Who knew a gentleman’s mouth could be so very . . .
intriguing
? Or that looking at it could make her feel hungry, though it was only an hour since she had eaten the snack the innkeeper’s wife packed in the wee hours while trying to convince her not to leave without him. Diantha had never noticed any gentleman’s mouth before. Noticing Mr. Yale’s now also seemed silly.
But for a moment the night before, his mouth had touched her ear, his breath hot upon her neck, and she hadn’t felt in the least bit silly.
She
had felt hot, and not just on her neck. All over. Merely recalling it now made her hot again.
“I said it to stall for time,” she uttered. “I am still deciding what to do. I saw a farm a mile or so back. I am considering walking there and asking for help but I haven’t perfectly worked out my plan yet.”
“Ah.” He looked very grave amidst the light rain that was quite like the color of his eyes. “Then let me not disturb your ponderings. Good day, ma’am.” He bowed from the saddle and with an elegant tip of his black hat, started off.
She couldn’t help smiling. For a man so usually elegant he was a remarkable tease. “You will not leave me here.”
He did not turn around. “Are you so certain of that?”
“Entirely.”
The dog loped after the horses. After a dozen yards it paused and looked back at her. Diantha’s breaths shortened, a thread of panic twining up her spine.
“Mr. Yale, you may as well cease this teasing,” she called. “I can see right through it.”
He slowed his horse and looked around. “It devastates me that we must part company continuing to misunderstand one another, Miss Lucas.” He bowed again. “But good day to you, and I wish you good fortune at the farm.” He clucked to the horses and they moved off again.
She gripped her damp gloves together and wiggled her toes in her soggy boots.
“I had a plan,” she shouted. “And I brought with me sufficient funds. I did not go off half-cocked on this mission. I had a plan.”
He seemed to be too distant to hear her. She ground her teeth and muttered, “True gentleman, my mother’s virtue.” She threw back her shoulders. “All right, I apologize!” Then not quite so loudly, because frankly she could not bear the humiliation of it: “Please come back.”
The black horse halted, and the other too. Mr. Yale drew them around and returned. Several yards away he dismounted, left the horses standing in the road and walked to her, the dog trailing at his heels. His attention was entirely upon her as though she were the only thing in the world, his usual manner, which of course she had liked very much until now.
He halted quite close, tall and dark and wide-shouldered, his black topcoat swirling about his taut thighs and fine boots, and very much like a man she might be afraid to encounter upon a deserted road in the rain if she did not already know him. But in fact she did
not
know him, not well, and mostly through her stepsisters. And the night before, when he touched her although he should not have, her knees had buckled. But for his strong hands holding her between the wall and his chest, she would have collapsed.
“Your plan was nonsensical.” His eyes glittered. She could not believe it was anger. A true gentleman, like both her fathers, held his temper from ladies. But the spark in Mr. Yale’s eyes now looked like anger. And a true gentleman did not stroke a lady’s behind in a dark stable.
Her breaths stuttered. “My plan was not nonsensical.”
His stare did not waver.
“All right,” she admitted. “It was. Somewhat. But only insofar as it took a bit longer for you to appear on that coach than I imagined.”
His brow dipped. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, my plan was only nonsensical in that it took a bit longer for you to—”
“For me to appear. Yes. You hadn’t any idea I would be on that coach yesterday.”
She wiggled her brows. “ ‘Are you so certain of that?’ ”
“Mimicry does not suit you, minx. And, yes, I am quite certain, by the simple fact that
I
hadn’t any idea.”
“
Really?
How inconvenient for you. I always have a plan for everything.”
“I am coming to see that.”
“How is it that you came to be on this road without planning it?”
“I was at a house party and the entertainments wore thi—” He halted abruptly. “Naturally, that is immaterial. You did not know I would take that coach.”
“No. I did not know
you
would, that is true. But I hoped to find a hero to help me. And then you appeared and you have quite the air of a hero about you, Mr. Yale. I have always thought so.”
“I suppose I ought to be flattered by your words and no doubt sent to my knees by those dimples that have conveniently appeared at this moment—”
“I thought so until last night, that is.”
