AN Unexpected Gentleman

by Alissa Johnson

  She wondered if there might be something redeeming in Connor Brice. Something more valuable than a promise of fifteen thousand pounds a year.

  Isobel, though clearly amused, was evidently not contemplating the possibility of Connor possessing more than one virtue. “We were discussing funds made available in advance of the wedding?”

  “Right. You’ll need a bit to keep you over until the paperwork is complete.” Connor hesitated, then let go of the table briefly to once again reach into his pocket, this time pulling out what looked to Adelaide to be a veritable mountain of banknotes. He stretched over George and placed them on the table. “Two hundred pounds should be sufficient, I think.”

  Adelaide couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Two hundred pounds, sitting pretty as you please on her own dining room table. It was exactly one hundred seventy-three pounds more than what was left of her savings.

  “Good heavens.”

  “Two hundred pounds?” Isobel snatched a note off the table and turned it over, her face a picture of wonderment. “Do you always walk about with this many pound notes on your person?”

  Connor lifted a shoulder. “More or less.”

  “Oh, I shall like having you for a brother-in-law.”

  Connor laughed and winked at her, a small and wicked gesture that was certain to elevate Isobel’s estimation of him. Isobel had a keen and worrisome fondness for rakish behavior.

  “Now, if we’ve settled everything,” Connor said, looking to Adelaide, “I thought we might indulge in a picnic.”

  Adelaide scarcely heard him, so occupied was she with staring at the banknotes on the table. Oh, the things she was going to do with that money. Clothes, decent food, a tidy sum set away in the likely—and in her experience, it was always likely—event of a calamity.

  “Adelaide?”

  “Hmm?” She glanced up to find Connor and Isobel staring at her expectantly. “A picnic. Yes.”

  She dragged her attention away from the money, took mental inventory of the pantry and larder, and concluded that, unless Connor was partial to stale bread and cold porridge, a picnic was out of the question.

  “I don’t know that it would be possible today. Perhaps day after tomorrow?” When she’d had a chance to spend a bit of that that two hundred pounds.

  “It’s doubtful what I’ve packed in the carriage will keep until the day after tomorrow.”

  “You brought the picnic along?” She smiled, pleased with the small act of thoughtfulness. “In that case, I should be delighted to attend.”

  “I’ll watch Georgie,” Isobel offered, rising from the table.

  At the sound of his name, George glanced at Isobel, grinned, and reached for another biscuit.

  Connor eyed the top of his head speculatively. “Lad, do you think you might hop down, now?”

  George bit into his treat, giving no indication he’d even heard, let alone meant to honor, Connor’s request.

  Connor reached for George’s shoulders as he had earlier and, once again, pulled his hands away at the last second. He looked to her. “Could you—?”

  “Fetch my bonnet and gloves?” she cut in, deliberately misunderstanding. “Yes, of course.”

  She jumped up from the table before he could protest and went into the foyer, where she made a show of picking her bonnet off the side table and fidgeting with the ribbons. Then she ever so subtly shifted to the left for a better view of the dining room.

  Isobel didn’t bother with subterfuge. When Connor looked to her, she merely smiled and shook her head. “Pick him up and set him down, Mr. Brice. He’ll not bite . . . Not anymore.”

  “Right.”

  Connor stared at George for a moment longer, clearly trying to decide how best to go about dislodging the child from his lap without having to actually pick said child up. At long last, he took the handkerchief holding the last biscuit off the table and held it out to the side, well out of George’s reach.

  “Here you are, lad.” Connor shook the handkerchief. “Wouldn’t you like another? Come here, then. Come and get them.”

  A snicker emerged from Isobel. Adelaide rolled her eyes and abandoned all pretense of disinterest. “George is not a puppy, Connor. He’ll not—”

  George turned onto his belly, slid off Connor, and tottered over to grab the biscuit.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake.” Fighting a laugh, Adelaide set the bonnet on her head. “That is not how one reasons with a child.”

