In the Brief Eternal Silence (11 page)

Tyler took it, pocketed it. He glanced once
at Miss Murdock, his earlier humor gone from his now serious face.
“And t'miss, milord?”

“She goes with me as planned, to where I have
already stated, and you shall find her and myself in good order
there awaiting you. So please do not tarry. I do not expect you to
kill yourself with a superhuman effort, but I want all of this done
in as short a time possible.”

Tyler nodded. “As you say,” and without
further 'aye's' or 'yes, milords' or 'you can count on me, milord',
he turned and with a single glance at Lizzie, told her, “You'll be
okay with his lordship, Miss, don't worry.”

Miss Murdock, wondering that her concern had
been that apparent on her face, only gave a brief nod, more to
reassure the groom than that she believed it herself, and she
watched him untie Leaf, and with the filly beside him, stride to
the stables to procure a saddle as ordered.

“Now, Miss Murdock, I shall assist you in
mounting, if you please,” said St. James, and he took her valise,
flung it up onto the floor boards of the curricle. Then he took her
arm at the elbow, gave her a moment to gather her skirts, find a
foothold and a handhold, and then Miss Murdock clambered up the
tall skeletal frame of the curricle and found herself high above in
the seat. The horses moved from the activity and St. James soothed
them with his voice as he reached up and gathered the lines. Then,
holding the lines in one hand, he swiftly climbed up and joined
her. He settled himself, gave her a moment to rearrange her skirts,
straighten her bonnet, and then he chirruped to the horses and the
team moved out into a matched trot, their bay heads bobbing in
unison.

Miss Murdock turned once to look back toward
her home, but her father was not in sight, and the house stood
silent, impassive to her leaving.

Chapter Six

As the curricle traveled at a smart trot to
the end of the lane from Miss Murdock's home, the sun was revealed
above the further hill, and although the air was still cold, the
sun's warm beams were a welcome respite from the raw rain of the
last several days. Miss Murdock turned her face up to it, allowing
its warmth full access to her face beneath the rim of her
bonnet.

With a little sigh, she closed her eyes,
clasped her hands together in her lap, and tried to be oblivious to
the man next to her, whose thigh, out of necessity on the narrow
curricle's seat, was pressed against hers through their
clothing.

It was in her mind to once again reiterate
that he was being foolish, his plans of marrying her ill-conceived,
and that it would be best if he turned the curricle now, before
they were too many miles from her home and it became a greater
inconvenience. But she advised herself to be patient, for she was
certain as the dawn came more fully upon them, and the light of day
made its way more completely into his mind, that he would begin to
rethink his position. From his attitude thus far, she believed that
any idea that he could not claim his own was dismissed out of hand,
and so it would behoove her to allow him to make the first opening
remark that would allow him to admit that, just perhaps, he had
made a mistake after all.

Surely, it could not take over long.

So Miss Murdock sat quietly, tried to focus
her thoughts on the strengthening sun, and the enjoyable sensation
of the wind snapping past her face, and resigned herself to waiting
with fortitude for the dawning of reason in the duke's mind.

It was only when they were some mile and a
half from her home and she felt his lordship fumbling about his
person in an annoying manner that she opened her eyes and glanced
at him in an irritated way for interrupting her quiet reveries. He
was unbuttoning his coat with one gloved hand while retaining the
ribbons with the other, and as she watched, he dug inside some
mysterious inner pocket of his coat and brought out at last, a
small, silver flask. He uncapped it with a practiced proficiency
that showed he had done this particular task many times before, and
then took a deep drink from it.

Miss Murdock's nose twitched as the strong
odor of whiskey wafted over to her. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she
swore in exasperation, her visions of his regaining his senses
evaporating with alarming swiftness. “Do not tell me you are going
to continue to imbibe in that horrid stuff? Have you not done
enough damage already because of your fondness for the drink?”

At which point he turned to her. “Really,
Miss Murdock. You can not just go about swearing like a sailor. You
will shock every female in society once we finally reach London. I
really must ask you to be more conservative.”

