though, what the devil had possessed him to act like a degenerate cad? To be sure, she was pretty, with the most remarkable green eyes, and he’d noticed her trim figure clad in a plain gray pelisse when she’d briskly approached the coach before getting on in London. But he’d met pretty young women before. He’d even seen several completely naked during his sojourn in the South Seas. Indeed, while he’d found her pretty, he’d had no trouble at all pretending to be asleep to spare himself any conversation before he really had fallen asleep.
If he hadn’t, he might have started to wonder sooner why a woman who spoke with such a refined accent and had such a manner was travelling unaccompanied.
She could be a governess or upper servant, he supposed, going on a visit.
Whoever she was, he should be thoroughly ashamed of himself for kissing her—and he would have been, had that kiss not been the most amazing, exciting kiss he’d ever experienced.
“Look here, Martha, here’s Lord Bromwell nearly done to death,” the innkeeper announced as he entered the taproom and addressed his wife, who was near the door to the kitchen. “The mail coach overturned.”
Mrs. Jenkins, round of face and broad of beam, gasped and bustled forward as if about to examine him for injuries.
“No one has been killed or seriously hurt, as far as I can determine,” Bromwell quickly informed her. “Your husband has already sent for the doctor and has offered replacement transportation.”
“Well, thank God nobody was badly hurt—and ain’t I been sayin’ for years them coaches were gettin’ too old to be safe?” Mrs. Jenkins declared, coming to an abrupt halt and resting her fists on her hips. She frowned at them as if they were personally responsible for the mishap and had the authority to correct everything and anything amiss with the delivery of the Royal Mail.
“Aye, Mother, you have,” her husband mournfully agreed, agreement being the best way to react to Mrs. Jenkins’s pronouncements, as Bromwell had also learned over the years. “Have Sarah bring some wine to the blue room while Lord Bromwell cleans up a bit—the best, o’ course. He’ll need it.”
“There’s clean water there already and fresh linen, my lord,” Mrs. Jenkins said briskly as she turned and disappeared into the back of the inn.
“She’s right, though,” Jenkins said as he continued to lead the way, even though Bromwell was as familiar with this inn as he was with the ancestral hall. “Them coaches are a disgrace, that’s what.”
Bromwell remained silent as they passed through the taproom, although several customers turned to stare at him and excited whispers followed in his wake.
It was not just because of the accident or his dishevelled appearance, for he heard them uttering his name and, as was all too usual, the words shipwreck and cannibals.
He was never going to get used to this sort of curious scrutiny and the agitation occasioned by his mere arrival in a room, he thought with an inward sigh. Although he was glad his book was a success and increasing interest in the natural world, it was at times like these that he longed for his former anonymity.
Had the young lady in the coach known or guessed who he was? Did that account for her heart-stopping, passionate response?
And if so, what should he do when he saw her again? How should he behave?
Jenkins opened the door to the best bedchamber. “There’s clean water in the pitcher, although it’s cold, and linen there,” he said, nodding at the simple white china set and towels on the washing stand.
“Thank you, Jenkins.”
“Sing out if you need anything, my lord.”
“I shall,” Bromwell promised as the innkeeper left the room and closed the door.
The inn’s best bedroom was small compared to his room at his father’s estate or the London town house, but comfortable and snug under the eaves, with inexpensive, clean blue-and-white cotton draperies, linen and basin set. A colorful rag rug lay on the wooden floor that creaked with every move he made, as would the bed ropes if he lay down.
His friend Drury had complained about that when he’d stopped here on his way to spend some time at Christmas a few years ago, Bromwell recalled as he stripped off his mud-spattered jacket and rolled up his sleeves.
He could just imagine the stunned expressions on his friends’ faces if he told them what he’d done today. Not shooting the unfortunate horse—they would expect no less—but that he, good old shy, studious Buggy Bromwell, had kissed a woman whose name he didn’t know and whom he’d only just met. They’d probably be even more shocked if he confided that he wanted very much to do it again.
Several times, in fact.
Of course he knew it was man’s nature to seek sexual gratification and he was not abnormal in this regard (as certain very willing young women in the South Seas could attest), but he had always behaved with due decorum in England.
Until today.
His equilibrium must have been disturbed by the accident, he decided as he splashed cool water over his face, then picked up a towel and vigorously rubbed his face. Men could act very differently under duress, as he’d seen more than once on his last voyage. Some of the men who could be courageous on land had become whimpering and helpless during a storm at sea and the men he’d been sure would flee at the first sign of trouble had stayed and fought for their companions’ safety.
“I’ve got yer wine, my lord,” Mrs. Jenkins declared behind the door, taking him out of his brown study or, as his father would say, “another of your damn daydreams.”
“Come in,” he called as he rolled down his wrinkled sleeves.
The woman entered the chamber with the force of a strong wind, a wineglass held out to him.
“It’s a miracle and a mercy nobody was killed,” she declared, her buxom body quivering with indignation while Bromwell downed the excellent wine in a gulp. “I’ve been telling Jenkins for years some of them coaches weren’t fit to be on the road. You ought to get your friend Drury to sue. He never loses, I hear.”
“Drury only handles criminal cases,” Bromwell replied as he set down the glass and picked up his jacket. “This was an accident, caused by a stray dog and Thompkins’s decision not to run it over. I won’t go to court over that.”
He put on the soiled jacket that his former valet would have wept to see. Not knowing how long he would be at sea, or if he would even return, he’d given Albert a well-earned reference and paid him an extra six months’ salary before dismissing him. Since his return, he hadn’t bothered to hire another, much to the dismay of Millstone, the butler at his father’s London town house, even though Millstone had to admit Bromwell had learned to tie his cravat like an expert, having spent several hours practicing when there was nothing else to do at sea.
What would Millstone make of this latest mishap? Probably he’d just sigh and shake his head and comment that some men led charmed lives, although his lordship really ought to buy a new carriage. He could certainly afford it.
So he could, if he wasn’t planning another expedition.
If he told Millstone about kissing the young woman, the poor man would likely drop down in a faint, as shocked
