She did not know what to do with her hands. “Henry!” Her voice came out bright and casual, which only made her sound vaguely demented. “What a surprise!”
“I—what? This is my room.”
“Oh.” She gave a little awkward laugh. “Ha ha! Yes. Um. I thought you were dining.”
“You thought I was—” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he opened them again, his gaze dipped to her bosom and then slowly dragged back to her face.
Ha. Now shedidwant to laugh.
“I thought you’d gone,” he said. “I thought you went back to London.”
“No,” she said. “Oh, Henry, I’m so sorry. It was all a misunderstanding—”
She was interrupted by the chambermaid and three larger men, who bustled into the room bearing a copper hip tub and several buckets of steaming water.
“Good morning to you, sir,” said the maid, grinning widely at Henry. She quickly directed the assembling of the hot bath, steam pinkening her face. When it was done, she gave a smart nod to Henry and winked at Margo.
Then they were alone once more.
“Margo”—Henry looked adorably puzzled—“what in the world is going on?”
“Oh well, you see—” She suddenly felt foolish. She was dreadful at making plans. Her intentions were always so good, and then nothing transpired quite as she intended.
But no. She bit her lip. She was trying not to be so very hard on herself.
“You see,” she said again, “I told the innkeeper that I was here with my husband. I imagined that you would come and find me, Henry. I never in my wildest dreams supposed that you would think I hadgone.I—”
The door opened again. This time it was the chambermaid alone, bearing a small table. She set it down beside the steaming tub and then flicked open a linen tablecloth, spreading it over the flat wooden surface.
“Thank you,” Margo said, feeling quite absurd as the maid departed again. She looked back at Henry. “I really thought you would be gone longer! Were you not hungry?”
“Not especially.”
She winced. He looked somewhat the worse for wear, his face a little drawn, his mouth curved downward. She gestured lamely at the hip tub. “I—um. I got you a bath.”
He blinked, one slow flutter of his thick dark lashes. “I’m sorry?”
“I, um, thought you might want one. I—”
This time when the door opened, it was the innkeeper himself. He looked in every direction but Margo’s as he placed the items she’d requested on the small table. A bottle of champagne. Two glasses. A knife and a wedge of cheese. And—
“No cherries,” the innkeeper told her. “Not in October. We had quince and raspberries.”
“That’s all right,” she said. Her voice was unsteady. “Thank you for your help.”
And then he left, and her ridiculous plan was complete, and it seemed not at all enough for what she wanted to tell the man she loved.
“Do you want to bathe?” she asked. She was certain she was blushing—her cheeks felt hot, and she suspected the flush went all the way down her body, based on the waywardness of Henry’s gaze.
He made a choked sound. “Not—I don’t—Margo, what is going on inside your head?”
She started to stand, then flung herself back down onto the bed with a sound of disgust. Her breasts threatened to spill from the thin white chemise and she tried to sit with slightly less vigor.
“I am trying,” she said, fisting her hands in the sheets and staring at her lap, “to take care of you, Henry Mortimer.”
“I—I don’t—”
“No,” she said. “Hush. Listen to me this time. I love you, Henry.”
