“I opt for stubborn, if I get a vote.”
She let out an exasperated breath of air and marched ahead of him. “I'm going to my room.”
“Wouldn't you like to know which one it is?”
Victoria could positively feel his grin at her back. “Would you care to tell me,” she said between clenched teeth, “the number of my room?”
“Three.”
“Thank you,” she said, and then wished that courtesy hadn't been so methodically drummed into her at a young age. As if he deserved her gratitude.
“I'm number four,” he called out helpfully. “Just in case you want to know where to find me.”
“I'm sure that won't be necessary.” Victoria reached the top of the stairs, turned the corner, and began to look for her room. She could hear Robert a few paces behind her.
“One never knows.” When she didn't comment, he added, “I can think of a host of reasons you may need to contact me.” When she continued to ignore him, he added, “A thief might try to invade your room. You might have a nightmare.”
The only bad dreams she might have, Victoria thought, would be about him.
“The inn might be haunted,” he continued. “Just think of all the scary ghosts lurking about.”
Victoria was quite unable to ignore that one. She turned slowly around. “That is the most implausible idea I have ever heard.”
He shrugged. “It could happen.”
She merely stared at him, looking very much as if she was trying to determine how to get him admitted to an asylum.
“Or,” he added, “you might miss me.”
“I rescind my earlier statement,” she snapped. “That is the most implausible idea I have ever heard.”
He clasped his heart dramatically. “You wound me, my lady.”
“I am not your lady.”
“You will be.”
“Ah, look,” she said with patently false brightness. “Here is my room. Good night.” Without waiting for Robert to respond, Victoria entered her room and shut the door in his face.
Then she heard the key turn in the lock.
She gasped. The beast had locked her in!
Victoria indulged herself in a quick stamp of her foot, then flopped on her bed with a loud groan. She couldn't believe he had the gall to lock her in her room.
Well, actually, she could believe it. The man had abducted her, after all. And Robert never left a detail to chance.
Victoria fumed on her bed for several minutes. If she tried to escape Robert, she would have to do it that evening. Once he got her to his cottage by the sea, she doubted he'd let her out of his sight. And knowing Robert's penchant for privacy, she could safely assume that his cottage was isolated.
No, it would have to be now. Luckily Faversham was not so very far from Bellfield, where her family still lived. Victoria didn't particularly want to visit her father; she had never forgiven him for tying her up all those years ago. But the Reverend definitely seemed a lesser evil than Robert.
Victoria crossed the room to the window and peered out. It was a daunting distance to the ground. There was no way she'd make it without injury. Then her eyes fell on a door, and not the one to the hall.
A connecting door. She had a good idea to whose room it connected. How utterly ironic that the only way she would be able to escape was through his room.
She crouched down and squinted at the doorknob. Then she examined the door frame. It looked as if the door might stick. Opening it would be loud, and Robert would probably awaken. If he woke up before she even made it to the hall, she'd never escape. She would have to find a way to leave the connecting door slightly open without raising his suspicion.
Then it came to her.
Victoria took a deep breath and slammed the door open. “I might have known you'd have so little respect for my privacy!” she bellowed. She was aware that she was invading his privacy by barging into his room, but it seemed the only way to get the blasted door open without—
She gasped, forgetting whatever it was she'd been thinking about.
Robert was standing in the middle of the room, his chest bared. His hands were on the fastenings of his breeches. “Would you like me to continue?” he said mildly.
“No, no, that won't be necessary,” she stammered, turning seven shades of red, from crimson to beet.
He smiled lazily. “Are you certain? I'd be happy to oblige you.”
Victoria wondered why she couldn't seem to take her eyes off him. He was really quite magnificent, she thought in a bizarre burst of objectivity. His years in London had clearly not been inactive ones.
He took advantage of her dazed silence to hand her a small package.
“What is this?” she asked suspiciously.
“It occurred to me when I was making my plans that you might need something in which to sleep. I took the liberty of procuring you a nightgown.”
The thought of him buying her lingerie was so startlingly intimate that Victoria nearly dropped the package. “Where did you get this?” she asked.
“I didn't get it from another woman, if that is what you want to know.” He stepped forward and touched her cheek. “Although I must say that I'm touched to see you so jealous.”
“I'm not jealous,” she ground out. “It's just that—If you bought it at Madame Lambert's, I should be—”
“I didn't buy it at Madame Lambert's.
“Good. I should be quite angry to find out that one of my friends assisted you in this nefarious endeavor.”
“I wonder how long you'll remain so angry with me,” he said softly.
Victoria's head snapped up at his abrupt change of subject. “I'm going to bed.” She took two steps toward the connecting door, then turned around. “I shan't be modeling this gown for you.”