  “George thought it quite reasonable,” Isobel pointed out. “We should give it a go when he makes a fuss over wearing his Sunday clothes.”

  “No.” She turned to George, who ignored her in favor of the last biscuit. “Do you see what you’ve begun? Where is your pride, young man?”

  Connor stood, looking enormously pleased with himself. “There’s no loss of pride in refusing to do something for nothing. The boy shows good sense.”

  It was an offhanded compliment—and likely intended in defense of his own behavior more than George’s—but, all the same, Adelaide liked him the better for having said it.

  She smiled and gestured at the door. “Shall we, then?”

  Upon stepping out her front door, Adelaide noticed three things in quick succession. First, that the weather was unseasonably cool, quite perfect for a summer picnic. Second, that the carriage and four sitting in her drive looked as new as most everything else Connor owned, and finally—and most notably—that there were two men sitting atop the vehicle . . . one of whom she recognized.

  “Good heavens.”

  She grabbed hold of Connor’s arm and pulled on it until he bent down to give her his ear.

  “What—?”

  “That man,” she whispered in a rush. “On your carriage next to your driver. He came to my door. He came to my door and then left without saying a word. The day Sir Robert was here. He knocked, looked in, and—”

  “Ah. Yes, I know.”

  She pulled back to gape at him. “How could you possibly—?”

  Green eyes sparkled mischievously in the sunlight. “I told you I had men watching.”

  “Yes, but . . . You meant that literally?” She dropped his arm and glanced over her shoulder to where she and Isobel had watched the man disappear into the woods. “He was literally watching us?”

  “Settle your feathers, wren.” He laughed and ushered her toward the carriage. “Graham was watching the house and grounds, not peeking into windows.” He glanced sideways at her bruised cheek, and a hardness flashed over his features. “I should have let him peek in the—”

  “No,” she cut in with a severe look. “You most certainly should not have.”

  She settled into the forward-facing seat and took a moment to appreciate the vehicle’s interior of plush leather and richly grained wood. It wasn’t proper for her to be riding in a closed carriage, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. In a few weeks, they would be married, and it was unlikely anyone would be about to see her, at any rate.

  Connor took the bench across from her and gave the roof a quick rap with his knuckles. The carriage started with a soft jolt.

  “Are you angry?” Connor asked. He didn’t look worried by the idea, merely curious.

  “No, I’m not angry.” She thought about that. “Exactly. I am little perturbed. Was it necessary to leave a man, that man, creeping about my woods?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked out the window, a disturbing thought occurring to her. “Are there still men creeping about my woods?”

  “No one at present.”

  That was not a full answer. “Do you trust him? This Graham—?”

  “Sefton. I trust he wants the considerable amount of coin I pay.”

  She slumped in her seat. “You’re not going to give a direct answer to any of my questions, are you?”

  Connor reached over and tipped her chin up with his finger. “I mean to keep you safe. If that requires hiring a man or two to keep an eye on you when I can’t, so be it. Are you going to f
ight me on this?”

  Strictly speaking, that wasn’t a direct answer to her question either, but it was hard to take offense at the sentiment.

  “I don’t wish to fight with you,” she replied, choosing her words carefully. “But I would very much appreciate it if you would inform me in advance of such matters.”

  He frowned thoughtfully and let his hand fall. “I can do that.”

  “I might have slept better these past few nights knowing there was a guard about.”

  “And I should have thought of that,” he said softly.

  Willing to accept that as a kind of apology, Adelaide shrugged. “No harm done, really.”

  He studied her face. “You haven’t been sleeping well, have you?”

  “Not really.” Not since before the house party. That seemed ages ago. “Kind of you to mention how noticeable it’s become.”

  His lips twitched, but his voice was gentle. “We’ve a drive yet. Close your eyes and rest a bit.”

  Surely, he was jesting. “I can’t sleep with you sitting across from me, watching.” No one could sleep like that.

