The Lady Is Daring

by Megan Frampton

  She sighed, looking almost wistful. “I have always wanted an adventure,” she said. “Something where it didn’t matter that I was a duke’s daughter. Something that asked me to do something because of who I am, not”—and then she hesitated, a funny look on her face—“who I am.”

  She sat up, giving him a sharp look. “Is that what you mean when you say you wish you could escape? That you want to be seen for yourself, not who you are supposed to be?”

  He nodded. She understood. She knew what it was like.

  “Absolutely. But then—as Edward reminds me—I am the heir to a Marquessate, anybody would envy my position.”

  “But they don’t understand it,” she said softly.

  “So we do have that in common.”

  She swallowed, as though it were a difficult truth for her to reconcile. That she had something in common with him, the gentleman who had most definitely not married her sisters.

  He needed to make her feel more comfortable. His mind scrabbled around for a topic that would ease this odd feeling of closeness.

  “What else do we have in common?” he asked. “What is your favorite book?”

  Her eyes lit up. “In history, philosophy, scientific studies, novels, or poetry?”

  “Not novels or poetry, but the rest, yes.”

  “Oh, that is so difficult to answer!” She sounded delighted. Far more pleased than if he had told her he admired her lovely face, or that her dancing was divine.

  Not that they’d danced together. He wished he had asked her. They had to have been at some of the same social functions.

  “I have lately been classifying people,” she said in a voice that sounded almost embarrassed. “So I suppose Linnaeus’s Systema Naturae.”

  “Classifying people—?” he began, entirely intrigued.

  “Yes,” she said with a wry smile. “Like your Carson-hunters. They might be Debutantum Desperatus, for example.”

  He burst into laughter, making a few of the people near them stare. “And I am Pradeam Carsonus, then?”

  She looked startled. “You speak Latin.”

  “I think it’s more surprising that I remember any of it at all, given how long ago it was.”

  “True.” She bit her lip. “I forgot that you are a gentleman, so of course you would be taught Latin. I had to learn it myself, purloining books from my father’s library. Not that he noticed,” she said.

  “What about fiction?” he asked.

  She drew her eyebrows together in thought. “I think I like anything written by Charles Dickens. There’s not one specific piece of his writing, just—just all of it.”

  “Hmm. I haven’t read much Dickens myself,” he admitted. “What is it you like about him?”

  She considered it. He liked it, that she thought about things. Cogitatare Idatum.

  “I like how he writes about people. That they’re more than just what job they have, or where they come from. That people, all people, should be given an opportunity.”

  “Very egalitarian of you,” he teased. He saw the innkeeper’s son walking toward them with a tray. “And I think all those people, no matter who they are or where they come from, would enjoy a glass of ale at the end of a lovely day.”

  “Lovely, was it?” she said with a grin. “Even though I tried to make you return to London and refused your help and accused you of being sent by my family? Not in that order,” she corrected.

  “It was lovely,” he replied in a firm tone.

  “I suppose it was a lovely day,” she conceded. “Not that I’ve ever had any ale,” she said, turning as she heard the boy approach the table.

  “Your ale,” Eustace said, placing both glasses on the table. “My mam will lead you up after dinner.”

  “Thank you,” Bennett said, reaching into his pocket.

  “Here you go,” Ida said, placing a coin into Eustace’s palm as she gave him a dazzling smile.

  “I will not be obliged to you,” she said in a quiet tone of voice as the boy stepped away.

  So prickly.

  Bennett raised his glass, holding it in the middle of the table. Ida picked hers up as well, giving him a questioning look.

  “To adventure,” he said, clicking his glass gently against hers.

  “To adventure,” she echoed, then took a hesitant sip.

  Bennett drank a healthy swallow of his ale.

  She held the glass in front of her, appraising it before she took a sip. “This is not terrible,” she said in a surprised tone of voice.

  “Now you sound condescending,” he replied in a sly tone.

