A Bride For Him

CHAPTER 3: Not Again

Ruby

I trot down the hallway the way I came, my sneakers squeaking against the polished hardwood like an overeager puppy. My pulse is still hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, and my cheeks burn with suffocating heat.

Victory against a wall of pure arrogance is sweet, but the sheer adrenaline of the confrontation is making my knees feel like jelly.

Mrs. Whitaker appears at the landing at the top of the stairs. She looks me over, her gaze lingering for a moment.

“Got lost, I see,” she says, unamused. “Follow me.”

She turns before I can say anything.

Mrs. Whitaker’s strides are brisk and purposeful, her low heels clicking against the polished floor. I hurry after her, trying not to look as embarrassed as I feel.

She leads me past the tall windows overlooking the gardens, then turns left into the corridor lined with framed photographs.

I follow her down another corridor, narrower than the first, where the light is dimmer and the photographs give way to dark wood panelling. The house seems to grow quieter with every step. Even our footsteps sound too loud.

At the far end, she turns again, leading me past a tall window overlooking the side garden. I have no idea where we are anymore.

I am beginning to suspect that this house was designed by someone who disliked guests.

Mrs. Whitaker stops outside a heavy oak door near the back of the house. She unlocks it with a sharp twist of a brass key, then steps aside.

“Your room.”

She places the key in my hand.

“Don’t be late for dinner.”

The warning is delivered with the same enthusiasm she might use to inform me that the house is on fire. I nod quickly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She gives me one last, unimpressed look before walking away.

I push the door open and step inside, closing it behind me and letting out a ragged breath.

The room is huge. A four-poster bed sits against the far wall, layered in plush duvet covers, overflowing with throw pillows, and crisp, immaculate white linen that looks softer than clouds. The curtains are heavy and cream-coloured, hanging from a brass rod above tall windows that look out onto the back garden.

There is an antique writing desk beneath one of the windows, a polished wooden wardrobe near the door, and a small armchair beside the bed. A framed painting of a quiet lake hangs above the bed. Everything is arranged with the sort of careful symmetry that makes me afraid to touch anything.

The carpet is thick beneath my sneakers. The air smells faintly of lavender and furniture polish.

I kick off my sneakers, giggling as one of them skids beneath the bed.

“Ah.” I throw myself face-first onto the mattress.

The bed catches me with a softness I have only ever experienced once, when I fell into a pile of clean laundry my mother had been folding. I lie there for a moment, cheek pressed against the cool white linen, wondering if it would be possible to spend the next three months horizontal.

Then I remember I have to unpack. And dinner.

I groan into the pillow.

I roll onto my back and check my watch.

6:47 p.m.

Dinner starts at seven.

I sit up so quickly the room tilts.

Unpacking will have to wait. I need to freshen up. Fast.

I fling my suitcase open, grab what I need and hurry into the bathroom.

It is ridiculous. There is a freestanding bathtub beneath a tall window, a glass shower with brass fixtures, and a marble vanity that looks large enough to host a small family meeting. Two white towels hang neatly from a heated rail. There are little bottles of shampoo and conditioner lined up beside the sink, each one labelled in a font that suggests the contents cost more than my entire toiletries bag. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have bothered with my own toiletries.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror.

Oh. That explains Mrs. Whitaker.

The red in my cheeks is finally beginning to fade, but my face still looks radioactive. I touch one cheek, then the other.

My hair is a disaster. A few strands cling to my forehead while others are sticking out at angles that suggest I have recently survived a minor electrical incident.

I look down at the yellow fabric of my dress. There are faint streaks of sweat across the front where I tried to wipe myself down with my hands.

I stare at my reflection and realize the jerk wasn’t completely wrong to look at me the way he did. Neither was Mrs. Whitaker.

I peel off my dress and toss it into laundry hamper. I pull open the glass door and step into the shower, my bare feet touching the cool tile. I turn the water on and step under the spray.

