Free The Earl Claims His Wife by Cathy Maxwell Page B

We are both tired. Let us go to our room.”
    She noticed he didn’t say “our bed.”
    Wright pulled out her chair, but made no move to take her hand or touch her. Gillian was thankful.
    Once she stood, she realized the wine had more of an effect on her than she had anticipated. Or she wanted to believe that this swimming dizziness was the wine. She refused to believe it was Wright, especially since now was the time when she needed to gird herself against him. She hadn’t decided how to handle the room situation, but she knew what the outcome would be.
    He indicated with his hand for her to lead the way. As they walked out of the dining room, he gently woke the sleeping innkeeper, slipping a coin into his palm for his good service.
    Mr. Peters’s eyes opened the second he felt the metal. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you.”
    Wright held up a hand as if to quiet the man, but Mr. Peters was anxious to be of service. “Do you need help going up the stairs? My Mary turned down the covers in your room and made a fire.”
    “You have done more than enough,” Wright said, trying to leave the dining room, but Mr. Peters followed him.
    “There is a lamp on the table at the foot of the back stairs. Take it to light your way. Oh, here, perhaps I should go with you?”
    He would have charged ahead of them except for Wright catching him by the collar. “We can see to ourselves, Peters. Clean the table and find your bed. You’ve worked hard this night.”
    “Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord,” the innkeeper said.
    Wright made an impatient sound before issuing a stern, “Good night,” and coming out into the hall to join Gillian. Wright indicated with a wave of his hand the direction of the back stairs where a lamp burned on a side table.
    “That was kind of you,” Gillian said over her shoulder as she walked toward the table.
    “What was?” he asked, truly puzzled.
    “Giving the man a vail for his service.”
    “He earned it,” Wright answered.
    “Yes, but most wouldn’t have given it to him,” she said. In fact, she’d overheard more than one servant in the marquess’s household complain over their employer’s tightfisted tendencies as well as those of his friends. Generosity, a quality Gillian greatly admired, was not a common virtue amongst the ton.

    Wright shook his head as if her praise embarrassed him. “You’d better be careful, Gillian, or you’ll be thinking me a better man than I am.”
    A sharp rejoinder was on the tip of her tongue to say that could never happen, but the words didn’t come out because he was different than anyone she’d come across in London. Perhaps the war had changed him or perhaps her instincts all those years ago in a crowded ballroom had not been completely wrong…
    She was such a fool. Even after years of his neglect, she was willing to give him the benefit of a doubt.
    She shook her head. It wasn’t all her fault. He was trying to be charming and it had been a long, stressful day. The sherry had mixed with the wine and she was not as alert as she should be.
    There was also still the matter of her sharing a room with him. Experience had taught her that Wright would do what was necessary to gain what he wanted.
    Gillian wasn’t worried about the room. She was certain she could set Wright in his place. In spite of what had turned out to be an enjoyable evening, she had not fallen under his spell. She knew a trick or two to keep him at bay.
    They had reached the staircase leading up to their room. She placed her hand on the solid sturdy stair post, leaving the lamp for Wright to pick up.
    She’d gone up one step, when she heard him say her name so softly she could have imagined it.
    “Yes?” she answered, turning to him—and that is when he caught her off guard.
    Before she realized what he was about, he swept her up into his arms and kissed her.
    For a stunned moment, Gillian couldn’t think, she couldn’t move. His kiss was an onslaught of her senses.
    Memories of