His handsome features went still. “Miss Lucas,” he said in an altered tone, “pray allow me to beg your pardon for—”
“You needn’t speak of it. Men will do foolish things when they have been drinking excessively, after all.” She did not want to hear him apologize for touching her. Somehow it felt wrong, especially since she wasn’t without blame, seeking refuge in a stable due to her own reckless misjudgment. “And I meant, of course, that I thought you seemed heroic until you told me you would not assist me.”
His broad shoulders seemed to release their rigidity. “She giveth, and again taketh away. Is this un-complimenting a habit of yours?”
“My dimples are perfectly sincere.”
“I haven’t the slightest doubt of it. I also haven’t the slightest doubt that you are a remarkably troublesome young lady.”
She blinked slowly, dark lashes fanning over lapis eyes. Then she turned about and walked to her traveling trunk. Without pretension she settled upon the trunk and folded her hands atop her lap.
“You’ve just sat in a puddle.”
She turned her face away, confronting him with her lovely profile. “A mundane care.” But the corner of her lips quivered not now from laughter.
Wyn’s anger evaporated. Silence commenced, during which the only sounds were the snufflings of the horses that had sunk their noses in the grass at the side of the road, the soft whimpers of the mutt at his knee, and the increasingly steady rain. Each moment she less and less resembled the spoiled runaways he’d dealt with before. She was determination crossed with sincerity and an innocent sort of wisdom. And, before, he’d never looked upon a girl’s face and wished to do her bidding. Rather, only once, and at that time he had felt that girl’s anger too.
But Miss Lucas was not angry. She was merely seeking her past down a rainy road.
He wanted to see her dimples again. The need for it came upon him quite powerfully.
“Do you even have an umbrella?”
Her gaze remained averted. “That, admittedly, is one detail I failed to plan.”
“Did you also fail to inquire of the coachman that left you off where exactly the next stop is?”
“I did.” She twisted her lips. “Our disembarkation was rather hasty, in point of fact.”
“I daresay.”
Finally she cast him a glance. “Do you know where the next stop is?”
“I do. It is but a quarter mile up the highway.”
Her face brightened. “You have taken this road before, then?”
“A few times.” He knew this road and the roads to the west and south as well as he knew his name, and sometimes better. Leaving Gwynedd at age fifteen, he had not strayed too far afield at first, not for three years, until he finally made it to Cambridge. The highways and one-track paths, hills, and farms of the Welsh borderlands and western Shropshire all the way to his great-aunt’s estate were more home to him than his father’s house had ever been.
She leaped up. “Well, then, I should be on my way.” She gave a glance at the traveling trunk, released a quick breath of decision, then took up her bandbox and set off. Her boots sank into mud with each step but she seemed not to note it.
“Miss Lucas, I advise returning now to your traveling trunk and removing the valuables and any necessities before you continue on.”
“I will send someone back for it when I reach the posting house.” Her cloak was sodden, even her bonnet brim drooped, the errant chestnut curls that clung to her cheeks and throat making delicate dark swirls upon the cream of her skin.
He glanced down at the mongrel wagging its tail beside him and murmured, “She has no idea the danger this escapade offers her.” Then more loudly: “I must insist.”
She halted and turned to face him. She tilted her head. “You sound different sometimes. Just then, when you said that, you sounded . . .”
He waited.
Pale roses blossomed on her cheeks. “Like you did last night in the stable. And like you did that night at the ball for Lord and Lady Blackwood’s wedding, when you rescued me.”
Ah. Clearly she had an inclination toward the dramatic. He recalled the incident, of course: a frightened girl, a pack of rowdy lads no less disguised than he at the time, and some stern lecturing. Or perhaps only a stern word or two, but the lads had scattered readily enough.
Rescue
overstated the episode.
“Your valuables, if you will?” He gestured back toward her luggage.
“I wonder if that is what highwaymen say when accosting a lady on a road.”
“I doubt it.”
“Do you?”
“Miss Lucas.”
“My valuables.” She opened the trunk and repacked the bandbox efficiently. “Will we walk?” she asked as he attached the bandbox to Galahad’s saddle.
“Unless you have a magic carpet hidden in that trunk.”
