What the Marquess Sees by Amy Quinton Page B

presumably their overnight accommodations were to be found within. She refused to acknowledge her distaste at the inn’s state of disrepair; she’d rather be alive than comfortable.
    Beatryce ducked her head and strained her eyes through misty night air as she tried to make out the sign above the door. In loud, gilded letters, the inn proclaimed itself “The Quiet Witch Pub and Inn”.
    Oh, he was definitely telling her something. She could just imagine him laughing at her expense.
    It could be worse. At least the inn wasn’t called “The Dead Witch Pub” or the “I’m Going to Strangle that Woman Inn”. He’d probably tried to find one of those without success.
    As he helped her out of the carriage, he leaned close and admitted, “Like the name of our inn, Lady Beatryce?”
    She shivered and her skin tingled as his warm breath tickled her ear. He didn’t wait for her to answer. He turned and brushed past, too close. Her breath caught as his arm grazed her breast. Her nipple stood to attention in response.
    She nearly ran back to the carriage. Nearly. Instead she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and walked with confidence toward the inn.
    Inside The Quiet Witch, dust coated every surface and cobwebs, every corner. Clearly, the proprietor had not heard John Wesley sermonize, “Slovenliness is no part of religion. Cleanliness is indeed next to Godliness.” Beatryce silently thanked Dansbury for the over-sized dress now, for she would not be removing it to sleep. She’d probably awake with fleas in the morning. Or worse.
    Despite the dirt, the inn boasted quite a few patrons in its main room. One particularly loud woman seemed to attract most of the attention. She was all smiles and quite vocal, talking to anyone who would listen, or so it seemed. Typical American. Beatryce sniffed and lifted her nose; then remembered the role she was to play.
    Dansbury turned toward the main desk and the large mustachioed man sitting on a stool behind the counter. The main “lobby” of the inn was in reality a pub and the proprietor sat behind the bar.
    Right, time for the show.
    She grabbed Dansbury’s arm with both hands and giggled like a schoolgirl as they crossed the room. Dansbury stumbled on a loose board. She was satisfied to have upset his equilibrium.
    “What’d ye wont?” said the landlord, who’d obviously never been taught manners.
    “Mr…and Mrs. Churchmouse,” Dansbury smiled at her, and she giggled and scrunched her shoulders in response, her face beaming, “would like a room, please, sir.”
    “Aye and would Mr. and Mrs. Church mouse be wantin’ a bath as well?”
    “Mmmm…” Dansbury acted like a bath, with her, was his wildest fantasy come true. He touched her forehead with his and rubbed noses with her. “Perhaps another time, thank you very much.”
    “Right, then. Have a seat anywhere’s ye like while we ready yer room. I’ll send me wife, Bertha, to fetch ye when ’tis done. Let me barmaid, Ginny, know if ye want a pint or two ta wet yer whistle or a meal ta fill yer bellies.”
    *
    Dansbury guided her to a table situated in a dimly lit back corner of the room. He acknowledged two men seated nearby with a simple nod of his head. One man was a giant, even larger than Dansbury, with dark, red hair. A Scot judging by the blue and brown kilt he wore. The Scot looked like he wore a scowl permanently etched on his rugged face. He threw a glare at the loud American woman on the other side of the room before turning back to contemplate his drink, which sat dwarfed on the table between his large, beefy hands.
    The other man was lean and beautiful and dressed to the nines with midnight hair and bright eyes. He sprawled back in his chair with his legs outstretched and a grin that shouted ‘I am a lothario, don’t ye think me sexy?’ Beatryce snorted to herself.
    Just as Dansbury’s arse touched his seat, she plopped herself in his lap. She laughed at his gaping mouth, her face radiating