Romancing Lady Stone (A School of Gallantry Novella) by Delilah Marvelle Read Free Book Online

heavy skirts but the full curve of those hips accentuated by a well-synched corset kept taunting him. It was difficult to believe she had a twenty-one-year-old son and three daughters. Her son was only nine years younger than him. When she had been a woman of twenty, he’d been a boy of ten.
    He was a very bad man.
    Once on the landing, he focused on getting to the room.
    Reaching a narrow door with the number 12 crookedly painted with red on its wooden surface, he dug into his pocket for the key and adjusted the sack on his shoulder. With the turn of his wrist, Konstantin kicked out a booted foot, thrusting the door out of their way.
    He swept a gallant hand toward the open door. “After you.”
    She hesitated and then walked into the small room, her gown rustling past his booted feet.
    He entered after her and pushed the oak door shut. Dropping the sack from his shoulder, he kicked it off to the side and leaned heavily against the panel. He paused. He could feel his watch shifting against the inside of his pocket. It was telling him something. What exactly, he was uncertain of.
    She dragged her shawl up to her chin and turned toward the narrow bed.
Fitting two people on that bed for a night of sleep would require vast imagination. Which meant only one of them was getting the bed. So much for sleep. Or anything else. Not that she would entertain the idea of anything else. She was a lady.
    Pushing away from the door in exasperation, he thumbed at the wool sack. “I have clean clothing in my travelling bag. You can borrow one of my linen shirts to sleep in.”
    She smoothed her hands against the thick, velvet skirts of her travelling gown. “I will be fine sleeping in this. Thank you.” She removed her cloak and shawl and surveyed the small room that was barely a few strides wide.
    At least it had a small hearth.
    He knew the woman was used to far better lodgings. She was an aristocrat. The scraped oak timbers that lined the walls and the low ceiling of the room was overly rustic for a woman dressed in velvet and cashmere. And the moment she crawled into that bed, her body would quickly realize the tick was stuffed with rough straw, not plush feathers.
    Why couldn’t he have had enough money to impress the woman with her own room? More importantly, why couldn’t he have met the woman after his crowned glory of one hundred thousand? “I apologize that the lodgings are a bit rough,” he finally said.
    She draped her cloak and shawl onto the bed, her features softening. “There is no need to apologize, Mr. Levin. I am incredibly grateful to have a place to sleep.”
    Those dark eyes were so stunning when she softened. They became warm-liquored and soulful and hinted at a different woman hidden beneath. One who enjoyed nestling against a man during cold winter nights. He liked women who nestled. “You have very pretty eyes.”
    She lowered her gaze with a half-smile. “Thank you.”
    He was beginning to ramble like a fourteen-year-old boy meeting a pretty girl. Shifting his jaw, he placed his right hand onto the rosewood handle of the dagger attached at his waist. “Are you hungry? I have some dried peaches and apples in my sack.”
    “No thank you.” Her eyes darted to where his hand was. “Do you always carry a weapon?” she inquired.
    “Yes.” He paused, realizing he probably shouldn’t have admitted that. It represented his old life and not the one he was embracing. Still, he did know women liked a man who knew how to handle a weapon. He casually removed his leather belt and tried not to vaunt. “As my father used to say, Russia has no saints.”
    He carried the belt and dagger over to the small, lopsided side table beside the bed and set it down with a clatter. The side table wobbled in protest. He inwardly winced, realizing just how awful the accommodations really were and stilled the table with a hand. He turned back to her and drawled, “Let us hope the ceiling holds up, yes?”
    A bubble of a laugh