His Counterfeit Condesa. Joanna Fulford
assured them that he could offer a most excellent parlour. However, he regretted that he only had one bedchamber available. Falconbridge cursed inwardly. He had always realised this was a possibility but had hoped that it wouldn’t arise. He glanced at Sabrina who was just then engaged in conversation with Jacinta. Mistaking that look entirely, the patrón hastened to reassure him that it was a large room.
‘A truly commodious chamber, señor. The lady will be most pleased.’
Falconbridge seriously doubted that. Unfortunately, with dusk coming on, further travel was out of the question. The road was dangerous after dark. He had no desire to run into any of the brigands who frequented the hills, or a French patrol if it came to that.
‘We’ll take it.’
‘Si, señor. You won’t be disappointed, I guarantee it.’
Just then disappointment was the last thing on Falconbridge’s mind, which was turning instead on Sabrina’s probable reaction. In spite of the extraordinary circumstances in which they found themselves, a shared bedchamber was a step too far and, hitherto, separate accommodation had been obtained as a matter of course. Thus the proprieties had been observed. He could well understand the importance of that to any woman. Now though, matters were about to become deucedly awkward. Taking Sabrina aside he explained the situation briefly, watching her face, bracing himself for the explosion of wrath, which must surely follow.
‘I’m truly sorry about this,’ he said, ‘but it cannot be avoided. There isn’t another decent inn for twenty miles.’
Contrary to his expectation she didn’t fly into a passion or refuse to stay a moment longer, though she could not quite conceal the expression of alarm fast enough to escape his notice. He could not know how hard her heart was thumping.
‘We’ll have to manage as best we may,’ she replied.
Once again he owned to surprise and, privately, to relief. She was proving to be a much easier travelling companion than he had ever envisaged.
When inspected, the room was indeed quite spacious and, she noted with relief, it was clean. It was dominated by a large bed. A dresser and washstand occupied much of one wall. A low divan stood opposite. It was the first time she had been in a bedchamber with any man, other than her father. Major Falconbridge’s presence was different in every way from the gentle reassuring figure of her parent. Somehow he seemed to fill the space.
‘You take the bed,’ he said. Then, glancing at the divan, ‘I’ll sleep over there.’
She nodded, forcing herself to a calm she was far from feeling, reminding herself that she had elected to come on this mission. What had happened was a temporary but unavoidable inconvenience. When their luggage had been carried up, Falconbridge took himself off for a mug of beer, leaving the room free for Sabrina. She was grateful for the courtesy. With Jacinta’s help she washed and dressed for dinner, donning a green muslin gown. A matching ribbon was threaded through her curls. Sabrina surveyed her reflection critically. It was hardly sensational but at least she looked neat and presentable.
‘It will serve,’ she said.
Jacinta smiled. ‘It looks very well.’
‘Good enough for present circumstances.’
Sabrina did not add, ‘and for present company’. In all likelihood Falconbridge would not notice what frock she had on. Not that there was any reason why he should. Theirs was a purely business arrangement. He had never given the least sign that he was attracted to her at all, and that, of course, was a great relief.
A short time later she heard a tap on the door. On being bidden to enter Falconbridge stepped into the room. For a moment they faced each other in silence; his practised eye took in every detail of her costume. He had no fault to find. The cut of the gown was fashionable and elegant. That shade of green really suited her, too, enhancing the colour of her eyes. For the rest she looked as neat as wax.
‘I need to change,’ he said. ‘I beg you will forgive the intrusion.’
‘Of course.’
He spoke to Willis, who had been waiting outside the door. The acting valet touched his forelock to Sabrina and then busied himself with a chest of clothes. Jacinta eyed both men with cold disapproval and then, with determined slowness, began collecting up her mistress’s discarded garments.
Sabrina bit back a smile and, taking a book from her own travelling case, retired with it to the divan on the far side of the room. Aware of Falconbridge’s presence to her very fingertips she kept her attention sedulously on the pages in front of her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him peel off coat, waistcoat and linen, affording a view of a hard-muscled torso. Water splashed into the basin on the washstand. He bathed his face and hands and sluiced his neck. Willis handed him a towel and he dried himself vigorously. Once, he threw a glance her way but Sabrina’s attention was apparently fixed on the book. Jacinta glared. He smiled faintly.
Then he turned and took the clean shirt offered him. Sabrina glanced up from beneath her lashes, caught a glimpse of a lean waist and narrow hips and very long legs, and looked away again. Spots of colour leapt into her face. Years spent in the wake of the army meant that she was no stranger to the sight of semi-dressed men, but this one possessed an almost sculptural beauty. Its effect was to make the room seem a lot warmer.
Unaware of the sensations he was creating, Falconbridge finished dressing. Sabrina surveyed him closely now, making no more pretence at reading. The dark coat might have been moulded to his shoulders. Waistcoat and linen were faultless. The cream-coloured breeches fitted like a second skin. She drew in a deep breath. Becoming aware of her regard he smiled faintly.
‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.’
‘Oh, no, I beg you will not regard it,’ she replied. ‘I have been quite entertained.’
Across the room Willis made a strange choking sound and received an icy stare from Jacinta. Falconbridge raised an eyebrow. Sabrina’s cheeks went scarlet.
‘With my book, I mean.’
‘But of course,’ he replied. ‘What else?’
The innocent tone didn’t deceive her for a moment. He was outrageous. Moreover, he was enjoying himself. She heard him dismiss the two servants. When they had gone, he took the volume from her hand and examined the cover.
‘Lazarillo de Tormes. Does your father know?’
‘Of course he knows. He lent—’ She broke off, seeing the slow grin spread across his face. The gleam in the grey eyes was deeply disconcerting.
‘Did he? Well, he really has attended to every part of his daughter’s education.’
She wondered if he were shocked. It was, she admitted, a real possibility, for, while the concept of the picaresque novel was hardly new, this one could be read on different levels—particularly its numerous sexual metaphors.
‘Do you disapprove?’
‘Not at all.’ He paused. ‘Do you care?’
‘No.’ The word was out before she could stop it. She hurried on, ‘I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to be rude.’
‘You weren’t—just beautifully frank.’
‘Father always encouraged me to read widely.’
‘So I gather.’ He glanced again at the cover. ‘And it is a wickedly good book, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, yes, very.’
‘Wicked or good?’
His expression drew a reluctant laugh. ‘Both, since you ask.’
‘Good girl.’
Unsure how to take this, she eyed him quizzically. He laid the book aside and then gestured to the door.
‘Shall we?’
Dinner