To Lure a Proper Lady (21 page)

Not fast enough.

Outside, the morning's mist had turned into a steady rain, and with each passing mile, the wheels seemed to turn a bit slower. If they were to make London by nightfall, the weather was going to have to give. Judging by the heavy pall of cloud overhead, such an event wouldn't come to pass any time soon.

He needed to get back to his old familiar territory, though, not only to catch Barrows, but also to relieve himself of one giant sensual distraction. He'd walked away from the circles Elizabeth inhabited, and she wasn't meant for his. He must keep that in mind, and in the meantime, maintain a healthy distance between them.

The carriage wheels creaked, turning even more slowly. Damn it. Before long, they'd ground to a halt. What the devil? The window presented a sad picture of dreary, gray landscape.

Dysart knocked on the ceiling. “Why have we stopped?”

The trapdoor opened and the coachman's face appeared, along with an icy shower of rain. “Rider approaching, sir. What would you like me to do?”

Dysart pushed the window open and craned his neck aft, receiving a face full of cold water for his trouble. “Keep going.”

He felt for the knife he carried in his boot and loosened it. The chances of meeting with trouble were ever present, especially given the ducal seal on the side of this coach and the lack of outriders.

Dysart could only hope any highwaymen would have better sense than to venture out in this weather or approach them so boldly on the open road. Otherwise, he might well have a fight on his hands.

So much the better, in fact. Despite his lack of sleep, his body hummed with an energy that fairly begged for an outlet.

With a slap of the reins the horses set off again, but presently, Dysart heard the evidence of pursuit. The muddy road muffled the steady hoofbeats moving faster than the team that pulled the carriage, but they grew louder in his ears.

The rider overtook them, a slight figure hunched beneath a bedraggled cloak. The haunches of the mud-spattered mount rippled with the muscle of a truly superior steed. Dysart narrowed his eyes at the view. If this was a highwayman, he was successful despite his diminutive stature.

The rider drew up beside the team and pulled back on the reins. He called up to the coachman in a voice that was rather high-pitched for a man. Dysart stiffened. He knew of one female who rode a horse like that and dressed in breeches.

Not Elizabeth, thank God, but Caroline could prove just as disastrous to his mission.

Once more, the carriage creaked to a halt and the trapdoor opened. “Your pardon, sir,” the coachman called down. “I'm obliged to take this passenger on.”

No doubt, but Dysart could only grunt in assent. What Caroline might want with him, he had no idea. On the other hand, only the blackest of scoundrels would refuse a lady a ride in such weather.

Before long, the carriage door opened. “I hope you're bound for London, because I'm not turning back,” Dysart grumbled.

The coachman handed the newcomer in. Not Caroline, damn it all, but Elizabeth. In breeches. Wet breeches that clung to her thighs, strained over her hips, no doubt molded to her rounded arse. Bloody, bloody hell.

“I'm well aware of that,” she replied tartly. “And weren't you supposed to bring me along? I clearly recall you agreeing to that.”

“You took too long searching for the books.” He stared out the window at the continuing downpour. He couldn't look at her. If he did, he might see how the rain had plastered her hair to her forehead in wet hanks. He might think about how cold and miserable she had to be. He might offer her the comfort and warmth of his topcoat—or, worse yet, his embrace.

“You might be interested in what I found.”

“Oh, did you bring the books with you?” He hoped not. Even inside a saddlebag, any evidence they presented was likely ruined by now.

“I had to leave them behind, since I was obliged to chase you down on horseback. I do hope you've noticed the weather isn't exactly conducive to this sort of outing.”

“Anyone with sense would have stayed behind.” Cruel of him, perhaps, but he had to keep her at a distance.

“It could be I'm tired of being seen as the one with sense.”

Damn it, why did she have to go and say something like that? He pivoted his head to look at her. Her lips were blue, and she was hugging herself inside the cloak. He would not react. Would
not.

“So what did you find?” Surely not the real figures. Barrows couldn't be that careless.

“Nothing solid, actually, but compared to the older ledgers, perhaps a case could be made. The current entries show no corrections at all—as if they'd been recopied.”