  “I do,” she admitted. “And also inexperienced. That seems like a dreadful combination.” Her tone was wry. She took another, larger sip. “I like it, even.”

  “Slow down,” Bennett warned, conscious of his own recent encounter with too much alcohol. At least being distracted with Lady Ida had kept him from noticing how much of a headache he had.

  Replacing his alcohol headache with the headache of Lady Ida seemed like a good exchange.

  She put the glass down as the innkeeper arrived with their food. “It’s a bit hot, so be careful,” the innkeeper warned as she set the plates down. She drew cutlery and linen from her pocket and placed them on the table, too. “It’s the best.”

  “So we’ve heard,” Bennett replied, winking at Ida, who smothered a laugh by putting her hand over her mouth.

  “You’ll let me know what you think,” Mrs. Hastings said as she walked away.

  Ida picked up her fork and poked at the pie, causing steam to emerge from the top. “It looks wonderful,” she said as she picked a piece up, bringing it to her mouth. She ate the forkful, her eyes widening at the taste. And then moaned in satisfaction, making Bennett even more mesmerized. “This is so good,” she said as she took another bite. “Mmm.”

  Bennett had never seen a lady enjoy her food so wholeheartedly before. It made him envy her all over again. To display so much pure enjoyment, to reveal emotion, wasn’t something he was able to do. Or had impetus to do either. He was too busy running the estate, seeing to his various business interests, concerned about his mother’s health, and a myriad of things that occupied his brain to indulge in something as simple as relishing a good dinner.

  Damn, how had his life come to this?

  “Are you all right? You’re not eating.”

  Bennett hastily took too big a bite, swallowing hard against the tightness of his throat. “Mmm, yes, I was just thinking about how long we should plan to travel tomorrow.” Which of course was not at all what he was thinking about, but he wasn’t about to reveal himself too much to her.

  “You’re operating under the assumption that we will be traveling together tomorrow.”

  She laid her fork down and glared at him. Which would be intimidating if she didn’t have a bit of sauce on her mouth, and her eyes weren’t bright from the ale, and she was less incredibly beautiful.

  He reached forward and wiped her lips with his napkin, her eyes widening as his fingers touched her skin.

  “Oh,” she said in a soft voice as he withdrew the napkin, showing her the spot he’d wiped from her face.

  His hands felt shaky. And also as though they wanted to touch her again. Push his hands into her hair to see if it was as silky as it looked. Run his fingers over her eyebrows, those extremely expressive eyebrows. Slide his hand down to her jaw, cupping her face as he lowered his mouth to—

  “Well,” she began in an entirely different tone of voice. As though she knew what he was thinking and was determined to shake him free of it. “You do know that if you accompany me on this trip, you will be forced to ask for my hand in marriage when we return.” She spread her hands out in explanation. “You have successfully evaded two of my sisters. And I assure you, my lord, I am not another Carson-hunter.”

  “That is clear,” Bennett said in a wry tone.

  “And I will not be known as the only Howlett sister who was unable to escape you.” He raised his eyebro
ws in disbelief. Had she just insulted him?

  “So unless you wish to spend the rest of your life in dismal matrimony to me,” she continued, “I suggest we go our separate ways tomorrow.” She nodded her head in finality, as though they’d reached an agreement.

  “No.”

  Her eyes shot up to his face. Her mouth dropped open. “No?” she echoed. “But you don’t—I don’t—we don’t,” she sputtered.

  “I know the conjugations for do not, my lady. I speak Latin, remember?” he said wryly. “And we do not, we can agree on that. It is a risk I am willing to take to keep you safe.” He shrugged. “Besides which, you can always refuse my suit. You must know that running off like this has already damaged your reputation. A refusal to marry the man who has theoretically compromised you will not do much more harm.”

  Her mouth opened and closed, rather like a fish gasping for air. A lady grasping at straws. An exceedingly intelligent person outsmarted.

