Free Miss Truelove Beckons (Classic Regency Romances Book 12) by Donna Lea Simpson

can manage.” She tossed her hair back over her shoulder, thinking she should not have taken it down so soon, and then took the plate in one hand and the ewer of hot water in the other. “Shall I bring the dishes down after?”
    “Nay! Set them outside th’door, lass, and Jane will take them in the morning.”
    True made her way up the hall from the kitchen, toward the stairs, thinking that Mrs. Lincoln and Arabella would have a rare battle of wills if they were forced to stay there another night. Still balancing the plate in one hand and carrying the jug in the other, she opened one door with her foot, and then found she had taken a wrong turn and was headed down the dim hallway toward what was presumably the tap room, from the sound of patrons talking loudly and the smell of pipe smoke.
    She was just headed back the way she came when the door behind her opened and someone came down the hall toward her. She bustled toward the stairs and made it to the first step, not willing to be accosted by a patron on his way to the “necessary” out in back.
    “Ah, Miss Truelove Beckons!”
    It was Lord Drake. True stopped and turned, smiling up at him. She was glad it was one of their party and not a stranger.
    “What, hungry? Was dinner not enough? You shall be as plump as a pigeon if you take to late night meals this way. Not that I object to a little plumpness in so pretty a pigeon.”
    His voice was rich and deep, and his tall, broad presence looming above her set True’s heart to thumping. “We needed some hot water for our washing up, and the bread and jam—”
    “Do not explain,” Drake said, his voice just a little thick from a glass or two too much of ale. “I wonder if you are fetching and carrying for Miss Swinley. Are you really a companion then? Is that your secret? And is she using you as her handmaid?”
    “We shall both make use of the water. I must go up.” True started up the stairs, but with surprising agility, Drake stepped up before her and barred her way.
    “Now, you must know that the serving wenches at every inn must learn how to rebuff the attentions of their patrons who have had a little too much vino.”
    At first True did not think she had heard him correctly, but the next instant she felt his large hands spanning her waist and pulling her close to him. She could smell the ale on his breath and the tobacco smoke on his clothes, but before she had the time to gather her wandering wits, she felt his lips on her cheek.
    Drake bussed her quickly and stepped back. She would slap him now, and rightly too! No matter if she was acting as a serving wench, she was a lady down to her toes. But in the dim light offered by the candles in wall sconces, he could see her bright blue eyes opened wide in shock. The look in her eyes was not one of revulsion or alarm, but of question and sweet confusion.
    Drawn by that innocent expression, entranced by the delicate softness of her skin and the tumbling dark waves of fine, silky hair, he pulled her back to him, resting her against his length and gazing down at her in the dim light of the stairwell. She clung to the ewer, and the plate of bread and jam threatened to slide from her grasp, but he didn’t care. He was aware of her softly rounded breasts against his waistcoat, and the slim outline of her legs against his breeches.
    He raised one hand to caress the catkin velvet of her brown hair and he spanned the back of her head, holding it firm while he lowered his face toward hers. Her eyes fluttered closed, and when his lips touched hers and they parted beneath him, he felt a surge of dizzying desire he had not experienced in years. It seemed an eternity, but he awoke to the feeling of her struggling in his arms, and he released her carefully, not wanting her to tumble down from the force.
    “Miss Becket . . . Truelove, I am sorry, I forgot myself.”
    Face flaming, she turned from him and raced up the stairs, losing a jam-smeared triangle of bread in her