“Oh, my!” It suddenly occurred to her that everything she owned was in her trailer back at the circus encampment.
She was not going back there! Elephants could not drag her back down that hill. Which meant this was all she had to wear.
When the women on the sidewalk did not move on, but continued to look at her as though she were a sideshow attraction, she let go of the curtain.
All of a sudden her arms ached, and her legs. The altercation with Frenchie must have taken more out of her than she first thought.
With some effort, she returned to the couch. Lying down, she motioned for Miss Valentine to join her. It would be polite to ask William if dogs were allowed on his furniture, but that would mean hunting up her prince.
She hadn’t the strength for that.
One day she would, though. One day she would run for a mile and not become winded.
For tonight, she was going to sink into this couch, close her eyes and find comfort in the small but solid weight of Miss Valentine pressing into the curve of her belly.
* * *
Impossible!
William paced the upstairs hall, crushing the note in his hand.
He stopped, pressed it open one more time. Even reading it for the fifth time did not change the words.
Mrs. Bronson and Mrs. Feather had been called away to tend their ailing mother. In the future, he would have to remember not to hire sisters.
They had written that the situation was urgent, and a wire had arrived to summon them home. They’d given an address for him to send their wages, which left him wondering if they would return at all.
“Impossible!”
He had carried a woman dressed in glittering, morality-defying underwear into his house. Many of the folks in town had seen him do it.
And now there was no chaperone when he had expected there to be two.
Unless he wanted his reputation smeared, his career ruined, there was only one thing to do.
Going down the stairs, he tried not to think of everything all at once. If he did he’d be overwhelmed.
He could only be in control of one thing at a time.
Coming into the parlor with the note pinched in his fingers, he found Agatha asleep on the divan.
The dog’s head was resting on her ribs but it wasn’t sleeping. Its brown eyes tracked his progress while he crossed the room, built up a fire in the hearth then settled into a chair facing the couch.
The last thing he wanted to do was wake her. Someone as tender as she was would need to regain her strength, maybe shut out the ordeal she had been through for a time.
The poor thing looked a proper mess with dirt on her nose, twigs and leaves in her hair—and just there on her chin, a faint smear of Frenchie Brown’s blood from when she had bit him.
Even with it all, she didn’t seem as gaunt as he recalled she’d been the last time he’d seen her. She’d filled out some, with curves in womanly places—
Curse it! Why was he looking there?
Because where else was he to look? The girl was wearing something that looked like sin, designed to draw a man’s attention.
But why was she? What was she even doing in Tanners Ridge? It was twenty-five miles from home.
In the end it didn’t matter why she was here, how she had ended up in a circus and was being forced into the mouth of a cannon. Here she was, under his protection. The details would sort themselves out later.
“Agatha,” he whispered. “Honey?”
Not an eyelash stirred.
“Hey, dog. Lick her face, do something to wake her up.”
Without the household staff present, he didn’t dare even touch her shoulder to shake her awake.
The dog sighed deeply and closed its eyes.
“Agatha! Wake up!”
She sat up suddenly, eyes blinking in confusion. The parts of her that had filled out, which he should not be seeing the outline of but could not help it, jiggled.
The dog moved to the far side of the couch. After he settled the situation between them he would tell Agatha dogs were not allowed on the furniture...or in the house for that matter.
“William?” She looked confused, as though she did not recall that he’d carried her here.
“You’re safe, honey. Don’t worry, we’ll be married as soon as this wind lets up and the preacher can get here.”
“William Byron English!” Agatha stood up, used the arm of the couch for balance since all of a sudden the world had gone tipsy. “What makes you think I would marry you?”
She felt a blush throb in her chest. It crept up her throat to her cheeks because it occurred to her that he might think it odd that she knew his middle name.
Please don’t let him guess that she used to sit in her chair repeating it over and over in her mind until Mother Brunne would reprimand her for smiling.
“I didn’t know you knew my full name.”
“Ivy told me—it just slipped out.” What a bald-faced lie! “I don’t dwell on your name—in fact, I rarely dwell on you at all.”
Rarely! Now he knew that she did occasionally dwell upon him.
“That’s neither here nor there. Once we are wed you can use my full name, dwell on me or don’t.”
How utterly mortifying! No doubt she was red as flame.
“I can’t imagine the woman who would not swoon at such a marriage proposal, as absurd as the notion is.”
He mumbled something—Aimee Peller—she thought it was. His ladylove no doubt, the woman who had stared at her from the sidewalk earlier, the very one who had tossed down a penny wishing for the proposal Agatha was getting.
No, probably not this proposal quite.
“We have no choice about it. People saw me carry you into the house. They’ll know we spent time alone.”
“There’s your staff. We are hardly alone.”
“There’s only two of them who live in the mansion. They aren’t here. An emergency came up with their mother and they left. I have no idea when or if they are coming back.”
“I imagine our reputations can survive until the weather lets up,” she said, knowing it was not true. Both of their reputations would be gleefully danced upon.
He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on parts of her body where a man’s gaze had never lingered.
Why, in the upheaval, she had nearly forgotten that she was dressed like a harlot!
People would think he had carried a coochie girl into his house!
This was a mess—but marriage? Surely there was another way?
“It’ll be morning before I can get you to a boarding house. Besides, you can’t go outside in that.”
Not if her life depended upon it! But, she had nothing else.
“Folks have short memories.” Hopefully she sounded confident, convincing. But folks also had long memories. Some old-timers at the Lucky Clover still gossiped about Agatha’s mother, how she had divorced Papa and taken only one of her twins with her. “This won’t be much