by Julia Quinn
“To what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Lord Hugh?” Sarah asked as she untied her bonnet.
She definitely had no idea. There was no way she’d have used the word pleasure, otherwise.
“Your cousin informed me that he had saved me a spot in the best carriage of the trip,” he said.
“The caravan,” Frances corrected.
He pulled his eyes off Sarah to look at her youngest sister. “I beg your pardon?”
“The Great and Terrible Caravan of British Aristocracy,” Frances said pertly. “It’s what we call it.”
He felt himself grin, and when he next breathed, it sounded like a laugh. “That’s . . . excellent,” he said, finally settling on a word.
“Sarah thought of it,” Frances said with a shrug. “She’s very clever, you know.”
“Frances,” Sarah warned.
“She is,” Frances said in the worst imitation of a whisper Hugh had ever heard.
Sarah’s eyes flitted this way and that, the way they did when she was uncomfortable, and then finally she leaned forward to glance out the window. “Aren’t we meant to be leaving soon?”
“The Great and Terrible Caravan,” he murmured.
She turned to him with suspicion in her eyes.
“I like it,” he said simply.
Her lips parted, and she had that look about her, as if she was planning a long sentence, but instead she said, “Thank you.”
“Oh, here we go!” Frances said happily.
The wheels of the carriage began to turn beneath them. Hugh sat back and allowed the motion to lull him into quietude. He’d never minded coach travel before his injury. It had always put him to sleep. It still did; the only problem was that there was rarely enough room to extend his leg, and it hurt like the devil the following day.
“Will you be all right?” Lady Sarah asked quietly.
He tilted his head toward her and murmured, “All right?”
Her eyes went fleetingly to his leg.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Won’t you need to stretch it?”
“We’ll be stopping for lunch.”
“But—”
“I will be fine, Lady Sarah,” he cut in, but to his own surprise, his words held no bite of defensiveness. He cleared his throat. “Thank you for your concern.”
Her eyes narrowed, and he could tell that she was trying to decide if she believed him. He didn’t want to give her any cause to think him anything but perfectly comfortable, so he glanced idly over at the three youngest Pleinsworth sisters, squeezed in a row. Harriet was tapping the feathered end of a quill against her forehead, and Elizabeth had pulled out a small book. Frances was leaning past her, trying to see out the window.
“We haven’t even left the drive,” Elizabeth said, not taking her eyes from her book.
“I just want to see.”
“There is nothing to see.”
“There will be.”
Elizabeth flipped a page with crisp precision. “You’re not going to be like this the whole— Ow!”
“It was an accident,” Frances insisted.
“She kicked me,” Harriet said, to no one in particular.
Hugh watched the exchange with some humor, well aware that what was amusing now would be agonizing if it went on for the next hour.
“Why don’t you try to see out Harriet’s window?” Elizabeth said.
Frances sighed but did as her sister had suggested. A moment later, however, they heard the sound of paper crumpling.
“Frances!” Harriet cried.
“I’m sorry. I just want to look out the window.”
Harriet looked over at Sarah pleadingly.
“I can’t,” Sarah said. “If you think you’re uncomfortable now, just think how tight it would be with me there instead of Frances.”
“Frances, sit still,” Harriet said sharply, and she turned back to the papers on her lap desk.
Hugh felt Sarah nudge him lightly with her elbow, and when he turned, she motioned with her eyes toward her hand.
One . . . two . . . three . . .
She was discreetly counting the seconds, each finger stretching out in time.
Four . . . five . . .
“Frances!”
“Sorry!”
Hugh peeked over at Sarah, whose faint smile was decidedly smug.
“Frances, you cannot keep leaning over me like that,” Elizabeth snapped.
“Then let me sit at the window!”
All eyes turned to Elizabeth, who finally let out a hugely irritated huff as she crouched in the middle of the carriage to allow Frances to slide over to the window. Hugh watched with interest as Elizabeth wiggled about far more than was necessary to find a comfortable position, reopened her book, and glared at the words.
