Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)(79)

She swallowed hard, shivering with emotion.

“I need this, Meredith. I need to make it right, or I don’t know how I’ll go on.” His eyes squeezed shut. “Please. Marry me.”

A tear streaked down her face. Lord, this was terrible. And not in the way he believed. Even if he had knocked over that lamp, she would never hold him blameworthy for that fire, nor any of its consequences. But could she truly consent to marry him, knowing that he viewed their marriage as a sort of penance for sins that weren’t even his own?

Perhaps she could, and that was the worst part of all. Even now, the word “yes” hovered on her tongue. She wanted him so much. Maybe she truly had it in her to let him live under that perpetual burden of guilt and keep him for herself, always. Maybe she could even trick herself into believing that if only she loved him fiercely enough, it would all be for the best, in the end. Did she have the capacity for a lifetime of deceit? She was a little afraid to look within herself and find out.

“You’ll think on it?” he asked.

She managed a nod. “Can we go home? Tomorrow?” She tightened her fingers around his. At home, everything would be clear. There, she would know what to do. “Rhys, will you just take me home?”

“If that’s what you wish …” Wearing a grim expression, he rose to his feet. “Yes, of course.”

She talked all the way home.

Rhys had never known Meredith could have so many words to speak and so very little to say. As the coach rolled on through Somersetshire and Devonshire, their cargo of porcelain and silver clinked in crates above them, whilst Meredith kept up a steady rattle of her own. He supposed she was afraid that if she stopped talking for any significant length of time, he would come forth with another shocking revelation. He didn’t know how to reassure her that there were none left. So he simply sat and listened—the sound of her voice was never hard on his ears. Every once and a while, she would go pensive for a bit, but soon she’d burst forth with an entirely new topic. All of them, however, had something to do with the inn.

“I’ve decided what to work on improving next, once the new wing is completed.” Without waiting for his encouragement, she continued, “I need to help Mr. Handsford smarten up his house, and add a fresh coat of limewash to the church.”

He silently pondered the meaning of those two gestures, knowing he wouldn’t need to ask for an explanation.

Sure enough, one was soon forthcoming. “That’s one thing I learned from the hotel in Bath,” she said. “Remember we had that lovely view of the river? It’s not only the outward appearance of the inn that’s important, it’s the prospect a guest will see from her room. The church and Mr. Handsford’s cottage are directly across the road. They can be seen from each new room’s windows, so we need to be certain they’re looking their best. The entire village needs to look its best. Clean, bright, cheery. Perhaps we’ll paint all the shutters and sashes red.”

He didn’t answer. Just gave a low grunt of agreement and turned his face to the window.

“Oh, but the visitors are the most important thing. If only we could be assured some guests of quality, to spread word of the spa.”

“I don’t suppose a duke and his duchess would serve?”

“A duke? Do you know one?”

“I know several. But the Duke of Morland owes me a favor. You’d like his wife a great deal, I think.” Rhys had hoped to invite the couple to Devonshire sometime soon. But he’d envisioned Meredith welcoming them as Lady Ashworth, not as landlady of the Three Hounds.

“Oh!” She clapped her hands together. “That would be ideal. I shall have to make up the new corner room to perfection. The ducal suite.”

He sighed. Her answer must be no, then. That was the only explanation for her nervous energy and her persistent focus on the inn. She was already preparing for a life without him.

Damn it. He knew he shouldn’t have told her the truth.

But she hadn’t officially refused him yet. He still had some time to change her mind. Or perhaps the cottage could. She hadn’t been out to see it in a while. With the windows and doors cut out and the roof freshly thatched, it looked cozy and welcoming, if rustic. And if it was scenery she’d grown to value, she should see the prospect from her dormer window. Perhaps she’d fall in love with the view.

Right.

Again they made good time on the journey, and a smoky dusk was just settling as they reached the border of the moor.

“Is it much farther?” she asked, peering out into the twilight.

“Ten or twelve miles, I should say. Another hour or two.”

“I don’t like the looks of this weather. A mist will be on us soon.” She took a rug from the coach’s underseat compartment and shrank into the corner of the bench, wrapping the woven blanket over her legs. To Rhys, seated on the opposite side, she looked very small. And very far away.

A mist did indeed bloom from the humid moorland air, enveloping the coach and making for much slower progress. The lamps illuminated a small section of the road ahead—enough that the carriage could safely continue, albeit at a slower pace. But the final hour of their journey stretched into three, and it was full night when they rolled into Buckleigh-in-the-Moor.

“They won’t be expecting us tonight,” she said.