“No. Absolutely not.”
“Well then, Mr. I Demand Miracles, what do you expect me to do?” Poppins’s arms dropped to his sides.
Isabella cleared her throat. “Don’t you have an entire suite of apartments at the top of the Hestia?”
“I do.” Rowan tapped his foot. They were running out of time. “What of it?”
“There’s your solution. Use your private accommodations to host the Barlows. Frankly, you should have thought of it yourself.”
Poppins laughed, the sound echoing off the stairwell. “His private rooms? Do show her, Trent. And let me watch as you do.”
“You”—Rowan stabbed a finger toward Poppins—“go tell Cook we need a hearty, warm repast for the Barlows. And you”—he brushed past Isabella and set his boot on the first stair—“follow me.” He slouched up the stairs. Let her think he did not care what decision she made.
But he did care, and he thanked God when, after a brief caesura of silence, her rapid footsteps followed him upwards. She climbed close behind him, her heat singeing his back, and when he threw open the door to his personal rooms and stepped aside for her to enter, her arm glanced against his. The most minor of touches, a single bell’s toll that set off a symphony of noise inside him.
Inside his personal drawing room, the air was dark and heavy, and she dragged her gaze from one side of the room to the other.
“It’s empty,” she said finally. “You’ve nothing here. Are you redecorating? Wait… these aren’t your rooms. They can’t be. I thought they were. We’re at the top, but—”
“Thisismy personal sitting room.” He pointed to a door on one side of the fireplace. “Through that door is my bedroom.” He pointed to a door on the opposite side. “And through that one is my study. Across the hall are a few rooms I do not use at all.” Not entirely true. In a small closet tucked into the back of one of the rooms, he kept his iron floor safe locked up tight. But no one knew about that but for Poppins.
“And you usethis one?”
“Well, no, not really. I sleep in the bedroom and work in the study and—”
She strode across the room and threw open his bedroom door. “A bed. A tiny table. And a washbasin.” She placed her hands on her hips. “I don’t even see a chamber pot. Where do you keep your clothes?”
“Clothes are across the hall in an unused room, and the chamber pot is under the bed, naturally. Speaking of chamber pots…” He touched her shoulder, a light brush that electrified him and brought her around to face him. “You shouldn’t be cleaning up those sorts of things.”
She shrugged. “It’s what I do when necessary. No one notices a maid involved in such activities.”
“And then you can gather gossip to your heart’s content, yes, little mouse?”
“Precisely, and it is a constant mystery to me that you allow it.”
“It is no gift, Isabella. It is an exchange. I’ve given you air to listen in, and now you must do your part. Will you help me?”
She wandered away from his bedroom and into the middle of the empty sitting room with a sigh, her shoulders rounding. “I suppose I shall have to. You need so very much help, after all.” Her hands found her hips once more, bunching up the fabric of her gown. It was much too big for her and hung off her frame like a sack. The prim little white lace cap all Hestia maids wore had tipped sideways on her head, and the coil of her golden hair at her nape had begun to produce wisps, strands straining to escape whatever magic she used to keep them secure.
So small and soft, smelling of sunshine (how?) and looking of pure determination. He took two melting, thoughtless steps toward her, hands twitching, anticipating.
Then she snapped her shoulders back and strode across the room. “Do not worry, Mr. Trent. We can fix this.” She flung open his study door and disappeared inside.
“Hell.” He chased after her. “What are you doing? That’s my personal—”
“When you have a wife,” she said, leaning over his desk, “nothing is personal.” A grin like an arrow to his heart.
“Notreallymy wife.”
“Don’t let the Barlows hear you say that. If they could at any minute, you must keep such thoughts to yourself and comport yourself in every way like a married man.” She pulled a blank sheet of paper from a drawer and picked up his quill pen. “From now until they leave.”
He should be demanding she stop rifling through his desk, but… it did not bother him. And when she sat down in his chair to sethispentohispaper, he should have barked at her not to take liberties with his possessions.
Instead, he came to her side and flattened his palm against the desk, tilting his head to see what she wrote. Difficult to concentrate with her impossible scent so near, so pulse rattling. The tip of her tongue appeared at the edge of her lips, and she leaned lower over her list.
“Sofa, chairs, table,” he read, “rug, pictures, fire screen.”
She waved her hand at him.
