She leaned low over him once more. Then she placed her lips on his cheek, kissed him. A tiny peck but a match that sent a wildfire blazing across his body. “If I begged”—she sounded breathless—“would you satisfy me?”
Yes. Goddamnit, yes he would.
He released her hand, and she stood. The cold air that replaced her body’s warmth chilled his bones. He shivered. And needing to do something other than sit in the scent of soap and sunshine she’d left behind, he stood and dragged a chair to their table.
Sunshine didn’t evensmell. It was hot and dusty and entirely scentless. How did she manage to smell like the opposite of that, fresh and warm and floral?
“Sit,” he said, pointing at the chair. When she blinked at him, a smile curling her lips, he swooped behind her, grasped her shoulders, and helped her sit. “There.” He sat back down, crossing his arms over his chest.
Mr. Barlow chuckled again. That seemed to be his most basic reaction to every situation. “I think your husband would please you in any way he could. And I would like very much to please you, as well, Mrs. Trent, but as I was about to tell your husband, I cannot make a decision without my wife’s input. The inn belonged to her father before it belonged to me, and she has dedicated much of herself to its success. But she was called away this morning. Our daughter is having her third child.”
“When will she arrive?” Rowan asked. “We can wait.”
Miss Crewe’s fingertips fluttered at his arm. “We cannot wait, in fact. Remember? We have much to do in London.”
“In that case, it is best you leave now,” Mr. Barlow said. “One never knows about these things. The baby could arrive any minute or… any day.” He held up his hands, palms up. “Though I pray for a speedy arrival.”
“Us, too,” Miss Crewe assured him. She glanced at Rowan. “Shall we leave now? Oh. You’ve something just here.” She wiped her thumb across his lapel and fidgeted with his cravat, straightening what was crooked, tightening what was too loose. The tip of her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth as she worked, making his heart beat faster. Each brush of her fingers against his body kicked his pulse higher. Soap and sunshine hooked about his neck like a noose, drawing him closer.
Was this what it felt like to be a husband? Teased and fussed over in equal measure? The description certainly fit the admiral and Aunt Lavinia. His mother and father, too. Mama used to straighten his father’s clothes, tease him mercilessly, too. His father had called her part fairy, part banshee,all his. Rowan swallowed as Miss Crewe patted his chest. She was part fairy, part banshee.
All his?
Only according to Mr. Barlow, and only for a few more hours.
“There,” Miss Crewe said. “Perfectly presentable now. Shall we leave?”
He stood, and she did too, slipping her arm through his as if she did it every day and smiling brilliantly for Mr. Barlow.
“It was a joy to meet you,” she said. “And to finally see this lovely old place. I do hope you will entrust us with its future.” She coughed into her fist. “Pardon me. I have not been feeling well lately.”
Hell and damnation. He was in no position to roll his eyes, and the inability to do so felt like torture. “You’re fine and well.” He patted her hand a bit too roughly as he spoke to the innkeeper. “When shall we return to meet your wife, Mr. Barlow?”
“I’ll let you know, my boy. I’ll let you know.” Mr. Barlow followed them out and waved them off. “Feel better, Mrs. Trent,” he called as the coach rumbled out of the courtyard.
“Well?” Miss Crewe said from her seat opposite him. “How did I do?”
“You did not follow the plan.”
“It’s better I did not.”
She was likely right. “You may enter Hestia now.”
“Oh, thank youso very much, Mr. Trent.”
“Sarcasm does not suit you. But the name Mrs. Trent must suit you once more before we are through with one another.”
She sighed, sinking into the squabs with a grin. “I suppose so. I am looking forward to itso very much.”
She teased. But damn it to hell. If he said the same thing, it would not be a joke.
Chapter Eight
Mr. Trent was Isabella’s worst nightmare. She’d long since learned the benefit of knowing everything happening, about to happen, or even in consideration of happening about her. Knowing granted a measure of control over the chaos of life.
She knew nothing of the man sitting across from her in the heated confines of the coach. He might as well be shaped like a giant question mark or cliff that dropped off into sheer, dark nothingness below.
What he would do next—who knew.