He looked at Sarah. She looked back with an expression that said, Just you wait.
Frances did not disappoint.
“I’m bored.”
Chapter Eleven
Sarah sighed, torn between amusement and embarrassment that Lord Hugh was about to witness a classic Pleinsworth spat.
“For the love of— Frances!” Elizabeth glared at her younger sister as if she might take her head off. “It hasn’t been more than five minutes since we switched places!”
Frances gave a helpless shrug. “But I’m bored.”
Sarah stole a glace at Hugh. He seemed to be trying not to laugh. Which she supposed was the best she could hope for.
“Can’t we do something?” Frances pleaded.
“I am,” Elizabeth ground out, holding up her book.
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Oh, no!” Harriet cried out.
“I knew you were going to spill the ink!” Elizabeth yelled. Then she let out a shriek, “Don’t get it on me!”
“Stop moving so much!”
“I can help!” Frances said excitedly, leaping into the fray.
Sarah was just about to intervene when Lord Hugh reached forward, grabbed Frances by the collar, and hauled her across the carriage, where he deposited her unceremoniously onto Sarah’s lap.
It was rather magnificent, really.
Frances gaped.
“You should stay out of it,” he advised.
Sarah, meanwhile, was dealing with an elbow to her lungs. “I can’t breathe,” she gasped.
Frances adjusted her position. “Better?” she asked brightly.
Sarah’s reply was a huge gulp of air. Somehow she managed to twist her head to the side so that she was facing Lord Hugh. “I would compliment you on a superior extrication except that I seem to have lost all feeling in my legs.”
“Well, at least you’re breathing now,” he said.
And then—heaven help her—she started to laugh. There was something so ludicrous about being complimented for breathing. Or maybe it was just that one had to laugh when the best thing about one’s situation was that one was still breathing.
And so she did. She laughed. She laughed so hard and so long that Frances slid right off her lap to the floor. And then she kept on laughing until the tears were running down her face, and Elizabeth and Harriet stopped their bickering and stared, astounded.
“What’s wrong with Sarah?” Elizabeth asked.
“It was something about having trouble breathing,” Frances said from the floor.
Sarah let out a little shriek of laughter at that, then clutched her chest, gasping, “Can’t breathe. Laughing too hard.”
Like all good laughter, it was contagious, and before long the whole carriage was giggling, even Lord Hugh, whom Sarah could never have imagined laughing like that. Oh, he smirked, and occasionally he chuckled, but right then, as the Pleinsworth carriage rolled south toward Thrapstone, he was as undone as the rest of them.
It was a glorious moment.
“Oh my,” Sarah finally managed to say.
“I don’t even know what we’re laughing about,” Elizabeth said, still grinning from ear to ea
r.
Sarah finished wiping the tears from her eyes and tried to explain. “It was— He said— oh, never mind, it would never be as funny in the retelling.”
“I’ve got the ink cleaned up, at least,” Harriet said. She pulled a sheepish face. “Well, except for my hands.”
Sarah looked over and winced. Only one of Harriet’s fingers seemed to have been spared.
“You look as if you’ve got the plague,” Elizabeth said.
“No, I think that’s on your neck,” Harriet replied, taking no offense whatsoever. “Frances, you should get off the floor.”
Frances looked up at Elizabeth, who had slid back into the seat by the window. Elizabeth sighed and moved to the center.
“I’m just going to get bored again,” Frances said as soon as she was settled.
“No, you’re not,” Hugh said firmly.
Sarah turned to look at him, amused and impressed. It took a brave man to take on the Pleinsworth girls.
“We shall find something to do,” he announced.
She waited for him to realize that could never be enough of an answer. Apparently her sisters were doing the same, for at least ten seconds passed before Elizabeth asked him, “Have you any suggestions?”
