in the doorway, preventing its closure. She winced at the impact on his foot. That had to have hurt.

“I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood,” he said smoothly. “I am the Earl of Scarborough and am acting as Miss Harwood’s escort.”

“Trudy?” A strident female voice rose an octave on the last syllable.

A doubtful crease between her eyes, the maid glanced over her shoulder.

“Who is it at the door at this hour?” inquired the starchy woman again.

The maid stepped aside to reveal an austere-looking matron attired in a severe gray gown trimmed in black velvet at the collar and cuffs. Her steel-gray hair had been swept into a bun so tight, it pulled her eyes slightly sideways.

That must be horribly uncomfortable, and it caused her eyes to appear quite cat-like when she blinked.

“I am Mrs. Smitherman, the proprietress,” she announced with haughty self-import. She looked down her nose at Willow and her humble country attire and promptly dismissed her as beneath her regard. She turned a much warmer—almost predatory—gaze upon his lordship.

From the fine cut of his coat to his silver-tipped cane, there was no mistaking him for anything but what he was. A man of refinement, breeding, and wealth.

“May I help you?” Mrs. Smitherman all but purred and sidled up to him in much the same way an affectionate cat rubbed its owner’s ankles.

Willow managed to keep from rolling her eyes as she stepped forward, forcing Mrs. Smitherman’s attention back to her. “Yes, I’m Willow Harwood. I wrote in advance of my coming. Please excuse my late arrival. There was an…incident.”

“American?” Sounding as if she’d just chewed fresh rabbit droppings, Mrs. Smitherman pulled her rigid spine impossibly straighter, and icy aloofness promptly replaced her simpering. “You failed to mention that in your correspondence.”

“I wasn’t aware you didn’t let rooms to Americans.” Willow said with false sweetness. “Although I’m only half-American. My mother was English, and my grandfather taught at Cambridge. I’ve lived in Cambridgeshire these past eight years.”