She sounded so hopeful. He hated to disappoint her by pointing out a magistrate wasn't likely to convict based on that kind of argument.

He glanced out the window again, searching for something, anything else they could talk about. And that was when he noticed he'd been staring at that same tree when she got into the coach. They hadn't moved so much as an inch. Surely they should be under way by now.

As if on cue, a rapping sounded on the carriage door. The coachman's face appeared in the window, expression grim. “I'm afraid we have a problem, sir. The wheels have become stuck. We aren't going anywhere until we've dug ourselves out.”

Dysart glared at the man. “How the hell do you propose we do that?”

“Until the rain stops, we can't do a thing.”

When she got home—
if
she got home, assuming she thawed out sometime in the next month—Lizzie was going to kill her sister for pushing her into this. A few of Dysart's favorite words paraded through her mind. Adventure, indeed.

What was the advantage of wearing breeches when they stuck to one's skin, chafing in all manner of unmentionable places? She could only thank the heavens for the cloak that hid the much-washed linen shirt. Without the heavy wool overlay, the thinner fabric would have long since turned transparent. Not that the wet wool smelled particularly pleasant.

Lizzie huddled in a shivering lump in the corner of the carriage, but the closer she hugged herself, the more she shook. Dysart and John Coachman sat opposite her, discussing options, but the chattering of her teeth masked the details of the conversation.

“We can't stay here,” she burst out at last, though even annoyance did nothing to counter the pervasive cold.

“I cannot leave the carriage,” John pointed out. Ever loyal, the duke's staff. Well, with the exception of Barrows.

“I give you permission.” She clenched her teeth long enough to spit the words out without stuttering.

“Apparently there's an inn a mile or so up the road,” Dysart put in. “Not the nicest establishment, but it's shelter for us and the horses. We'd just have to brave the storm for the time it took us to arrive.”

Lord, more of that stinging rain in her face, but it would be worth it for the prospect of a warm fire and a hot meal. A bath—steaming, fragrant water up to her neck. A lovely, wide feather mattress and a mountain of blankets she could burrow beneath. She wouldn't come out for a week.

Mentally, she tallied the coins Caro had thrust on her. Hopefully, she had enough. But even rudimentary accommodations would be preferable to freezing in the coach. This rain wasn't even fit for the carriage horses to stand in, and she must think about Boudicca.

“Let's go, then.” Gritting her teeth, she reached for the door latch.

“Not so fast, my lady.” John put out a hand to stop her. “Allow me to unharness the team first. Are you up to riding one of the carriage horses?” he added to Dysart.

Dysart shifted on the squabs, his normally assured expression melting into something less confident. “Without a saddle?”

“I suppose you can take Boudicca. I can manage.” Or so Lizzie hoped. The carriage horses were of a much broader build, and she'd have to lead one while directing the other.

If anything, Dysart's face took on an even grimmer appearance. “Boudicca might be too much horse for me,” he muttered to his hands.

“Nobody's proposing you gallop and take fences in this muck,” Lizzie protested.

“I haven't been in the saddle in years, all right?” Dysart snapped. “And even then I never had much of a seat.”

“Then how do you suggest we solve this particular problem?”

“I can leave the team hitched together and ride one, postilion style,” John said. “That is, if my lady doesn't mind taking you up behind her.” Despite their desperate situation, he sounded almost amused at the prospect.

Before she was quite ready, Lizzie found herself mounted on Boudicca once more, her sodden cloak little protection against the elements, her hands blocks of ice on the reins. Dysart scrambled up behind her, his chest a solid wall at her back, providing some semblance of warmth, at least until the rain soaked him to the skin, as well.

A muscled forearm clamped about her waist, and his thighs pressed to hers. Good heavens, she was practically sitting in his lap with only the negligible barrier of her breeches and his separating their bodies. Determined to ignore the racing of her pulse, she tightened her knees about Boudicca's girth, and they headed into the curtain of rain.

Dysart swallowed a groan. Riding double with Lady Elizabeth's sweet arse pressed to his groin had to be some special kind of hell. Every jounce of the saddle brought them into more intimate contact.
Thump, thump, thump.
The rhythm reminded him of nothing less than a vigorous fuck. Thank God for the cold that kept a raging erection from growing out of control.