“He’s brilliant with numbers,” Frances said. “He can multiply monstrously huge sums in his head. I’ve seen him do it.”
“I can’t imagine you will find it entertaining to quiz me at maths for nine hours,” he said.
“No, but it might be entertaining for the next ten minutes,” Sarah said, and she meant every word. How was it possible that she did not know this about him? She knew that he was very clever; Daniel and Marcus had both said so. She also knew that he had been considered unbeatable at cards. After all that had happened, there was no way she could not know that.
“How monstrously huge?” she asked, because truly, she wanted to know.
“At least four digits,” Frances said. “That’s what he did at the wedding breakfast. It was brilliant.”
Sarah peered over at Hugh. He seemed to be blushing. Well, maybe just a little bit. Or maybe not. Maybe she just wanted him to be blushing. There was something quite appealing about the notion.
But then she caught something else in his expression. She didn’t know how to describe it, except that she suddenly knew . . .
“You can do more than four digits,” she said with wonder.
“It is a talent,” he said, “that has brought me as much trouble as it has benefit.”
“May I quiz you?” Sarah asked, trying to keep some of the eagerness out of her voice.
He leaned toward her with a bit of smirk. “Only if I can quiz you.”
“Spoilsport.”
“I might call you the same.”
“Later,” she said firmly. “You are going to show me later.” She was fascinated by this newly revealed talent of Lord Hugh’s. Surely he wouldn’t mind one little equation. He’d done it for Frances.
“We can read one of my plays,” Harriet suggested. She started rifling through the stack of papers on her lap. “I have the one I started just last night. You know, the one with the heroine who is not too pink—”
“And not too green!” Frances and Elizabeth finished excitedly.
“Oh,” Sarah said with great dismay. “Oh oh oh oh. No.”
Lord Hugh turned to her with some amusement. “Not too pink or green?” he murmured.
“It is a description of me, I’m afraid.”
“I . . . see.”
She gave him a look. “Laugh. You know you want to.”
“She is also not too fat or thin,” Frances said helpfully.
“It’s not actually Sarah,” Harriet explained. “Just a character I’ve modeled upon her.”
“Quite closely,” Elizabeth added. With a grin.
“Here you are,” Harriet said, holding a small stack of papers across the carriage. “I have only one copy, so you’ll have to share.”
“Does this masterpiece have a name?” Hugh inquired.
“Not yet,” Harriet replied. “I’ve found that I often must complete a play before I know what to call it. But it will be something terribly romantic. It’s a love story.” She paused, her mouth twisting in thought. “Although I’m not sure it will have a happy ending.”
“This is a romance?” Lord Hugh said with a dubious quirk of his brow. “And I’m meant to be the hero?”
“We can’t really use Frances,” Harriet said with no sarcasm whatsoever. “And I’ve only got the one copy, so if Sarah is the heroine you’ve got to be the hero, since you’re sitting next to her.”
He looked down. “My name is Rudolfo?”
Sarah nearly spit out a laugh.
“You’re Spanish,” Harriet said. “But your mother was English, so you speak it perfectly.”
“Do I have an accent?”
“Of course.”
“Can’t imagine why I asked,” he murmured. And then, to Sarah: “Oh, look. Your name is Woman.”
“Typecast again,” Sarah quipped.
“I hadn’t thought of a proper name yet,” Harriet explained, “but I didn’t want to hold up the entire manuscript. It could take me weeks to think of the right name. And by then I might have forgotten all of my ideas.”
“The creative process is a peculiar thing, indeed,” Lord Hugh murmured.
Sarah had been reading ahead while Harriet was speaking, and she was developing serious misgivings. “I’m not certain this is a good idea,” she said, tugging the second page out of the pile so she could read further.
No, it definitely wasn’t a good idea.
“Reading in a moving carriage is always a risk,” Sarah said quickly. “Especially riding backwards.”
“You never get sick,” Elizabeth reminded her.