  Got you, he thought. Capturam Domina.

  “But wouldn’t you rather just be rid of me?”

  It made him hurt for her that that was her first response—that someone would rather not be with her than keep her safe. No wonder she was so bent on escape. If she were constantly with people who didn’t appreciate her—? Her intelligence, her wit, her courage?

  He had to admire her all over again for her resilience, for pushing back against anyone who would try to keep her in her prescribed box.

  “I would not,” he said simply.

  “I will consider what you say,” she said slowly, getting up from the table.

  “You’re finished, then?” the innkeeper said, stepping out from behind the bar. “I’ll show you to your rooms. Was the food good?”

  “It was incredible,” Ida replied. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a meat pie as good as that one.”

  “I wonder if you’ve ever had a meat pie,” Bennett murmured behind her as they walked up the stairs. She swatted behind her, and he caught her wrist, clasping her hand.

  He couldn’t explain what made him want to touch her. Well, beyond the fact that she was beautiful and they were together. He had never felt this urgency, even with other nearly as beautiful women.

  But Lady Ida was special. She was a gorgeous, vibrant, intelligent woman wrapped up in her hedgehog disguise and her library clothing, pushing people away with her honest emotion and frank opinions.

  He didn’t want to be pushed away. He wanted to pull her close. To let himself go and lose himself with her, both of them expressing just what they felt. All their emotion on display with one another.

  That kind of freedom felt impossible just yesterday, and yet now it was a possibility. A remote possibility, to be fair, but something that was more than just an unrealized dream.

  She was holding his hand. She hadn’t pushed him away.

  What did it mean, that she hadn’t pushed him away?

  Chapter 7

  Be curious about your surroundings.

  Lady Ida’s Tips for the Adventurous Lady Traveler

  “This room is for the young lady,” Mrs. Hastings said, opening the second door on the right-hand side.

  Ida looked inside, almost unable to process what she was viewing as the tumult of emotions swirled inside her brain. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog of whatever it was she was feeling.

  He’d held her hand. And she had held his.

  Her skin tingled where they’d touched.

  And he’d joked with her. In Latin. No wonder she was all tingly.

  The room was small, but tidy, the bed in the center made up with a floral counterpane. There was a table beside the bed, a screen in the corner, and a chair in front of one of the two windows.

  “It’s not much, but it’s quiet,” the innkeeper said. “I’ll send someone up to help you with your gown, since your own servant hasn’t arrived yet. Do you expect them tonight, my lord?” she said, twisting to look at Bennett.

  “Likely not. I told them to find lodgings elsewhere if they could not get here by this evening.”

  “Ah, then you’ll be needing my Mary’s help. She’s Eustace’s younger sister, and she’s been helping out in the inn.”

  “That would be excellent. Thank you for thinking of it,” Ida replied. She drew a coin from her purse and began to hold it to the innkeeper, who waved it aside.

  “You’ll pay me tomorrow morning for the food and rooms. You can save that for Mary, if she serves well enough. And you’ll let me know if she doesn’t.”

  The innkeeper stepped back out into the hallway. “I’ll show you your room, my lord, and then wish you and your sister good-night. It’s just two doors away,” she continued, gesturing to a door on the opposite side. “If you need anything in the night.”

  He would be leaving her. Alone.

  “Good night, Ida,” Bennett said. He stepped forward and gazed down at her face, an intense expression on his face.

  Dear lord.

  “Good night,” she replied abruptly, shutting the door as she spoke.

  She leaned against the door, her shoulders sagging. In fatigue? Relief?

  Frustration?

  For a moment, he’d looked at her as though he . . . appreciated her.

  In a way she’d never been appreciated before.

  In a way that looked as though he wanted to kiss her.

  Ida had never been kissed. Obviously. Not only that, but she’d never even had the opportunity—she had yet to meet a gentleman she’d like to kiss, much less had one want to kiss her.

