Page 47 of The Marriage Method

She set aside her sewing. Drawing her dressing gown tighter around herself, she moved to rise.

“Pray don’t get up,” he said as the door drifted shut behind him. They were the same words he’d uttered yesterday morning in his office.

Yet how much had changed since then.

He clasped his hands behind his back. “I was on my way to my room when I noticed your lights. Are you—That is…Do you require anything?”

By some miracle, she kept her countenance. “Nothing at all,” she said.

“You’re unable to sleep?”

“I haven’t tried yet. I’m waiting for my hair to dry from my bath.”

A dull flush appeared just above the line of his collar. “Your bath. Of course.” He pointedly turned to look about the room, reverting to his usual businesslike manner. “I trust Mrs. Bright has made you comfortable?”

Nell watched him in the glow of the fire. She’d never seen him out of his element before, let alone flustered enough to turn red. Or, rather, almost red. He composed himself before her eyes with impressive rapidity, the threat of a blush vanishing from his neck as swiftly as it had appeared.

Such self-control he had. Such unerring command over himself and the world he inhabited.

“She and the maid have been very kind,” she answered. “They’ve already unpacked my cases. And Gladys brought up a hot water bottle.”

Nell refrained from describing that awkward encounter. The gawky young maid had plainly been perplexed as to why a new bride would require artificial warmth on her wedding night.

“The flowers are beautiful, by the way,” Nell added. “However did you know that I liked gardenias?”

Miles walked to the vase on the mantel, examining the bouquet. “Your perfume. It’s gardenia, is it not?”

Nell blinked. Goodness. He had been paying attention. He must have done to have noted a scent so faint as that. “It’s not perfume.”

He flashed her a look. “No?”

A peculiar warmth suffused her midsection. He was only an arm’s length away, close enough to touch her. And here she sat, naked under the thin layers of her robe and nightgown, with her hair loose about her shoulders, and her bare feet tucked beneath her. She hadn’t ever been this vulnerable in the presence of a man before. She’d rarely been this vulnerable with anyone.

It was that very vulnerability that allowed a rare frisson of self-doubt to sneak its way into her soul.

She remembered, all at once, how the men at the Red Lion had looked at her, their attention torn between her face and her limp. The staff at Miles’s office had regarded her just the same. So had nearly everyone since she’d arrived in London. Those endless stares, filled with admiration, then bewilderment, and—ultimately—pity.

Nell had told herself that she was bored by it. The identical response over and over again, so dull and predictable. She’d reminded herself that their opinions were no reflection on her. She knew who she was and what she was worth. But that was then. She’d been on her mission, out in the world, crinoline clad and purposeful. While here…

She had no defenses.

Mrs. Pritchard’s cruel words came back to haunt her. “As for that cane—it will disgust most men even to see it.”

Most men, the hateful madam had said. A week ago, it wouldn’t have mattered to Nell if it was all men. But not now. Not in this moment.

She realized, to her vexation, that after a full day spent in his company, one man’s opinion was coming to mean something to her.

“It’s French bath soap,” she informed him. “A gift from Mrs. Royce. She bought it for me when she was last in Paris.”

Miles moved the vase of flowers a fraction of an inch to the left, as though its placement had been off. “Bath soap,” he repeated with a peculiar lack of inflection. “Of course.”

“The teachers at the Academy aren’t permitted to wear perfume,” she explained. “It would only encourage the girls to want perfume of their own.”

“Yes, I see. Quite sensible.”

Nell could remain seated no longer. It put her at too much of a disadvantage. She rose from her chair, exquisitely conscious that sections of her hair were still damp, and that she had no corset or crinoline to provide her any armor. “But I do like gardenias very much,” she said. “I thank you for them. And…And for everything.”

Miles turned.