“I find that a rich jest, milord. Whoever
would have guessed that beneath your rakish exterior you were so
strait-laced! Now kindly cap your flask and place it away,” she
returned. “Better yet, you had better give it to me, so that you
shall not be again tempted.” And she took her hand from the small
warmth she had found in her lap and extended it palm up so that he
could place the flask in it.

He chuckled and did replace the cap, but
rather than hand it to her, he deposited it once again in his coat
pocket, to her dismay. Then he put one gloved finger between his
teeth, pulled upon it and removed his glove. Then, dropping it in
her still outstretched hand, surprising her, he switched the reins
to his now bare hand and repeated the procedure with his other
glove, depositing it also in her hand, to join its mate.

“Put them on, Miss Murdock. Your hands must
be cold.”

For some peculiar reason, which she could not
explain, she felt like boxing his ears. His careless concern for
her welfare, and his equally careless disregard to her wishes was
somehow infuriating, and where she had tried being patient before,
her tongue now loosened. “I don't want your gloves, milord. I want
you to turn this curricle around and take me home where I
belong.”

St. James gave a long, weary sigh, and when
he again turned his head to look at her, she saw how exhausted he
was. His gold eyes were dulled and his face was haggard as he
contemplated her. “I shall make you a deal, Miss Murdock,” he told
her at last. Miss Murdock clutched the gloves in her hand, feeling
a large bubble of hope swell in her chest. “I am very tired, and as
I still have to stop at the inn to settle my account from last
night, we will remain there for a few hours. I shall get some rest,
and then, after we have dined, for although I ate this morning,
thanks to you, you did not, then we will go through this whole
arrangement one final time, and I promise that I will listen to
every complaint that you have, and answer them satisfactorily. Will
that do for you, Miss Murdock?”

Miss Murdock flushed at the condescension in
his voice. “And if I

am not satisfied, as you promise?”

“Then we will come up with a mutually
satisfying alternative.”

“That is not the same as saying I may return
home.”

“No. It is not. But I promise that we shall
hash all of this through

in a mere few hours, so if you could restrain
yourself until then?”

Miss Murdock flounced in her seat. “I can
hardly see how you will be more capable of seeing reason if you
have that whiskey flask at your disposal, milord!”

With barely controlled impatience, he
unbuttoned his coat once again, with more ease this time as his
hands were bare of gloves, and taking out the flask, thrust it at
her rather rudely. “Take it, then, Miss Murdock, if it will make
you quit your incessant nagging.”

Miss Murdock took it with triumph, and rather
than place it in her reticule or her valise as she had first
intended, impulsively flung it out onto the side of the road, where
it landed with a soggy splat in the ditch. St. James reined in the
horses, looked back at the now mud splattered flask, gave her a
single hateful glare from his expressive gold eyes, and then
slapped the reins on his horses' haunches. His team took off into a
hard canter that had the curricle jerking forward with such
suddenness that Miss Murdock was knocked hard against the duke's
side. She righted herself, straightened her bonnet once again, and
then with an air of calmness, put on his lordship's gloves that had
remained in her lap. Once she had her fingers snug in their
enveloping warmth, she said, “Thank you, milord. I feel much better
now.”

“I am certainly glad one of us may say so,”
St. James replied, and he ran a delicate fingertip over his upper
lip.

Perhaps it had been that last drink he had
consumed before Miss Murdock disposed of his flask, which being of
a good grade of silver, was certain to make some passing local
extremely happy, or perhaps it was the fact that the duke had been
awake now for some twentysix hours, or perhaps it was because he
found his new fiancé to be excessively wearying, or perhaps it was
a combination of all of these, but St. James found himself unable
to hold his eyes open for what seemed a moment longer.

He struggled with them, reminded himself he
had a bare two miles to go before they would reach the inn and he
could have rest. To keep himself awake, he asked his companion,
“Have you ever been out of the county before?”

