Regency Rogues: Outrageous Scandal: In Bed with the Duke / A Mistress for Major Bartlett. ANNIE BURROWS
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What is it you’ve thought of?’
‘Well, it is probably nothing. Only Aunt Charity remarried last year. Mr Murgatroyd.’
She couldn’t help saying the name with distaste. Nothing had been the same since he’d come into their lives. Well, he’d always been there—right from the first moment she’d gone to live with her aunt. But back then he’d just been one of the congregation into which her aunt had introduced her. She hadn’t disliked him any more than any other of the mealy-mouthed men who’d taken such delight in making her life as dreary as possible. It hadn’t been until he’d married her aunt that she’d discovered how nasty he really was.
‘He persuaded my trustees,’ she continued, ‘that he was a more proper person to take over the management of my money once he became the husband of my guardian.’
‘And they agreed?’
‘To be honest there was only one of them left. They were all older than my grandfather when he set up the trust in the first place. And the one who outlived him wasn’t all that...um...’
‘Capable?’
‘That’s a very good word for it.’
He looked into his tankard with a stunned expression. ‘I always thought drink addled a man’s brains. But this ale appears to have restored my intellect. That’s the first time since I awoke this morning that I have been able to come up with an appropriate word.’
‘Good for you,’ she said gloomily, then took a sip of the milky tea. Which wasn’t strong enough to produce any kind of restorative effect.
‘And your uncle—this man your aunt has married—is now in charge of handling your inheritance? Until such time as you marry? Do I have it correct?’
‘Yes.’
He set his tankard down on the table with a snap. ‘So when shall I expect him to come calling? Demanding I make an honest woman of you?’
She shrugged. ‘I would have thought he would have done so this morning, if he was going to do it at all. Instead of which he left the inn, taking all my luggage with him. You’d better pour yourself another tankard of ale and see if it will give you another brilliant idea, Mr—’ She stopped. ‘You never did tell me your name.’
‘You never asked me for it.’
‘I told you mine. It is only polite to reciprocate when a lady has introduced herself.’
He reared back, as though offended that she’d criticised his manners.
‘A lady,’ he replied cuttingly, ‘would never introduce herself.’
‘A gentleman,’ she snapped back, ‘would not make any kind of comment about any female’s station in life. And you still haven’t told me your name. I can only assume you must be ashamed of it.’
‘Ashamed of it? Never.’
‘Then why won’t you tell me what it is? Why are you being so evasive?’
He narrowed his eyes.
‘I am not being evasive. Last time we came to an introduction we veered off into a more pressing conversation about bread and butter I seem to recall. And this time I...’ He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I became distracted again.’ He set down his tankard and pressed the heels of his hands against his temples, closing his eyes as though in pain.
‘Oh, does your head hurt? I do beg your pardon. I am not usually so snappish. Or so insensitive.’
‘And I am not usually so clumsy,’ he said, lowering his hands and opening his eyes to regard her ruefully. ‘I fear we are not seeing each other at our best.’
He’d opened his mouth to say something else when the door swung open again, this time to permit two serving girls to come in, each bearing a tray of food.
Prudence looked at his steak, which was smothered in a mountain of onions, and then down at her plate of bread and butter with a touch of disappointment.
‘Wishing you’d ordered more? I can order you some eggs to go with that, if you like?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t suppose I could eat them if you did order them, though it is very kind of you. It is just the smell of those onions...’ She half closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. ‘Ohhh...’ she couldn’t help moaning. ‘They are making my mouth water.’
He gave her a very strange look. Dropped his gaze as though he felt uncomfortable. Fumbled with his knife and fork.
‘Here,’ he said brusquely, cutting off a small piece of meat and depositing it on her plate. ‘Just a mouthful will do you no harm.’
And then he smiled at her. For the very first time. And something inside her sort of melted.
She’d never known a man with a black eye could smile with such charm.
Though was he deploying his charm on purpose? He certainly hadn’t bothered smiling at her before he’d heard she was an heiress.
‘Are you ever,’ she asked, reaching for a knife and fork, ‘going to tell me your name?’
His smile disappeared.
‘It is Willingale,’ he said quickly. Too quickly? ‘Gregory Willingale.’
Then he set about his steak with the air of a man who hadn’t eaten for a se’ennight.
Thank goodness she hadn’t been fooled by that charming smile into thinking he was a man she could trust. Which, she admitted, she had started to do. Why, she hadn’t talked to anyone so frankly and freely since her parents had died.
Which wouldn’t do. Because he had secrets, did her uncle Gregory. She’d seen a distinct flash of guilt when he’d spoken the name Willingale.
Which meant he was definitely hiding something.
Perhaps his real name wasn’t Gregory Willingale at all. Perhaps he was using an alias, for some reason. But what could she do about it anyway? Run to the burly bartender with a tale of being abandoned by her aunt and left to the mercy of a man she’d never clapped eyes on until the night before? What would that achieve? Nothing—that was what. She already knew precisely what people who worked in inns thought of girls who went to them with tales of that sort. They thought they were making them up. At least that was what the landlady of the last inn had said. Before lecturing her about her lack of morals and throwing her out.
Earlier this morning she’d thought the woman must be incredibly cruel to do such a thing. But if Prudence had been the landlady of an inn, with a business to run, would she have believed such a fantastic tale? Why, she was living through it and she hardly believed it herself.
She cleared her throat.
‘So, Mr Willingale,’ she said, but only after swallowing the last of the sirloin he’d shared with her. ‘Or should I call you Uncle Willingale? What do you propose we do next?’
Her own next step would depend very much on whatever his plans were. She’d only make up her mind what to do when she’d heard what they were.
‘I am not sure,’ he said through a mouthful of beef. ‘I do not think we are in possession of enough facts.’
Goodness. That was pretty much the same conclusion she’d just drawn.
‘Though I do think,’ he said, scooping up a forkful of onions and depositing it on her plate, ‘that in some way your guardians are attempting to defraud you of your inheritance.’
‘Thank you,’ she said meekly. ‘For the onions, I mean,’ she hastily explained, before spreading them on one of the remaining slices of bread and butter,