Where the bloody hell was this inn?

As if in reply to his question, the rain let up slightly, enough that he could see past Elizabeth's shoulder and their mount's bobbing head to a low grouping of buildings in the near-distance. The main house stood two stories high, with a single wing stretching into the teeming stable yard. Hardly promising, and in this weather, likely full to bursting.

Damn it all to the devil, but as long as he could secure a room for Lady Elizabeth, he'd make do in the stables with the coachman.

The moment they halted at the door to the inn, Dysart swung himself off the damnable animal's back. He flagged down a passing lad to take care of Boudicca. The boy cut Dysart an assessing look that seemed to accuse the riders for not living up to the quality of their mount. Before the lad could protest, Dysart favored him with a glare.

Elizabeth pressed close to his back, her body no doubt seeking heat. Not that his had any left to give after their soaking ride. Resisting the urge to encircle her shoulders with an arm and draw her close, he pushed open the inn door in search of the landlord.

The common room lay under a pall of smoke from the fireplace at the far end, but dim air did not mask one hard fact: The place was packed. More than one patron looked up from his ale. Not any of them would be moving on until the weather cleared, an event that looked more and more like it wouldn't occur before forty days had passed.

“If we're lucky,” Elizabeth muttered in his ear, “Barrows is stuck in this somewhere along the road, as well.”

They weren't that lucky, as Barrows had set off for London days ago, but Dysart saw little use in pointing that out. “Do you have any funds on you?” he asked instead.

“Some. Why?”

“Because we may need to grease a few palms if we want a room.” And they'd need a room. A private one, the way some of the men were casting speculative glances in Elizabeth's direction. If anything, the breeches emphasized, rather than masked, her gender.

“I want more than a room. I need a bath, as well.”

Damn it all, why had she told him that? While he recognized the sense of her sinking into a hot bath, he did not need the mental image that accompanied her declaration. “I suspect the bath will be easier to come by than the room. You may have to resign yourself to cleaning up in public, though.”

The elbow she dug into his ribs forced out a lungful of air.

Despite the discomfort, he smiled. But as he contemplated her, his mouth tightened into something closer to a grimace. Her features were drawn, and purple smudges marred the skin beneath her eyes. Blue tinged her trembling lips. It was a miracle she was still standing, yet she held her spine straight through pure nerve. Any other woman of her breeding would have complained, stamped her foot, or dissolved into tears long before now.

Christ, he was a scoundrel for putting her through this, even if she had followed out of sheer stubbornness. He might have predicted as much, given in, and taken her with him. Or not sneaked away like a coward.

He collared a serving girl, who was elbowing her way through the crowd, her tray laden with mugs of ale. “We need a private room, a bath, and a hot meal, as soon as you can.”

He'd taken on a voice from his past, one used to getting whatever he ordered simply because of who he was. Someone who expected to have his every desire fulfilled. But the girl simply raised a brow at him. “You and this entire army of people. If there's any rooms left, I'm the Queen of England.”

He nearly invoked the Duke of Sherrington and the Earl of Norcott. The only thing that stopped him was their current state. No one would believe he was escorting a duke's daughter dressed up as a stable lad. “Get me the landlord.”

But the landlord wasn't any more forthcoming, at least not until Dysart jingled Elizabeth's purse of coins. A speculative glint came into the man's eye in the face of unexpected profits. “I shouldn't do this, but I imagine my wife and I can give up our lodgings for the night. I'm afraid it'll cost you, though. My wife isn't partial to the stables, especially in this weather.”

Dysart gritted his teeth. “Name your price.”

The landlord's quarters proved to be a drafty room under the eaves, hardly worth the exorbitant sum the man demanded, but a fire crackled on the hearth and a maid had hauled out a hip bath. A tempting tendril of steam curled from the surface of the water.

But Lizzie couldn't shed her clothes yet. Not until Dysart vacated, and, drat the man, he was hesitating on the threshold. “I don't like the way some of the men down there were looking at you,” he grumbled.

