Page 41 of Miss Ashbury and the Anatomy of Mending a Heart

Sure, he’d overstepped, but he’d explained himself. Yes, he’d acted an insufferable brute, but he’d apologized, and he’d done it well, or so he thought. He’d also rectified the situation by offering the lady gainful employment, along with the opportunity to earn a glowing reference. Certainly that sufficed in terms of making amends…didn’t it?

Doubts prodded at his back and shoulders like a lumpy mattress, and though his own bed was made of feathers, it felt as if he lay upon a burlap sack of rocks. With his mind in tumult, he’d marked the passing of one o’clock on his brass bedside travel clock before he’d been able to fall asleep. So it was well past his normal hour of rising when his bleary eyes blinked open.

Six inches from his face, a large pair of amber eyes stared back.

Stephen couldn’t help it—he yelled. Well, calling it a yell wasn’t the most accurate description, but he was a man, and men didn’t scream. They certainly didn’t do so in an octave that might have been described as shrill.

The fox—for that’s what it was, curled on the pillow next to him—appeared as startled at his yell as Stephen had been to find the beast there. It jumped and flashed from his bed, disappearing through the open door to his wardrobe antechamber.

And heavens—was Stephen still making that noise? He clamped his mouth shut, embarrassed at his own reaction, when there was a sudden scrambling at his bedroom door. It flung open and Vera charged in, brandishing a fire poker.

Her voluminous hair was undone and spilled in ash-brown waves down her back. Her blue velvet dressing gown was tied at her narrow waist with a wide satin bow. Her eyes were bright and narrowed fiercely, her chin jutted in determination.

Beautiful, he thought wildly.

That disturbing thought was chased from his mind by a far worse one. Which was that the reason Vera had first reminded him of Samantha, he realized, was because he was attracted to her.

Heaven help him.

As Stephen had this startling, earth-tilting revelation, Vera lowered her poker and scowled. “That was you screaming murder?”

“I wasn’t—” He shook his head, distracted as one of her curls slid like a silken snake from her shoulder to rest upon her front.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” She propped a fist against her hip and frowned, the poker held loosely at her side. “I never knew a man of your size could make such a screech.”

“It wasn’t a screech.”

Perhaps it wasn’t the most eloquent retort, but he’d never been forced to argue from such an unbalanced position. He’d never debated an opponent while he was bare-chested, wearing only his drawers. He’d certainly never debated someone who looked like Miss Vera Ashbury fresh from bed.

“I thought it was Jacqueline, though I should have known better. She’d never make a noise so piercing, not even if the house was burning down around her. Now—what’s the matter? What on earth is wrong with you?”

You, he almost blurted. You are the matter. You are what is wrong with me.

It was because he was so stupefied that he gave her the truth. “A fox was sleeping in my bed.”

“Clarence? You screamed like a ninny because of Clarence?”

Stephen did his best to give a dignified sniff. “I wasn’t expecting him. He alarmed me.”

“So I heard.”

They stared at each other for several moments. He tried to school his features into mild indifference—he was frightened by the idea that she might see his thoughts on his face and sneer at him. Vera was frowning, but he couldn’t read the source of her ire.

Stephen suddenly wished anew that he’d been kinder, that they hadn’t started their relationship the way they had. Of course, it wasn’t just his sudden realization of her beauty that made him feel so—he’d regretted reading her correspondence even before she’d caught him. From the moment he knew the truth of who Vera truly was, he wished he hadn’t invaded her privacy.

But this moment certainly intensified his regret, for purely selfish reasons.

Vera suddenly broke his gaze and rocked backward on her heels. “I’d better go. It’s a wonder no one’s caught me here yet, and neither of us want that sort of scandal. Though I suppose the lack of servants running to your defense means that they’re used to you yodeling at a high pitch whenever something disturbs your delicate nerves.”

He spluttered.

Delicate nerves? He’d once amputated the forearm of a beast of a sailor who was awake and screaming the entire time. Stephen had been obliged to dodge a ham-sized fist swinging at his temple every time the man’s cohorts lost their grip.

Delicate nerves, indeed.

His momentary distraction was all the time Vera needed to slip from the room before he could make a coherent reply. She snapped the door shut on her way out. He sat there for several moments, frowning in contemplation. Had she been blushing when she left him? For Stephen could have sworn he’d seen a dusting of pink along those alabaster cheeks.

It was probably anger and disgust, nothing more, he thought.