“If I had a magic carpet I would be in Calais already.” Her eyes were troubled. But it was well after noon and the edge was pressing at his blood, his limbs unsteady again and his temper no better. So he left her to her ruminations and they walked in silence until the posting house came into view.
“This one is not very grand, is it? The inn in that village yesterday was so comfortable.”
“The taproom here is no less so.” Whiskey could be gotten within.
“Walking is invigorating, but truth be told I am simply . . .” Her gaze fluttered past his mouth. “ . . . famished.”
Drawing a slow breath, he scanned her bedraggled cloak and the muddy hem of her gown. She was an unusual girl, or perhaps despite her noble family merely a country girl accustomed to such walks. And with her cheeks flushed and brow damp from exertion, she was damnably pretty.
Inside the posting house, he went to the bar and ordered food for her, and whiskey. Across the rough-hewn taproom peopled with laborers, a single patron appeared out of place. A slim man, garbed all in brown and still wearing his rain-spattered hat, sat in the farthest corner with his back to the wall. Familiar. He’d seen this man on the road to recover Lady Priscilla.
Wyn paid for the bottle and glanced again. The man lowered his gaze.
“The Hereford and London Coach is to stop here shortly,” he said when he returned to the table.
“Perfect. Will there be time to eat first?”
He withheld a smile. “Miss Lucas, you must reconsider your program. Although it astounds me after last night, I think you cannot be fully aware of the dangers of the road.”
“Those are what you are here for, of course. As you were last night in that stable.” Her eyes flared with a joyful sort of intention. Then, for a moment, confused awareness shadowed them. Wyn could do nothing to ease her discomfort; his hands and lips still remembered her and he was again without speech. His friends would be astonished were they to witness him now, struck silent by a pair of blue eyes and the memory of a soft feminine body pressed to his.
The barman set a plate of food before her. Her eyes twinkled. “How did you know shepherd’s pie is my favorite, Mr. Yale?”
She swung so easily from thoughtful stillness to animated delight. Both attitudes made him want to haul her against him and caress considerably more than one round buttock. It was damned provoking.
“I did not,” he managed to reply. “But I feared ordering the roast, as you might be disappointed by comparison.”
“You are considerate. Or merely teasing. But you are not eating again.” She narrowed her eyes. “Do you
only
drink?”
“When I am escorting young ladies about the countryside against my will, yes.” Never, even when he was doing so voluntarily. But Diantha Lucas was not a Falcon Club assignment. She was apparently his own personal sort of torture.
She seemed to study him as she chewed. Finally she set down her fork and pushed the plate toward him. “Try some. It’s excellent.”
“Thank you. I will take your word for it.”
“You look at least a stone lighter than the last time I saw you.” She glanced at the bottle of brandy. “My father used to drink prodigiously. He rarely ate too.”
“Ah. Then you and I have something in common.” The words came without thought. More unprecedented behavior.
Her brows perked. “Your father too?”
“Prodigiously.”
“Mine died of a stomach ulcer.”
Pain tweaked Wyn’s belly. “I am sorry for your loss.”
“It was a dozen years ago. I was barely seven. I think my mother drove him to it.” The blue of her eyes seemed to intensify. “Will you please help me, Mr. Yale? Willingly?”
“No, Miss Lucas. I will not help you willingly. I wish you to return home and find a solution to reuniting with your mother that meets with the approval of your family.”
Her berry-pink mouth settled into its little thoughtful twist, supple and frankly delectable. Wyn spoke again because, confronted with that delectable mouth on a girl he had no business thinking such thoughts about, he deeply wished for another glass of whiskey. But he would not go that route again, not while she still possessed earlobes like silk, a neck like cream, and a derriere that begged to be handled. Temptation was best faced sober. He reached into his coat pocket for a cigar. “You must allow me to see you home.”
“I cannot. I must continue on my way.”
“Do you plan on doing so by subterfuge again?”
“Yes. I am quite certain that if you continue to press me on the matter, I will escape you again. But instead of stealing away in the middle of the night, which was inconvenient and won me a horrendous lecture from the innkeeper’s wife, I will probably declare to everyone here that you have abducted me from my home and are forcing me to elope with you. I would demand to see the constable.”