She settled her attention entirely on the Barlows. “It is so lovely to see you again, Mr. Barlow and to meet you, Mrs. Barlow. You must both excuse my appearance.” She batted her frizzing and falling hair. “Two of our maids, sisters, have been too sick to work this week, and I have been helping out when necessary. I am afraid I look a mess. It was not my wish to dishonor you with a sloppy appearance, but—”
A hand crept onto her shoulder, stealing her words and her breath. Rowan. She looked up at him. This would be her last performance as his wife, and she wanted to… dive into it, entirely inhabit it.
Mr. Trent squeezed her shoulder, his thumb brushing up and down the length of her neck. “You are not a mess. You are…” He tilted his head, and he tugged a curl straight at the nape of her neck, watched it bounce back into a corkscrew. “You are quite pretty. As usual.”
“He's right,” Mr. Barlow cried. “A husband is always right about his wife’s beauty.”
“A lesson I never had to teach you.” Mrs. Barlow folded her hands over her beaded reticule in her lap. “I much admire your approach to managing a hotel, Mrs. Trent. To be so involved. At every level and with everyone who works for you… It shows you care. About the servants. About the place. I roll up my sleeves and get to workeveryday. And I apologize for not being present when you visited the Blue Sheep. I would have liked to greet you then but was called away.”
“Oh, no.” Mr. Trent’s hand still sat on Isabella’s shoulder, muddling every thought, but she still found the right thing to say. “Do not apologize. You were engaged in a more important endeavor. I hope all went well with your daughter.”
Mrs. Barlow beamed. “We have a healthy grandson. And his mother is healthy, too, thank the Lord.”
“I'm sure you were a great help to her in her time of need,” Isabella said.
“Yes. But I'm afraid she was quite happy to see me leave. It is her first child, and she was rather itching, I think, to be alone with the babe. She’d already tired of me fussing over her.”
“Molly’s always been quite independent.” Mr. Barlow chuckled. “Can’t imagine where she came by that trait.” He tweaked his wife’s ear, and she slapped his hand away with a good-natured grin. Then he turned to Mr. Trent. “Weunderstand the appeal of independent ladies, do we not?”
Mr. Trent rounded the sofa and finally sat next to Isabella. He propped one ankle over the other knee and rested his hand in the sliver of space between them. If he flinched his fingers, they’d brush against her skirts. “Yes, we do.” Just her skirts. But her thigh on the other side of the muslin could not seem to tell the difference. It prickled and heated with expectation.
“I cannot tell you how glad I am to see the Hestia,” Mr. Barlow said. “It has alleviated some of my worries. There is elegance here, yes, and luxury. But every room I've had the pleasure of viewing at thisestablishment so far greatly demonstrates your understanding of comfort. You’ve made temporary lodgings feel like a home. Particularly this little sitting room. Charming, indeed.”
Mr. Trent nodded, no smile, no other muscle in his body working. “Thank you.”
Isabella's heart bled a little bit. Mr. Barlow was both right and wrong. Mr. Trent had put all his energies into the public rooms but none into the private. A few hours earlier, he had stood there against the curtained windows and in the shadows, his unvoiced request for help echoing in the emptiness. He knew how to make a home for everyone but himself.
How was that possible? It was much harder to make a home for others because one did not always know what they liked, what sorts of things felt like home to them.
He stroked his fingers down her arm. “Isabella…” He nodded at Mrs. Barlow. She must have missed something.
“My apologies,” Isabella said. “I was woolgathering. Could you repeat that?”
“The Barlows have decided to remain a week or two at Hestia. To enjoy the pleasures London offers.”
“We’ve not been in the capital since our youth,” Mr. Barlow said. “It’s time we took a holiday. And I’m sure by the time we head back home, we’ll be much more comfortable with the idea of you taking over the Blue Sheep.”
“Ah.” All Isabella could say. “Where… where will you seek accommodations?”
“Here, naturally. Free of charge.” Mr. Trent’s hand settled atop her thigh. It seemed so very big there, crafted of sinew and muscle, capable and… virile. “Don’t you agree?”
“Yes.” Had that single syllable sounded a little too much like a moan? She snapped out a shorter one. “Yes, indeed.” Oh good, she’d managed to sound cheery when truly she wanted to sink into the floor. Another fortnight pretending to be this man’s wife? Fourteen days, more or less. Three hundred and some odd hours living a double life.
Without getting caught?
Impossible.
“I… I-I do agree. Yes, wonderful idea. Naturally. I was going to suggest it myself. I do… I mean I don’t know precisely how much I will be able to entertain you, unfortunately.” Mr. Trent had said they owned a townhouse. Oh, what luck. “There is much to do at home and… and I have previous social engagements I cannot break.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Barlow said. “We do not wish to be a bother.”
“Oh, no, no bother at all. I will, of course, do what I can to see you often. I am eager”—she set her hand on top of Mr. Trent’s, which still lingered heavily on her leg—“my husband as well, to reassure you on your decision regarding the Blue Sheep.”
He squeezed her leg.
She’d said the right thing.
He rewarded her with a stroke of his thumb against her thigh—swish, swish, playing with the cotton.