She knew what he meant. The breeches Caro had lent her made her feel practically naked. In spite of the covering offered by her cloak, she'd felt the stares of the men belowstairs. With her long hair straggling down her shoulders and back, more than one of them had guessed she wasn't really a boy. “Stand guard at the door if you must. Maybe I'll just take to calling you Sven.”

“I don't feel right about leaving you here for the night,” he added.

She couldn't ask him to stand guard until morning, not after their previous sleepless night, and all the nights before that. Propriety be damned. People below may have divined her sex, but she most certainly looked nothing like a duke's daughter dressed as she was. “We can share the room.”

“The hell we can.” His tone had turned dark and dangerous, setting off a tingle deep inside her that did more to warm her than the thought of the waiting bath.

“We'll discuss this later. My water is getting cold.”

The moment the door closed behind him, she peeled off her clothes. Each garment fell to the floor in a sodden heap. But as she sunk into the paradise of her bath, her conscience awoke and began to gnaw at her. Dysart had to be just as cold and wet as she, and he had to wait for her at the head of the stairs, away from the fire. In the draft.

Rather than luxuriate, she rushed through scrubbing away the grime of the road. If she moved fast enough, the water might be warm enough for him to take a turn. Emerging, she wrapped her naked form in a sheet and moved to toast herself before the hearth.

Hardly decorous, but they had to make the best of things. And he'd already seen her in a state of undress. “You can come back,” she called.

“Already?” The door snapped open. He froze on the threshold, his eyes darkening, before he looked pointedly away. “Good God, put on some clothes.”

“I…” She hadn't taken a change of garments into consideration, but neither, apparently, had he. “I haven't got any.”

He muttered something under his breath, a few more of the choice words that had so impressed Caro, no doubt. “Now do you understand why we can't share this room?”

“No,” she replied. “Surely we can put any…”

“Any what? Carnal desires?
Lust?
”

He was making quite a study of the ceiling, but she refused to look away. Water dripped from his fingertips in a steady series of thuds on the planked floor. “Surely we can behave like a lady and a gentleman despite the extenuating circumstances. In fact, I hurried through my bath so you could have a chance to get warm.”

“You seem to have forgotten one thing.” He turned once more to face her. His gaze raked her from head to toe. “I am no longer a gentleman. I have already stepped far across the line of propriety where you are concerned, and if you think I can just put that aside…” He stepped toward her, a predator on the hunt. “If you think I can forget that I know just what you sound like when you reach your crisis, think again.” With each heat-driven syllable, he stalked closer. “To my dying breath, I'm not going to forget that.”

He might well be trying to scare her off, but she refused to break eye contact. Far from being frightened, her body responded to him, as if he'd spent the last hour kissing her, slowly stoking the fires within.

Last night, he'd awakened her passions on a level she'd never dreamed existed. If only she could experience that again—the proper passion that burst into flame, as Great-aunt Matilda had termed it.

“If we share this room…” He came to a halt mere inches away, not touching her, but so near she could feel the heat radiating off him. And that in spite of his recent soaking. “I do not possess the strength of will to leave you untouched.”

His ploy wasn't working. Instead of backing down, Elizabeth had hitched her pointed little chin higher. All he had to do was reach out now and take what she offered.

She wouldn't tell him no. Every last one of his senses jangled with that certainty. Her full and entire consent was written in her defiant posture. He could reach out and strip that sheet from her naked body, feast on her breasts, worship every delicious curve, bury himself in her softness.

Find peace.

Without his consciously willing it, his hand extended. Her lips parted on a gasp.

A scratch at the door had them jumping apart. His pulse kicked up a notch. So close, but perhaps he'd just been saved from a mistake.

He answered the summons, to find the serving maid from below bearing a tray. She favored him with a glare. “If I'm to cart your meals up all those stairs three times a day, I expect a show of appreciation.”

He placed a palm on his chest and inclined his head. “You have my gratitude, I'm certain. But perhaps that wasn't what you had in mind.”

“Any other services will cost you double.” She glanced past him at Elizabeth and smirked. “But it looks as if you won't be needing any of that.”

The serving girl set the tray down on a table, and Dysart fished for a coin.

When she'd gone, he glared at the door. “I don't trust her.”