Sarah looked ahead to page three. “I might.”
“You don’t have to actually do the things in the play,” Harriet said. “This isn’t a true performance. It’s just a reading.”
“Should I be reading ahead?” Lord Hugh asked Sarah.
Wordlessly, she handed him page two.
“Oh.”
And page three.
“Oh.”
“Harriet, we cannot do this,” Sarah said firmly.
“Oh, please,” Harriet pleaded. “It would be so helpful. That’s the problem with writing plays. One needs to hear the words said aloud.”
“You know that I have never been good at acting out your plays,” Sarah said.
Lord Hugh looked at her quizzically. “Really?”
Something about his expression did not sit well with her. “What does that mean?”
He gave a little shrug. “Just that you’re very dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” She did not like the way that sounded.
“Oh, come now,” he said, with far more condescension than was healthy in a closed carriage, “surely you don’t see yourself as quiet and meek.”
“No, but I don’t know that I’d go so far as dramatic.”
He looked at her for a moment, then said, “You do enjoy making pronouncements.”
“It’s true, Sarah,” Harriet put in. “You do.”
Sarah whipped her head around and fixed such a look onto her sister’s face that it was a wonder she didn’t wither on the spot.
“I’m not reading this,” she said, clamping her mouth shut.
“It’s just a kiss,” Harriet exclaimed.
Just a kiss?
Frances’s eyes opened nearly as wide as her mouth. “You want Sarah to kiss Lord Hugh?”
Just a kiss. It could never be just a kiss. Not with him.
“They wouldn’t actually do the kiss,” Harriet said.
“Does one do a kiss?” Elizabeth asked.
“No,” Sarah bit off. “One does not.”
“We wouldn’t tell anyone,” Harriet tried.
“This is highly inappropriate,” Sarah said in a tight voice. She turned to Lord Hugh, who had not uttered a word for
some time. “Surely you agree with me.”
“I surely do,” he said, his words strangely clipped.
“There. You see, we are not reading this.” Sarah thrust the pages back at Harriet, who retrieved them with great reluctance.
“Would you do it if Frances read the part of Rudolfo?” Harriet asked in a small voice.
“You just said—”
“I know, but I really want to hear it aloud.”
Sarah crossed her arms. “We are not reading the play, and that is final.”
“But—”
“I said no,” Sarah exploded, feeling the last remnants of her control snapping in two. “I am not kissing Lord Hugh. Not here. Not now. Not ever!”
An appalled silence fell across the carriage.
“I beg your pardon,” Sarah muttered. She could feel a flush rising from the throat to the tip of her head. She waited for Lord Hugh to say something horribly clever and cutting, but he did not utter a word. Neither did Harriet. Or Elizabeth or Frances.
Finally Elizabeth made an awkward noise with her throat and said, “I’ll just read my book, then.”
Harriet reshuffled her papers.
Even Frances turned to the window and looked out without a word about boredom.
Of Lord Hugh, Sarah did not know. She could not bring herself to look at him. Her outburst had been ugly, the insult unforgivable. Of course they weren’t going to kiss in the carriage. They wouldn’t have kissed even if they’d been performing the play in a drawing room. Like Harriet had said, there would have been some sort of narration, or perhaps they would have leaned in (but kept a respectable six inches apart) and kissed air.
But she was already so aware of him, in ways that confused as much as they infuriated. Just reading ahead that their characters would kiss . . .
It had been too much.
The journey continued in silence. Frances eventually fell asleep. Harriet stared into space. Elizabeth kept reading, although every now and then she’d look up, her eyes flicking from Sarah to Hugh and back again. After an hour, Sarah thought that Lord Hugh might have fallen asleep, too; he had not moved even once since they’d gone silent, and she could not imagine it was comfortable for his leg to remain in the same position for so long.
But when she chanced a peek, he was awake. The only sign that he saw her looking at him was a tiny change in his eyes.