She answered in her soothing, solemn voice.
“No. I am shockingly rural, never having been further than the
local villages. But Froeburgh has a surprisingly well-stocked
library, which I try to visit regularly, and the market at Blytown
every second Saturday of the month is a sight to behold. I scarce
credit even London has a larger display of goods for sale. And
Sherrington is quite famous for its carnivals, which they have in
the fall. . .” she continued, but St. James was having difficulty
following even this simple conversation. He did have sense to pull
the horses back, first into a trot, and then as even that were
becoming difficult for him to handle them, into a walk.

Miss Murdock left off talking, which he
really did not notice, and then as he fought his ever heavier
growing eyelids, he felt Miss Murdock's gloved hands over both of
his, taking the ribbons from him. “I can manage,” he mumbled.

But she only tsked. “Certainly you can,
milord. But I shall take them just for a moment, and then you may
have them once again.”

St. James nodded, closed his weary eyes, and
his head lulled back and jounced as there was no support for it.
“Make for the inn, Miss Murdock. I'll not have you turning the
horses about and heading home.”

“I am satisfied with the inn for now,
milord.” She paused for a moment, then added, “Here. You may rest
your head on my shoulder, for you will get a cramp in your neck
having it bouncing about like that.”

Without thought, he did move, found her
shoulder with his eyes still closed. Thought once that for such a
small shoulder, it remained quite steady with the added weight of
him against it, and then he abandoned himself to the sleep that
called with insistence out to him.

He awoke at the noise of the inn's yard: the
snorting of other horses, the rattle of their conveyances' wheels,
the different sound his team's hooves made as they went from dirt
road to the cobblestone of the yard. Voices were heard, the heavy
country accent of grooms, the more cultured voices of patrons, and
one voice in particular, “By Gad, there he is now! Told you, Ryan,
if we waited but an hour or two, he would surely come past here,
for there is no road out of this part of the county that does not
come past this inn.”

St. James sat up with a jerk, was shocked
nearly senseless by the fact that Miss Murdock was driving his most
prized team, and with not even a hair out of place beneath her ugly
bonnet. “The devil take it!” he said, reaching and taking the
ribbons from her. “I did not allow you to drive my bays?”

“You were hardly in any condition to argue
with me, milord, as I could have told you would happen since you
insisted on having that last drink from your flask. Anyone could
see that you were barely fit to drive before that, let alone
after.”

“I've driven while worse, you wretched lass.
I would have managed.”

“Be that as it may, I've contrived to get us
here without any unfortunate incident, so you may quit glaring at
me like that.” She rubbed her shoulder as she spoke, and it
occurred to him what a sight they must have made pulling into the
yard, she handling the ribbons, while he passed out and leaning
upon her small shoulder.

He glanced about the yard, his thoughts
bringing him back to the familiar voice that shocked him into
wakefulness. Seeing the source of that voice, he directed the team
further into the yard and arrived to a halt a few feet from Lord
Bertram Tempton and his younger brother Ryan. They were both in
black riding breeches and bright red coats, lacy white cravats
showing at their necks, and high black hats upon their heads.
Beside them were two hunting horses, tacked and waiting, and they
each held a quirt, Ryan tapping his against his high black
boot.

“St. James,” Bertie said as the curricle
halted. “That's a bloody fine show to be putting on, leaning
insensible against a young chit of a girl and making her drive your
bloody monsters. Where, by the by, is Tyler? Surely he could have
driven if you felt the need to pass out while on the road!”

“Tyler had an errand to run. He will be
meeting up with us later.”

“Bloody soon, I hope! Needn't tell you, bad
enough to ride about with a girl with only a groom as chaperone,
but to have no chaperone at all! There will be no end to the
scandal if someone else were to see you,” his friend advised
him.

“I am well aware of it, Bertie. Thank you for
your concern.” St. James summoned one of the inn's grooms over to
take the reins. “Can you handle them, boy?” he asked, as the groom
was quite young.