Humiliated, knowing her cheeks were hot, she nodded. “As Josh probably told you, we haven’t been using the building. I wasn’t able to spare the staff to put things to rights so quickly.”

It surprised him that she knew which end of a scrub brush was which. “You don’t have to bother for me. I can handle it myself.”

Now that he took a close look, he could also see for himself that she was just as lovely underneath the grime as ever. Delicate features, soft mouth, the aristocratic hint of cheekbone, and those dreamy storm-colored eyes.

Had he forgotten how small she was? Five two, maybe three, and slim as a fairy, with hair the color of gold in dim sunlight. Subtle again, with the richness but not the flash.

She remembered he had often stared, just as he was doing now, saying nothing, just looking, looking until she wanted to squirm.

“I’m sorry about your home.”

“Hmm?” He lifted a brow, the scarred one, drawing her eyes to his. “Oh, it was just a house. I can always build another. I appreciate you providing a place for me and my horses.”

When he offered a hand, she took it automatically. His was hard, rough with calluses, and held on to hers even when she tried to slip away.

His lips curved again. “You going to stay standing in the tub, sugar?”

“No.” She cleared her throat, allowed him to help her out. “I’ll show you around,” she began, then her eyes went cool when he remained where he was. “I’ll show you around,” she repeated.

“Thanks.” He shifted, enjoyed the waft of scent, again subtle, that she carried with her.

“Josh would have told you this was the groom’s apartment.” Her voice was clear again, the polite hostess. “It’s self-sufficient, I think. Full kitchen.” She gestured toward an alcove off the main room, where Jenny had dutifully cleaned the white stove, the stainless steel sink, the simple white countertops.

“That’s fine. I don’t do a lot of cooking.”

“Josh mentioned that you’d lost your furniture, so we brought over a few things.”

She waited, hands folded at her waist as he wandered about the room. The sofa had been in the attic and could have used re-covering. But it was a good solid Duncan Phyfe. Some Templeton or guest in the past had scarred the Sheridan coffee table with a careless cigarette, but it was functional.

She’d added lamps, simple brass ones that she felt suited a masculine taste, an easy chair, other occasional tables, even a vase of winter windflowers. She was too much the innkeeper’s daughter not to have put thought and effort into her temporary inn.

“You’ve gone to some trouble.” Which surprised and humbled him. “I figured on roughing it for a few months.”