  He left his seat and settled beside her. “How’s this?”

  A thousand times worse. Their legs and arms were brushing, and she could feel the heat of his skin permeating the layers of clothes between them. The scent of him tickled her nose, and she knew that if she turned her head so much as a fraction to the side, she would be all but kissing him. It wasn’t an altogether unappealing notion, but liking the idea and instigating the act were two different animals.

  She stared straight ahead and tried to think of something else.

  “Do you know—” She stopped to clear her throat. “I’m not all that tired, really.”

  “I see.” And from the sound of it, he most certainly did. “Try to rest anyway. Just for a little while.”

  Feeling foolish, she scooted away from him, leaned against the side of the carriage, and closed her eyes. It would never work, she thought. She’d never be able to fall asleep with Connor sitting right there.

  Chapter 17

  Adelaide woke curled up against Connor like a sleeping kitten. His arm was around her, anchoring her to his side. Her feet were wedged up in the seat next to her, her head nestled against his shoulder, and her hands . . . Good Lord, her hands were in his lap.

  She snatched them away and righted herself so fast it made her head spin.

  “I . . . I didn’t . . . How did I . . . ?” She swallowed the question as sleep retreated and her mind cleared. “Never mind.”

  If she’d cuddled up to him in her sleep, she didn’t want to know.

  “My apologies,” she mumbled. He would tease her now. Lord knew, he’d yet to pass up an opportunity to poke at her dignity.

  But he surprised her by gently capturing a lock of her hair that had been pulled from its pins during sleep. “Don’t apologize for this. You were tired.” He rubbed the strand of hair between his fingers a moment, a crease forming between his eyes. Finally, he tucked the strand behind her ear and let his hand fall away. “That was my doing.”

  She opened her mouth, intending to argue, but then she realized he was quite right. It was, at least in part, very much his fault.

  Too groggy to give the matter any more attention, she glanced out the window and asked, “How long was I asleep?” It felt as if it could have been days. Surely it had been at least half an hour. Why hadn’t they arrived? Growing concerned, she turned from the window. “Where are we going?”

  “On a picnic,” Connor reminded her. Then he grinned and added, “in England.”

  Which was highly effective in banishing the remnants of sleep.

  “England? You’re not serious.” She stared at his grin a moment longer. “You are serious.”

  “I am indeed. We’re—”

  “Stop!” She half stood and stretched up to pound on the roof. “Stop the carriage!”

  Laughing, he took hold of her fist and brought it down. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m stopping the carriage.” She’d rather thought that was obvious. “I can’t go to England.” She’d rather thought that was obvious as well. What wasn’t obvious was why he continued to laugh.

  He tugged on her hand, toppling her off balance and onto his lap. “You look a picture, half awake and rumpled—”

  “Let go.” She struggled against him. How far had they come? How long had she been asleep? “Turn the carriage around. I have to go back. Isobel will be in a panic.”

  “Isobel knows where we are. I spoke with her when you went into the kitchen to fetch the apron for George.”

  “You did? She knew?”

  “Yes, and I am to tell you . . . Quit squirming, love . . . Thank you. I am to tell you that you are not to argue, not to worry, and not to forget to bring her back a memento.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You just made that up.”

  “Only part. She does want the memento.”

  That did sound like Isobel. “I cannot take a trip to England. I have duties, responsibilities—”

  “We’re not going to London. We’ll be back by nightfall.”

  “Oh. Just for the day?” She sighed an enormous breath of relief. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “How long do your picnics generally last?”

  Embarrassed that she’d failed to put two and two together, she pressed her lips shut and refrained from comment.

  “Besides,” Connor said, his voice turning low and wicked, “I like seeing you flustered.”

  “I . . .” She trailed off as she became increasingly aware of her position on his lap and of the strong arms that held her close and the hard thighs beneath her legs. His mouth was mere inches from hers, and his green eyes swirled with the unmistakable lights of laughter and desire.

