felt compelled to say something. ‘You must have the use of the stables at Brookmore. There are a couple of mares there—my sister-in-law’s horses—that you would find pleasant to ride.’
Her face lit up. ‘I might ride? How very wonderful!’
Changing horses at the inns gave them both a chance to stretch their muscles and ease any soreness from the time in the saddle. Garret was used to long hours on horseback, but Miss Tilson could not be as seasoned, even if she loved riding.
When they took refreshment at the inns, their conversation was more comfortable than the night before, but, then, any questions he asked her were about the inn, the food, the fresh horses they were given. Apparently questions about the present were not difficult for her to answer.
He liked being in her company. She was neither too chatty nor deadly silent.
* * *
When the sun dipped low in the sky, they reached the outskirts of Preston. Preston was a large and busy town and the traffic on the road was almost as bustling as London. Many a male rider would have found it daunting to guide a horse through such busy streets. Miss Tilson still rode confidently.
He led her to the inn. In the yard, ostlers ran up to hold the horses. Garret dismounted and turned to see Miss Tilson expertly slip off hers. Their gazes caught briefly and, for a moment, he was lost in the depths of her hazel eyes.
He quickly glanced away.
For a multitude of reasons—her position, his fiancée—he must not allow any physical attraction to her, yet at unexpected moments like this desire coursed through him.
The ostler handed him his valise and Miss Tilson gathered the small bag carrying the few items she could now call her own.
She took a step and winced.
He stepped towards her and put his arm around her. ‘Are you able to walk?’
She let him support her. ‘I am stiff, of course. I’m sure it will pass.’
He was more than happy to have her lean against him, although this was precisely the sort of contact he should avoid.
When they entered the inn and Garret gave the innkeeper his name, the innkeeper’s eyes lit up.
‘Lord Brookmore, sir. Welcome.’ The man bowed. ‘Let me assure you your rooms are ready and the items you requested have been placed in the lady’s room.’
Miss Tilson looked at him quizzically.
He did not enlighten her.
Their rooms were on the first floor, next to each other, too close to make defying temptation easy. Better he were on the other side of the building.
The innkeeper grinned as he opened Miss Tilson’s door.
Obviously the man Garret had sent ahead had managed his task very well. Across the bed were items of clothing and rolls of cloth, everything he could think of that would be of use to her.
* * *
Rebecca gasped. ‘What have you done?’
The bed was laden with rolls of cloth, but there were also three dresses, shifts, petticoats, gloves and hats.
She stepped into the room as the innkeeper withdrew.
Lord Brookmore stood in the doorway, leaning against the door jamb. ‘Preston is known for its cloth. I simply took advantage of this fact. I sent a man ahead.’
‘The cloth is beautiful.’ She gestured to the pile. ‘But there is clothing here, as well.’
The innkeeper spoke up. ‘My wife took up the challenge, miss. She found a dressmaker who had dresses the buyers never collected. I will send my wife to assist you whenever you wish. She has a seamstress on hand to address any alterations.’
Rebecca could not find her voice. Lord Brookmore had gone to a great deal of trouble and expense for her, so unlike how other men had treated her of late. Her brother begrudged any expense and had only arranged the marriage in order to be rid of her.
Lord Brookmore spoke. ‘You must select what you like, Miss Tilson. As many pieces as you like. When we get to Brookmore House a local seamstress can make whatever you need.’
She smiled at him in wonder. ‘This is so generous.’
His face stiffened. ‘I am clothing my nieces’ governess. You need clothing and I am well able to provide it.’
She walked back to his side. ‘I am so very grateful.’ She touched his arm and it seemed as if the warmth of his kindness spread all through her.
The innkeeper broke in. ‘Shall I ask my wife to attend you?’
Rebecca lifted her hand away. ‘Yes. Please have her come at her convenience. I will just wash off the dirt of the road.’
Lord Brookmore stepped away from the doorway. ‘I will leave you now. Send word when you wish to dine.’ He turned to the innkeeper. ‘May we have a private room for dining?’
‘I’ll see to it, m’lord.’ The man bowed again and left them.
Rebecca did not wish for Lord Brookmore to leave. ‘What time would you wish to dine, sir?’
‘Whenever you wish.’ His tone softened. ‘I need to clean up, as well.’
But neither of them moved. His blue eyes seemed to pierce her, reaching parts of her that felt vulnerable and raw. Perhaps he really could see inside her. He certainly was able to anticipate her needs and discern her emotions. When had a man ever been able to do that? She’d been used to demanding what she needed.
Lord Brookmore averted his gaze and took another step back. ‘I will leave you now.’
She watched him enter his room and close the door behind him. Only then did she do the same.
* * *
By the time Rebecca had stripped off her riding habit and washed off the dirt of the road, the innkeeper’s wife and the seamstress knocked on her door.
‘I am Mrs Bell, dear.’ The woman was small and round, with a kind face and warm voice. ‘This is Miss Cox. We were told of your misfortune. You poor creature!’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘Well, well. Let us see what we can do about providing you with some clothes to wear.’
The two women helped Rebecca out of the corset and shift she’d been given in Moelfre and into the undergarments that Mrs Bell had brought her. Two of the shifts fit her very well and one of the corsets was near perfect and so much more comfortable than the one from before. There was a nightdress that would be heaven to sleep in and two day dresses that fit her well enough.
One needed only minor alterations, which were accomplished on the spot. The other, the seamstress promised to have ready by the morning. With the help of the two women, Rebecca chose a length of wool for a winter dress and another for a cape. She picked out some plain white cotton for some aprons and caps and a print for another dress.
The ship had carried two trunks full of her clothing. She’d packed walking dresses, morning dresses, carriage dresses, dinner dresses, nightdresses and ball gowns. She had hats for all occasions and several pairs of shoes and gloves. Her undergarments had been made of soft linen. The wardrobe had been worthy of an earl’s daughter and soon-to-be wife of a baron.
These makeshift clothes were—serviceable. But they were also more dear to her than all of her lost dresses. Because of the thoughtfulness behind them.
Her father had indulged her with the finest clothes and jewels—all lost now—but he’d been unable to stand the sight of his daughter after her mother died. She’d reminded him too much of his beloved wife.
When Mrs Bell and Miss Cox left her, Rebecca took the pins from her hair and brushed it out with the brush Lord Brookmore had purchased for her. She rearranged it into a simple coil at the back of her head, as Claire had done. She wore the