  But she could imagine, just for a moment, what it would feel like to have Lord Carson kiss her.

  To have all that sleek handsomeness focused on her, on her mouth, on her reactions to what their lips were doing.

  She hadn’t been kissed, but she did know the mechanics of it all. She’d taken a peek at some naughty books her older sister Eleanor had in her possession, and had done some further research when Eleanor had turned bright red and refused to explain.

  So she knew technically what it entailed, but she knew full well that knowing something and experiencing something were two entirely different things.

  For example, one could describe the deliciousness of strawberry shortcake covered with freshly whipped cream, but one couldn’t understand just how delicious it was until one had tasted it.

  Lord Carson wasn’t precisely strawberry shortcake. But Ida had the worrisome thought that kissing him would be altogether far more enjoyable.

  Shortcake left crumbs, and there was never the correct balance between cake, fruit, and cream.

  Lord Carson would likely know how to achieve the best balance in kissing. And there’d be no crumbs.

  She jumped as there was a knock on the door. She turned to open it, hoping she wasn’t blushing.

  It was him. Of course it was him. Lord Shortcake.

  “Oh,” Ida said in what she hoped sounded like a surprised voice. “I thought it would be the girl come to help me with my gown.”

  “I wanted to—look, might I come in for a moment?” he said, glancing down the hallway. “Just for a moment,” he repeated as she held the door open wider for him to step inside.

  “Of course.” She closed the door. And then they were alone. Again. In the room that was technically, for this evening at least, her bedroom.

  Nothing she had ever read could have prepared her for how much she felt. She felt everything at this moment, so keenly alive and aware of the distance between them, how his eyes were focused on her, how much she longed to launch herself into his arms.

  No launching, Ida, she admonished herself.

  He leaned against the door, similar to her own position just moments before. “I just wanted to ask if you have everything you need to be comfortable.” He frowned in thought. “You don’t have any clothing with you, do you? What will you sleep in?”

  Ida felt her cheeks heat. A gentleman was inquiring about her nightclothes.

  Somehow, that felt more shocking than
stealing a carriage and running away in search of an errant sister.

  So much for her personal perspective.

  “I’ll just—” she began, and gestured toward her body.

  “We’ll buy clothing tomorrow. And not library clothing either,” he said with a grin.

  She tried to laugh—she did find him humorous—but her mind was too engrossed in the current situation to actually emit any kind of chuckle at all.

  Because she wanted, quite desperately, to kiss him.

  Well. There it was.

  And so here she was. And he was right there, so why shouldn’t she?

  Ida’s first thought should have been, What am I doing?

  But it wasn’t.

  It should also have been the second, third, and fourth.

  But it wasn’t.

  Why haven’t I done this before? was what went through her mind as her mouth found his.

  Dear lord, so this was kissing. She relished the warmth of his lips, of how it felt as though they were connected, not just there, but everywhere, as though sparks were traveling between them and they were enclosed in their own Faraday cage.

  You’re thinking too much, a voice admonished inside her head. Feel.

  And so she did, pushing everything away but how it felt, how her body seemed to be melting, leaning toward him, her very skin tingling with awareness.

  And then he moved his mouth, opened his lips, and his tongue licked her, slid along the seam of her mouth, and she gasped, opening her lips as she did.

  At which point his tongue went inside her mouth.

  She knew that was how kissing worked, but she hadn’t expected it to be so—so fraught with feeling.

  It felt as though she were a normal female, not Ida the Judgmental and Prickly Hedgehog. An apt description, if she were being honest with herself.

  But now it felt as though she were a woman who could engage in this kind of activity without having it be something she was ashamed or embarrassed about.

  Or something that anyone else was ashamed and embarrassed to do with her, either.

  Dear god, don’t let him be ashamed.

  But she could tell it wasn’t shame he was feeling as his tongue explored her mouth, tangled with her tongue, his breathing coming harsh and ragged on her face. It was an entirely different emotion.