Free Temptation and Surrender by Stephanie Laurens Page B

bright eyes, and see her response, sense her locked breath.
    And know that she was no more immune to the moment, to the closeness, to the sudden flaring heat, than he.
    Drawing in a slow breath, he forced himself to let her go, forced himself to take a step back.
    His eyes still locked on hers, he bowed. “I hope you enjoyed the drive. Good day, Miss Beauregard.”
    She tried to speak, had to clear her throat. Nodded. “Yes, thank you—the drive was pleasant. Good day, Mr. Tallent.”
    With another nod, she turned and walked to the inn door.
    He watched until her figure was swallowed up by the gloom inside, then turned, strode around his horses, and leapt back into the curricle’s seat.
    Turning the equipage, he set off at a spanking trot for the Grange.
    If he couldn’t risk overly pressuring Miss Emily Beauregard for answers to his numerous questions, then he’d just have to be subtle and not step over her line.
     
    W hich was an excellent resolution as resolutions went, except that he had to, of necessity, first discover where her line—that point beyond which she would recoil and take flight—lay.
    In pursuit of that goal—and hoping for more incidental revelations—Jonas walked to the Red Bells early that evening.
    He stepped through the front door and, somewhat taken aback by the crowd, halted just inside to take stock.
    That there was a crowd wasn’t such a great surprise, but its composition and extent exceeded his expectations. Noise rose up and rolled over him in waves; laughter echoed from the rafters. And that wasn’t all that was different.
    The place looked different, yet he couldn’t see anything—furniture or decorations—that hadn’t been there before. The difference, which was quite remarkable, appeared to have been achieved by a thorough cleaning—was that lavender he smelled?—combined with better placement of cushions and the reappearance of doilies and table runners he hadn’t seen in decades.
    He glanced around again, dredged his memories. Decided the transformation had already been under way when he’d fetched Emily early that afternoon; he’d been distracted and hadn’t paid close attention. And the change wasn’t, he suspected, as glaringly obvious in the light of day as it was in the warm glow of brilliantly clean and polished lamps.
    Scanning the tap-side of the room, he wasn’t surprised to see that the occasional regulars were all there—among others, Thompson, the blacksmith, and his brother, Oscar, and from Colyton Manor there was Covey and Dodswell, Lucifer’s groom. But in addition there was a solid representation of estate workers, farmers, gardeners, and household staff—some from even further afield than the houses he’d named for his new innkeeper.
    Quite a few owners of said houses were present, too; Jonas spotted Henry Grisby and Cedric Fortemain talking animatedly, while Basil Smollet sipped an ale and chatted with Pommeroy Fortemain, Cedric’s younger brother.
    The cottages in the village were represented by Silas Coombe, Mr. Weatherspoon, and a sprinkling of other older males. What was notable was that many had their respective spouses perched at their elbows, women who hadn’t darkened the inn’s door since early in the late unlamented Juggs’s tenure.
    Even more remarkable was the throng, mostly feminine, to the left of the door. Every one of the more comfortable chairs was taken. Miss Sweet, Phyllida’s old governess, was there, along with Miss Hellebore, almost an invalid but not to be outdone in the curiosity stakes. Both had noticed him and were watching him avidly, but he was accustomed to being the target of their bird-bright eyes.
    The ladies from Highgate and others from Dottswood Farm were scattered in groups, chattering like magpies.
    Jonas looked, but Phyllida wasn’t among the throng. It was Aidan’s and Evan’s dinnertime, so that wasn’t to be wondered at. He felt certain his twin would have looked in during the afternoon, but as