  He held her with such care, just as he had on that first night in the garden—as if she was special, as if she was something he treasured.

  Suddenly, she had the compelling need to be bold, to be courageous in the way she remembered from childhood, before responsibility had pushed dreams aside.

  Without another thought, she leaned forward and kissed him. It was little more than a soft, untutored press of her lips to his, but it was exciting to her—a thrilling and liberating act.

  Better yet, Connor seemed to appreciate her effort. He smiled against her lips and murmured approvingly. And then he was kissing her back, taking her mouth with devastating skill. He teased her with small, artful nibbles that sent her pulse racing and drugged her with long, deep tastes that made her fingers curl into the fabric of his coat.

  She heard herself gasp and felt his breathing quicken and his hand settle at her hip. And then . . .

  The carriage slowed and bounced over a rut, jarring them apart.

  Connor swore.

  Adelaide ignored both interruptions and leaned forward again. She wanted more. She wanted everything. But Connor thwarted her by taking her face in his hands and pressing a kiss to her brow.

  “The carriage, love.”

  Yes, she thought dimly. They were in a carriage. She sought his mouth again. “Hmm.”

  “It’s slowing. No, sweetheart . . . God, you taste good . . . No, we’re here.”

  “Here?” She pulled back and blinked at him, feeling like a half-witted owl. The sound of the wheels became muffled as they rolled onto grass and, finally, the meaning behind the words seeped in. “Oh, here. England!”

  “Yes.” Connor smiled ruefully as the carriage came to a stop. “What fine timing.”

  Poor timing or not, Adelaide was suddenly eager, even anxious, to greet the next stage of her adventure. This was, without question, the most wonderfully exciting day she’d had in years. Pushing herself off Connor—who objected with a mild grunt—she threw the carriage door open and hopped down without assistance.

  “Where are we?”

  “About a half mile past the border,” Connor replied, following her. “Or, if you prefer, slightly more than twenty miles from your
home.”

  Her smile was slow, and matched a growing warmth in her chest. “You remembered.”

  “Of course I remembered.” He gestured at the scenery. “What do you make of it?”

  “It’s . . .” She looked away and took in the rolling hills and fertile farmland broken by dark stands of woods. A delighted bubble of laughter filled her throat. “It’s the same. Entirely the same.”

  “But it’s England.”

  “Yes, it’s England.” It was new. It was more than twenty miles from her home. It was something she’d wanted and nothing like what she’d expected. It was brilliant.

  Connor unpacked what was, to Adelaide, a perfect feast. Chicken and lamb, fresh bread and potatoes. There was watered beer, wine in a carafe, and apple slices for dessert. All were spread on a blanket, and in short order, she and Connor were sharing a meal on a gentle hill that overlooked the English countryside.

  “What will you do with that fifteen thousand pounds?” Connor asked conversationally. He was reclining on his side, his long legs crossed at the ankles and his weight propped up on his elbow. The prone position ought to have made him seem less substantial, but to Adelaide, he looked like a Titan in repose.

  “Find a nanny for George, to start,” she replied. “Perhaps even a tutor. I fear he is behind in his education.”

  “He’s two.”

  “Almost,” she corrected and shrugged. “His vocabulary is not what it should be, I think. Isobel and I have tried—”

  “He’s a fine boy,” Connor cut in, his authoritative tone suggesting she not argue. “A sharp lad. And he’s fortunate to have you. Did something happen to make you think otherwise? Did someone say—?”

  “No,” she said softly. Sir Robert was the only person to have disparaged either of them, and his opinion mattered not a jot. Connor’s quick defense, on the other hand, meant quite a lot. More than the money and Ashbury House. Those were necessities. If he wanted her for a wife, he had to provide them. But faith in her and an affection for George—those were things he gave by choice.

  Oh, yes, she thought, there was something redeeming in the man before her. And perhaps there was something to be made from their union.