The girls scurried from the room, darting longing looks over their shoulders.
Alyse couldn’t feel too much annoyance. He was exceptionally handsome. She could understand the need to gawk.
In the wake of the serving girls, the innkeeper nodded at them. “Ring the bell if ye need anything more, sirrah. Madam.” He ducked out and shut the door behind him.
Weatherton motioned to the table. “Shall we eat?”
She nodded.
He moved to pull out her chair. She stared at him for a startled moment. She knew men extended such courtesies to ladies, but it was a strange world indeed when she would be on the receiving end of such courtesy. Where one might perceive and treat her as a lady. Earlier today she wore a halter and stood upon an auction block. Now a gentleman held out a chair for her before a table laden with fine food and drink.
She took a seat, feeling dowdy in Nellie’s old dress. She smoothed a hand over her lap, wincing as her roughened palms snagged on the fabric. Further evidence that she was no lady. The fabric was not even delicate. Simply coarse wool.
He sat across from her and poured wine into her glass.
She copied his movements and lifted her glass, sipping the dark red liquid tentatively. “That’s good,” she murmured.
“Have you ever had claret before?”
She shook her head and took a deeper sip.
“Not too fast. It can go to your head.”
Her eyes widened and she set her glass down. She didn’t need to become addle-headed around him.
He leaned forward, peering at her.
She pressed a hand to her chin. “Is there something amiss? On my face?”
He shook his head and tapped at the side of his throat. “What is right there?”
Her hand moved to her throat, mimicking his move. “I-I don’t know.”
“Are those marks?” he asked intently.
“Oh.” She dropped her hand, instantly knowing. She’d spied the marks herself in the chamber’s dressing table mirror. “I’m sure they’re just from the rope.”
His expression clouded. Apparently he had forgotten she wore a halter like an animal. It would not be so easy for her to forget. Even after the bruises disappeared, she would remember. She would always remember.
She searched to change the subject. “How long should it take to reach your property?”
He slid his fork into his salmon as he replied, “A little over a week. Perhaps two. Weather permitting.”
That long? She would be stuck with him—alone—for so long?
She went straight for her shortbread. She couldn’t help herself. She had a sweet tooth and shortbread was a rare indulgence. Mr. Beard thought sugar an extravagance.
She bit into her first bite and moaned at the taste. She couldn’t help herself. It had been a good while since she ate and she could not recall the last time she ever consumed shortbread so sweet and moist as this. She stuffed more into her mouth while cutting another bite, cramming that in as well, forgetting all decorum as her stomach cheered in joy.
With her cheeks stuffed, her gaze collided with his.
He leaned back in his chair, his glass held idly in long tapering fingers. He watched her with hooded eyes. Unreadable eyes.
She set down her fork and worked to chew and swallow the copious amount of food in her mouth.
“Hungry?” he murmured.
She pressed her napkin to her lips, wondering if the bite would ever go down. He must think her a glutton.
Nodding, she reached for her claret and took a tiny sip to help. “I have not eaten since this morning.” And I have not eaten this well since Papa passed. Oh, she’d never starved in the Beard household. They had chickens and pigs on the farm. Vegetables from the garden. But a meal like this was the type she only read about in books.
“Eat,” he encouraged with a wave of his hand. “Go on. You need some meat on your bones.”
After a moment, she picked up her fork again and resumed, stealing glances at him. Despite how hungry she was, practically falling upon her food, he finished before she did and was left studying her as she finished. It was unnerving, but she did not let it deter her. She ate every bit of the food before her.
“You speak well for a . . . country girl.”
He hesitated before arriving at the word country and she wondered what word he really wanted to use. Provincial? Peasant?
He meant she didn’t sound like a rustic. She’d been told that before. Others in the village claimed she put on airs.
“My father was a learned man. A teacher. Originally from Newcastle.”
“Ah.” He settled his hands on the arms of his chair.
“I can keep household accounts for you,” she volunteered, happy to point out her usefulness.
“You read and write then. As the auctioneer said.”
She stiffened at his reference to her time on that platform. “Yes. I can read and write as Mr. Hines had advertised.” She squared her shoulders. “And I’m quite good with numbers.”
“That should be useful.”
“And I could be useful in London, should you decide to take me with you when you return there.” Hope stirred in her chest. She couldn’t resist. He was from London and that’s where she ultimately wished to go.
A shutter fell over his eyes. “I think not.”
She sagged a bit in her chair. “Well . . . something to keep in mind.” She could not relinquish that dream. Someday she would get there. She’d serve her time as his housekeeper, earn enough money and then go. Be free.
“No,” he announced, his tone emphatic.
The single word jarred her. As though he could read her thoughts and was pronouncing no to her private longings. She bristled . . . until she realized he was simply being curt.
“I don’t know my plans,” he continued, “but should I ever return to London I see no need to bring you with me. I’ve offered you a respectable position at Kilmarkie House. That should suit you.”
That should suit you.
She stared at him in mute frustration. The skin near her eye twitched. Here was another man deciding her fate, telling her what should suit her. Papa, as much as she loved him, had done the same for her at the age of ten and five. Then Mr. Beard made all the decisions and now this Marcus Weatherton was deciding things.
She lifted her chin and fixed her gaze on the crackling fireplace. “The position shall suit me . . . for the time being.”
He snorted and her gaze shot to his. “As though you have so many options, Miss Bell.”
She inhaled sharply. Flinging her helplessness back at her did not endear him to her in the least. He might look like some knight from her girlhood dreams, but he was quite the boor if he had to remind her of her helplessness.
Well, she wouldn’t be helpless forever. Once she put enough money aside, she would have choices. The freedom to go wherever she chose. Independence. This was the modern age. A woman led the realm, for heaven’s sake. She could go wherever she wanted. Be whomever she wanted.
He stood and rang the bell.
Soon the simpering maids returned to clear away the dishes, still casting him beckoning looks as they worked.
Alyse remained in her chair before the fire, unsure what to do with herself as they gathered the dishes. Again, it was quite an unfamiliar experience to be the one waited upon. She would never grow accustomed to such treatment.
He asked, “Would you like me to ring a bath for you?”
Her head snapped around at the offer.
She scrutinized him, resenting the instant urge to say yes. She would adore the luxury of a hot bath but she hated relying on him for anything more. She had taken so much already from this man who wasn’t her husband.
Her feelings were all ajumble. Distrust. Resentment. She didn’t want him to be nice to her. But, of course, she didn’t want him to be cruel and harm her. It was confusing. She needed him to be a good man.
He nodded once as though she had answered. “I’ll assume that’s a yes. I’ll take my leave, so you can have your privacy.”
Before she could find her voice again and decline, he was gone, the door clicking behind him.