by Anne Gracie
She wanted to close her eyes but didn’t dare. She didn’t breathe, she didn’t even remember to pray, she just hung onto the reins for dear life, too terrified to move, watching the narrow passage and bracing herself for the sound of a curricle crashing into stone. Or worse.
And then they were over the bridge—and alive. And the road had widened again. She started to breathe once more.
“Well, that was fun, wasn’t it?” he said.
“Fun? Fun? It was terrifying.”
He gave her a lazy smile. “You enjoyed it. And you’re a natural.”
“I did not. Not the slightest little bit.” A natural? She was a natural? If she felt just the teeniest bit exhilarated, well, that was relief. She’d just had a narrow escape from death.
He quirked a brow at her. “Are you feeling cold?”
“No.”
“Sick?”
“No.” And she realized to her surprise that it was true. She didn’t feel at all nauseous or queasy.
He grinned at her. “Took your mind off your misery, didn’t it? And you learned something useful. And it was fun. Your face when we approached that bridge . . .” He chuckled.
She stared at him, speechless. Furious. Indignant.
He turned his head to meet her gaze. Those impossibly bright blue eyes were dancing with laughter. “Go on, say it.”
“Say what?”
“That I’m a swine, a beast, a heartless—”
She hit him, thumped him one-handed on the arm, because she was still holding the reins with the other hand. “You are,” she agreed in a heartfelt voice and found herself laughing with him. Because she was alive and not sick anymore, and she was a natural. And because it had been fun, now she looked back on it.
“I really was terrified,” she told him when they’d both stopped laughing.
“I know. Most people are, the first time. Do you want me to take over now?”
“Not yet.”
He smiled and settled back, his long legs crossed in total relaxation. Total trust, she realized. In the next hour she negotiated several bends without mishap, another bridge, a man on horseback, who gave them a wordless greeting as they passed, and a flock of geese. He showed her how to stop the horses for that. It was remarkably simple.
And then, finally a town appeared up ahead.
“Want me to take over?”
She handed the reins over without a word, thankful, but at the same time a little reluctant.
“We’ll change horses and stop for a bite to eat.”
She was about to protest that she couldn’t swallow a thing and realized she was actually hungry. “Just some bread and butter and maybe some more of that ginger tea.”
“And then another driving lesson to take your mind off things?”
“Yes, please.”
As the curricle threaded through the traffic in the town—it was market day—she said shyly, “Did you mean it when you said I was a natural?”
“I did. You have good light hands and you judged that bridge to a nicety.”
“I didn’t judge anything,” she admitted. “I left it all up to the horses.”
“Exactly,” he said. “A natural.”
Chapter Twelve
“A young woman of inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to the family!”
—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
They reached Basingstoke just as it was getting dark, and though the horses must be tired, Freddy gave no sign of stopping. Damaris gave longing looks at several fine-looking inns as the curricle passed them by. She was no longer feeling ill, but she was very tired and every part of her body ached.
“Wednesday is market day; everywhere will be full,” Freddy explained. “Not far to go now. Staying at Dean Gate, just out of town a short way. Bespoke bedchambers and a private salon at the inn there. Good food, and it’s quieter too. You’ll sleep better there.”
Damaris made a polite-sounding murmur. She didn’t care where she slept or what she ate. The way she felt, she could sleep right through a trumpet rendition of the “Hallelujah” chorus. But he’d clearly gone to a lot of trouble in planning the journey, so she didn’t want to sound ungrateful.
She wasn’t ungrateful, just tired.
Finally the glimmer of lights showed ahead through the trees, and soon the curricle slowed, turned into an inn yard and stopped. Blessedly. Two grooms appeared and took charge of the horses. Freddy sprang lightly down and turned to assist Damaris.
By contrast she began her descent from the high vehicle awkwardly, aching in every joint and muscle.
“Stiff?” he asked and before she could answer, he took her by the waist and lifted her the rest of the way down.
“A little,” she admitted.
“I know just the thing for you,” he said, tucking her hand through his arm and leading her into the inn.
So did she: sleep.
“I’ll give you fifteen minutes to freshen up, then I’ll meet you down here. Rug up well.” Before she could say anything, he turned to her maid. “Your mistress will need comfortable walking shoes—boots for preference—and warm clothing.”
“Walking shoes?” Damaris began. She could barely move as it was. “But—”
He turned to her with a faint smile. “Don’t look so horrified. Trust me, it’s exactly what you need.”
What she needed was a bed, but he’d turned back to the landlord, saying, “Now, about dinner . . .”
Damaris would have argued the point, but a number of interested faces were following the conversation and she had no intention of entertaining them with a quarrel, even a small one. She followed the landlady up the stairs to a small but clean and comfortable-looking bedchamber. A trundle bed had been made up for Polly, which showed he’d considered propriety as well as quiet.
Such efficiency on his part was no doubt praiseworthy, but somehow she found it just a little bit annoying. After their long journey, she was feeling like a piece of jetsam tipped out of a fisherman’s net, and yet he’d sprung down from his curricle, as lithe as ever and looking just as smart and elegant as he’d started out. It wasn’t fair.