The hot water hits me like a physical shock. I let out a long, shuddering breath as heavy streams cascade down my back, instantly soaking my tangled curls and plastering them against my neck. Steam billows over the frosted glass enclosure. I close my eyes, leaning my forehead against the slick wall, letting the intense heat wash away the lingering tension in my shoulders and the prickle of embarrassment still burning under my skin.

Reaching for the crystal bottle sitting on the marble ledge, I work a rich, eucalyptus-scented body wash into a thick lather. I scrub my arms, my neck, and my face, washing away the train ride, the humidity, and every last trace of that furious flush. The warm water pools around my feet in swirling white foam before disappearing down the brass drain.

For ten glorious minutes, the deafening roar of hot water drowns out the memory of a pair of sharp hazel eyes looking down at me like I was a stray animal.

Who the hell was he, anyway?

Finally, I turn off the water. The silence of the bathroom settles back, thick and heavy with steam. I grab a plush white towel from the heated rack, wrapping it tightly around myself as I step out, wiping a circle into the fogged-up mirror. My skin is still pink from the heat, but my mind feels clear, settled, and ready.

I hurry back into the bedroom, my open suitcase is still lying on the rug, its contents exposed like a brightly colored mess in the middle of all this antique grandeur.

I drop onto my knees beside it, digging through the neatly folded layers until I find what I’m looking for. I pull out a worn black ribbed tank top and a pair of oversized gray fleece sweatpants.

I slip into them quickly, the soft fabric an instant relief against my warm, damp skin. Next come a pair of thick, plush white crew socks, pulled all the way up my calves, and finally, a pair of pink slides.

I drag a towel through my wet curls, shaking them loose over my shoulders.

I look at the time.

7:26 p.m.

“Shit.”

Panic spikes hot and sharp in my chest, completely obliterating any trace of post-shower relaxation.

I burst into the grand hallway.

I take the first turn at random, then the second, my socked feet sliding inside my slides on the polished floor. I race blindly into the labyrinth, hoping to God I can figure out where the dining room is before Mrs. Whitaker writes me off as a total disaster.

My mind retraces the path I took with her earlier. When I reach the top of the staircase, I know I’m right.

I descend so quickly I nearly turn an ankle, one hand sliding along the banister. Somewhere below, dishes clatter faintly. I hit the entrance hall at a near-run. The front door stands at the far end, tall and imposing.

I follow the sound of dishes through a narrow passage beside the stairs and into the kitchen. A woman in a white apron looks up from a tray of glasses.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m trying to find the dining room.”

She looks at me, then at the clock above the doorway. “Dinner has already started.”

I smile nervously.

She points to a door at the far end of the kitchen. “Through there.”

I thank her and hurry on.

The dining room glows in low lamplight, the long table set with more silver than I know what to do with. Candles burn low in their holders, wax pooling at the base.

Mrs. Whitaker sits at the head of the table, turning her attention toward me as I enter. Her gaze travels from my damp hair to my slides, then settles on my face, before moving to an empty chair near the middle of the table.

I slip into it, trying not to scuff my slides too loudly against the floor. Linda is already seated beside me, a glass of water in one hand, a dinner roll before her. She has been watching the whole exchange with quiet interest.

“Late,” she says, teasingly.

“Lost,” I reply.

“Ah.” She takes a bite of her roll.

Mrs. Whitaker gives me one last look before turning back to her place at the head of the table.

Before me sits a plate of roasted chicken, steamed green beans, and potatoes. My stomach gives an undignified rumble. I haven’t eaten since this morning.

I pick up my fork.

Then I feel it.

A prickle travels up the back of my neck, raising the fine hairs along the back of my neck. I feel the unmistakable weight of someone’s gaze. A strange awareness settles over me at the sensation of being watched.

I pause with the fork halfway to my mouth.

Then a voice speaks from behind me.

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”

My fork lowers.

I don’t have to turn around to know whose voice that is. I’d know that particular flavour of smugness anywhere.