Punish Me With Roses - a Victorian Historical Romance Read Online Free PDF Page A

when she felt so much like the pursued.
    Her wary search ended when it landed on a man seated across the room. She was surprised to see a mirror of her own interest and immediately wanted to know why.
    She removed her hands from the tabletop and placed them on her lap. She didn't want the stranger to see the way they shook under his unabashed perusal of her person, especially since she didn't understand why.
    She studied him. His brownish hair was short and cropped close to his head. It was a formal, efficient style, as were his breeches and overcoat. But as much as it was obvious that he didn't care much for the current fashion, he cut a striking figure just the same. He had in him something of the untamed countryman, even though his trappings were those of a rich man. Whoever he was, a short examination was enough to cause her pulse to race and temperature to rise. Maybe she didn't need that cider after all.
    When he rose from his seat across the room and walked in her direction, she desperately wished she'd looked away in the beginning. She pretended he wasn't really headed for her table. Maybe he'd recognized someone that was sitting behind her? Was the waitress late in bringing his request and he'd decided to remind her?
    All foolish ideas, she knew.
    "Is this seat taken?"
    "Why, sir, I'm not sure it would be proper!" she said in mock indignation.
    "Perhaps we should ask your chaperone?"
    She nodded toward the empty chair. It was obvious that she couldn't turn him away that easily.
    He smiled at her when he sat down. His eyes glinted with unexplained mirth. "My name is Alexander Trevelyn."
    "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Trevelyn."
    "May I ask your name?"
    She wasn't sure if she was attracted to the dangerous glint in his eyes, or if it was something to beware. "Betsy Carter," she said, stealing the name of her ever-faithful maid.
    "Where are you headed, Miss Carter?" He leaned forward and his gaze rested on the lump beneath her bodice.
    She nearly choked on her sharp intake of breath. Of course the glance was coincidental. He couldn't possibly know what the key signified or what was hidden in her dresser drawer. After all, that was back in Blackmoore and she was miles from the inn where she'd paid her half-fare. "I'm on my way to...Dover."
    "Doesn't the mail coach go that route?"
    "And if it does?"
    He didn't answer immediately since the waitress had returned with the cider. The young girl looked at Mr. Trevelyn and then back at his empty table. Then she shrugged and served him his own mug of cider.
    She leaned over the mug and allowed the hot steam to caress her face. Then she leaned back when she realized what it would do to her complexion. She didn't wish to become flushed under her companion's watchful gaze. She was already having enough trouble staying calm when he questioned her. It might have been easier if she hadn't just realized that she'd much rather be the one making inquiries, finding out more about the mysterious stranger who had so quickly captured her interest.
    His cheeks were red from the winter wind. She figured that he mustn't be traveling within a closed carriage. His clothing and manners were that of a rich man, but he didn't seem to be making his journey as one.
    Finally, after they'd both sipped their cider and studied one another in silence, he once again commented on the peculiarity of her position. "If you are truly on your way to Dover, I would think you would have taken the mail coach rather than the stage. It is certainly more comfortable, even if it is a little more costly."
    "Yes, the cost--"
    "And your clothing makes a few things clear to me...such as the fact that you most certainly can afford the mail coach. It also tells me that your name couldn't possibly be Betsy Carter." He took a deep breath and another drink of cider. "It's much too common," he finished with a grin.
    She had watched him speak. His lips moved in a slow, precise manner as though he had rehearsed every word. That simply