And now he expected her to go for a walk? When there was this wonderful, soft-looking bed waiting for her? She tested it and moaned softly: a deep feather mattress and the sweet scent of freshly laundered sheets. She had a good mind to send Polly with a message to say she wasn’t moving another step.
A servant arrived with their luggage, and a maid appeared bearing a can of hot water.
“You look all done in, miss,” Polly commented as she poured hot water into a basin for Damaris to wash in. “Do you want me to tell Mr. Monkton-Coombes you’ve changed your mind about the walk? He’ll understand, I’m sure—he was that nice about you being sick and all today. Gentlemen are usually uncomfortable with ladies being ill, aren’t they? But the way he watched over you—and, oh, miss, when he gave you his handkerchief to wipe your poor mouth when you was crouched over that ditch throwin’ up, well, I reckon it was just like Sir Walter Raleigh laying down his cloak in that puddle for Good Queen Bess.”
It wasn’t. It was just a handkerchief. Clearly Polly had developed something of a tendre for Mr. Monkton-Coombes.
Damaris dried her face and hands.
He had been kind. And he’d looked after her himself when he could easily have left her in the chaise in Polly’s care and taken the curricle himself. Most men would have.
“And that chaise, miss, so comfortable and well sprung—nothing like some of the bone-shakers I’ve ridden in.” Polly chuckled. “I reckon he’s spoiled me for travel on the stagecoach.”
About to retort that it had been a shocking bone-shaker, Damaris suddenly bit her lip. What—had she suddenly become the princess and the pea? She’d walked for days across China and now she was quibbling be
cause a man who’d shown her nothing but kindness and consideration all day thought a short walk would do her good?
“The blue kid boots, I think, Polly. And my woolen pelisse.”
She joined him downstairs at exactly quarter past six.
“Excellent. I wasn’t sure you’d come. Thought you might prefer to box my ears instead.” His eyes danced in an invitation she couldn’t resist.
She laughed and took his arm. “It was close, I admit. And I warn you, I’m still feeling as cross as crabs, so don’t provoke me. Walking is the very last thing I feel like doing.”
“I’ve ordered dinner for seven o’clock, so I hope a short walk won’t exhaust you.”
Was that a faint note of challenge in his voice? It stiffened her resolve. “Not in the least.” She wanted to tell him she’d walked hundreds of miles in China, but bit her tongue. The past—her past, at least—must stay buried.
“It’s a lovely evening,” he commented as they stepped out into the night. “Cold as a witch’s—er, clear as a bell; there’ll be a frost, I suspect, but what I really wanted you to see was this.” He pointed.
The moon was rising, full and fat and golden against the dark, velvet sky.
They watched it in silence. There was something about a full moon, Damaris thought. People often said the crescent moon was the one full of hope, but she’d always felt the full moon spoke to her.
They found a quiet lane, well trodden but not too muddy, and followed it through a landscape etched in silver and black and a thousand shades in between. In the distance something screamed.
“What was that?” she asked, startled.
“Nothing. A vixen screaming, that’s all. They do that at this time of year.” He glanced at her. “Mating.”
“Oh.” She felt her cheeks warming.
They trudged on. The air was cold and crisp, ripe with the scent of rich, cold earth. She breathed it deep into her lungs and found herself matching her steps to those of the tall man beside her. There was an intimacy in their silence that she was reluctant to shatter with words.
In the dark hedgerows, small creatures made scuttling noises as they passed. Far away a dog barked. Slowly the kinks in her body started to loosen, and her aches to fade, and gradually their pace picked up.
He glanced at her. “Feeling better, Miss Crabby?”
She laughed. “Don’t get too cocky, just because you were right. I could still box your ears.”
“Nonsense,” he scoffed. “You couldn’t reach that high. Now, after a good dinner and a sound sleep, you’ll be as lively as a lamb in the morning.”
They walked on. “I want to thank you for today,” she said quietly. “You were very kind and considerate—”
“Fiddlesticks. Now, shall we climb over this stile and head along that footpath leading up the hill? No? I quite agree”—she hadn’t said a thing—“the view won’t be anything special and that path looks suspiciously wet and muddy, and those pretty blue boots of yours will not thank me if I lead them into mud. That’s the trouble with kid.”
They tramped on, their boots crunching along the path in time. An owl swooped by on silent wings. On the hillside above them, a cottage stood, spilling golden lamplight from its windows. A faint hint of wood smoke drifted down toward them. She thought of the folk inside, all cozy in their little home.
“You said we will reach Breckenridge tomorrow.”
“Yes, if we make good time we’ll be there before sunset; otherwise your first sight of it will be in the moonlight.”
Something in the way he said it, the timbre of his voice perhaps, made her ask, “You love the place?”
For a long moment she thought he was going to ignore the question, then he said lightly, “Never go there if I can help it. Now, I think it’s time we turned back. Wouldn’t want dinner to get cold—or worse, burned.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d deflected her questions about Breckenridge, or his parents, and now, walking through a shadowy landscape alive with secrets and hidden creatures and lit only by the moon’s reflected light, she wondered what kind of a situation she was going into.
In London, totally taken up with her own situation and the painful deception of the people she loved, her only thought, her only desire, was to escape. Now, for the first time, she considered—really considered—what this visit would mean not just to Freddy but to his parents.
From all she knew—which was little enough—they’d been desperately eager to get their only son married. And up until now, he’d resisted with all his might, stating far and wide he had no intention of ever getting married. So their relief and joy at this betrothal must be . . . terrifying.
And since she, the so-called bride-to-be, was the focus of all that joy and relief, they’d want to know all about her.
Bad enough that the betrothal was false; how much worse would it be if they discovered her name, pedigree and background were also false?
And they were the least of the secrets she was hiding.
What if his parents had investigated her background? People did that, she’d heard, when it looked like an outsider might marry into a fine old family. His father was a viscount. Would they think her an outsider, or would they accept Lady Beatrice’s claim of their relationship at face value?
If she were found out it would make little difference to her—she didn’t need society. As long as she had her cottage she’d be safe. But Freddy . . .
She glanced at his handsome profile in the moonlight. If society learned he’d betrothed himself to a penniless impostor whose entire existence was a tissue of lies . . . he would be a laughingstock.
How could she have let things come so far without warning him?
She was selfish, that was why, only able to see the benefits to her. The cottage.
The lights of Dean Gate Inn were in sight. She would tell him the truth—or as much of it as he needed to know—over dinner. Then he could make up his mind whether to continue with the charade or cancel his plans and his visit.
• • •
Freddy glanced at the moon-bathed siren walking beside him. She looked worried. Or maybe just tired.
He opened his mouth to ask her what the problem was, then shut it again. He was getting a bit . . . possessive about her. Her cold little hand tucked into the crook of his arm—ridiculous how much he liked feeling it there.
Ridiculous too the degree of anxiety that he’d felt that morning when she’d drooped, pale and clammy skinned, but determined not to show it or complain, foolish stubborn wench.
He could see how Max had become so protective of Abby—and her sisters. Being responsible for someone’s welfare . . . he supposed that was what did it, caused these . . . feelings. That and his promise to Max.
It wasn’t anything he was used to and to tell the truth it was rather unsettling. He was used to breezing through life, carefree and untrammeled by . . . fee—responsibilities, going where he wanted, doing what he felt like without reference to anyone else.
Another reason why he didn’t ever want to get married.
Amazing good luck that he’d found a woman who’d never wanted to marry, either. She was perfect. And, despite the travel sickness, very good company. He was quite enjoying the whole little adventure, actually. Or he would be if it weren’t for these blasted inconvenient f—thoughts.
Perhaps having to act like a fiancé was making him think like one. In which case it would be over in a couple of weeks. And that, he told himself firmly, was a damned good thing. He had to abandon any thought of stringing out the whole affair for months just to free himself from Pursuit by Muffins for the season.
Desirable as that would be, a problem had arisen with Damaris that he hadn’t at all anticipated. Arisen being the operative blasted word.
Of course, it was only because he didn’t have a mistress at the moment and his body
was feeling the lack, but still, it was dashed awkward, being in a constant state of semi-arousal whenever she was close. Or even when she wasn’t but looked at him in a certain way—and she wasn’t in the least trying to seduce him—he knew that! All it took was that way she bit her lip occasionally. Or sighed. Or smiled. Or gazed at him with those fathomless pansy brown eyes . . .
Even the stubborn set of her jaw when she was about to argue with him appealed to him. Or, rather, to his body. And when she’d laughed, as she had in the curricle . . .
The slightest reaction on her part, in fact, and his body just snapped to attention, like a good little soldier, dammit, ready and eager for action.
It was perfectly understandable, he told himself. She was a beautiful young woman, without a shred of missishness and with a great deal of natural charm. Allure. Any man would find her damn near impossible to resist.
He wasn’t accustomed to everyday intimacy with respectable girls, that was the problem. The kind of girls he usually came into close contact with were deliciously bad, without a virtuous bone in their bodies—without even a bone, some of the opera dancers—and they caused him not a moment’s worry, or even a second thought.
And absolutely no frustration. Which was how he preferred it.
Dammit, why was she so opposed to marriage? If ever there was a woman born to be—“What? What is it you’re looking so anxious about?” he demanded, finally goaded by her anxious expression.
The door of the inn opened, spilling golden light onto the cobbles. “I’ll explain over dinner,” she said.
• • •
He’d ordered good plain English cooking, just the way he liked it, starting with a hearty pea and ham soup and fresh bread and butter. The talk was mostly polite chitchat and mostly between himself and the landlord—neither he nor Damaris wanted to talk while the man was hovering.
The landlord chatted as he bustled in and out bringing dishes. “You been lucky with the weather today, sir. Last week it were weather for old Noah and his ark, to be sure—now, here’s the bread, fresh baked this morning by my wife—and I hear it’s even wetter farther west. The ground is drenched, and the farmers not happy—well, when are they ever happy? They reckon the rain’ll be back tomorrow or the next day, so you’d best make an early start, sir. Now, you’ll want wine with that and I have the very thing.”
