by Cheryl Bolen
Louisa
She dried the quill, then wrapped it in a piece of old cloth and placed it in her portmanteau with the rest of her things. Perhaps she could finish her essay on labor unification during the journey that lay ahead.
She heard the wheels of a coach rattle on the street below, and she lifted the bulky bag and carried it downstairs.
Once she edged open the front door, Lord Wycliff bounded up the two steps and relieved her of the bag. She noted that he too was dressed for traveling. No silken finery today, nor his ever-present black. Today he wore fawn colored pantaloons with boots and a greatcoat.
He gave her bag to the coachman, who placed it on top the carriage before he hopped opened the door for Louisa and his master.
"Before we leave London," Louisa said, "I beg that you impart to Mr. Coke the necessity of him escorting my sister to see Mr. Bentham."
"I have already done so."
Her brows winged together. "How did you know I didn't wish to bring her with me?"
"Because I knew you couldn't deprive her of the pleasure of seeing Mr. Bentham."
She shot him an angry glance then lifted the curtain to peer from the glass. Louisa didn't at all like the look of the skies. Clouds were gathering, and rain seemed imminent. Which would considerably slow their progress. It was cool, too. Much colder than it had been in weeks.
Lord Wycliff handed her into the coach, and she was pleased that he had provided a rug for her.
When he started to sit beside her, she protested. "I think not, my lord. There are just the two of us. We can each have our own seat for the journey."
"Ah," he said, sitting opposite of her, "unlike me, you are thinking quite clearly this morning. I fear I am a creature of habit."
"I trust you were up late last night reading one of the books I provided for you," she said mischievously.
His black eyes sparkled. "To be sure." Then he cocked his hat and slid down in his seat, giving every appearance of a man taking a nap.
She knew so very little about him. Had he really been up late reading her book, or had he spent the night gaming and womanizing as other men of his class did? From their rides at Hyde Park and from the ball at Lord Seymour's, it was clear that Lord Wycliff was well known in the ton, especially among the women. Their unabashed flirting with him had given Louisa a peculiar surge of pleasure that was not unconnected to possessiveness.
Despite that she was tired this morning, she continued to peer from the window. It had now begun to rain. The streets quickly filled with mud and water and noxious odors. She could not say that she would regret leaving behind this city with its sooty skies and stinking air and pitiable creatures at every turn.
She looked away from the sight of a small boy who could not have been more than five years old but was alone on the pavement, wearing shoes several sizes too large for his tiny feet. The poor lad didn't even have a coat to shield him from the day's cold.
She gathered the rug about her and grew morose. Her thoughts, like the skies, turned melancholy. She knew she must direct her energies even more potently toward helping children like the lad she had just seen.
Perhaps she did need to continue living in London. Once he got the information he desired, would Lord Wycliff continue taking her to events where she could meet men of power? Would he be true to his word and take his seat in Parliament in order to promulgate the beliefs she had imparted to him? Or was his interest feigned in order to gain what he wanted?
Again, Louisa realized she knew very little about the man who reposed across from her, his long muscular legs taking up a great deal of the inside of the carriage. She stared at his solid thighs and realized they were nearly as big around as her waist.
She took note of the quality of his well tailored pantaloons and the workmanship of his boots. They were obviously very expensive but not showy like something Godwin would have worn. The difference between Lord Wycliff's class and Godwin's aspirations to emulate it was as distinct as night from day.
However, that was not to say she liked the peer. His worth had yet to be proven. Her approval would continue to be withheld from him. After all, he was a man, and God knows none of them were trustworthy.
By the time Lord Wycliff's coachman had paid at the last London tollgate, the rain was falling onto the carriage roof likes buckets being emptied. She felt terribly sorry for the poor coachman, for in addition to the pounding rain, it had become bitterly cold.
And through it all, Lord Wycliff slept.
Louisa was discovering the rug, thick and tightly woven wool though it was, offered little protection against the chill that seeped to her very bones. How could Lord Wycliff sleep through such discomfort? Then she remembered her elder brother, who had an unfortunate drinking problem. Frederick, after a night of overindulging, was oblivious to everything. She remembered the time Ellie had poured icy water on him in a vain effort to awaken him for Sunday services. He had merely turned over and continued snoring.
Could Lord Wycliff be sleeping one off? With such thoughts ringing in her brain and her arms tucked under the heavy rug, she finally did as Lord Wycliff. She drifted off to sleep.
* * *
When Harry awoke, Louisa was asleep. He was unable to remove his gaze from her. He had seen many beautiful woman asleep beside him, but none compared to Louisa Phillips. There was an innocence about her, not just because she was fair and petite and young looking, but also because of the naivete of her hopes for reform and because of her true compassion.
Which made him even more ashamed of his deception. She was only now beginning to trust a man, and he was about to turn around and blow up the little ground he had gained for his gender.
Though Louisa Phillips professed to eschew the strictures of society, Harry was determined not to blacken her reputation.
He tuned his attention to the matter of securing a room at an inn. Since the rain had seriously impeded their progress, they would probably be forced to spend several nights in posting inns. How were they to do that while sparing her reputation?
An idea came to him, but he knew the widow would not like it.
He apprised her of it when she awoke. He had watched her awaken, gathering the rug tightly about her as she pulled herself to a sitting position. When she looked across at him, she blushed. Did the prospect of a man watching her sleep cause her embarrassment?
"Rather cold, is it not?" he said casually.
"Would that we had a hot brick," she lamented. "But I should not be so selfish when the poor coachman has none of the luxuries we enjoy."
"Do you always direct your thoughts to the plight of others who are less fortunate than you?"
She gave him a most straightforward stare. "Someone must, my lord."
"And you prefer that someone be a person in a position to do something to evoke change?"
"Of course. That's what I've worked toward for a very long time."
"And I shall be your instrument."
She nodded. He liked the way her blue eyes danced like those of a child impatient to open a present.
"Are you not exceedingly cold without a rug, my lord?"
His pulse quickened as he thought of sitting next to her, sharing her rug. "It is rather unpleasant."
"Then you thought to share the rug with me?"
A coy smile slanted across his face. "I did."
He enjoyed watching the guilt wash over her.
"Very well," she said with reluctance. "You may move to this side, but I will not have any part of you touching me. Is that clear?"
"Like a bell, madam," he said as he stood to a stooped position and moved to her seat.
"I believe we need to discuss the matter of rooms at the inn," he said. "I know you don't care a fig about the opinion of the ton, but you need to realize that in order to work with them you have to earn their respect."
"What does that have to do with rooms at the inn?"
"Were it to be discovered that we traveled together, I fear your good name would be ruined."<
br />
She gazed at him through narrowed eyes. "What, then, do you propose, my lord?"
"That we use other names. Registering as, say, a Mr. and Mrs. Smith would neither attract attention nor draw scrutiny. On the other hand, were we to secure separate rooms under other names, any intercourse between us would be sure to draw censure."
Her eyes rounded. "You're proposing that we sleep together?" There was disbelief and irritation in her voice.
"I promise not to touch."
"And I'm supposed to trust you?" she questioned. "My dear Lord Wycliff, you are a man, and I've yet to find one worthy of trust."
"I don't know what else I can say or do to warrant your acceptance."
"The matter is out of your hands."
He leaned back into the window, allowing cold air to rush beneath the rug in the gap between them.
She haughtily pulled the rug away from him and hugged it to herself.
* * *
Night came early. Just before five in the afternoon, the coach pulled into an inn yard in Reading. It had taken them all day to travel forty miles. Despite that the rain was still coming down in sheets, Louisa would be happy to stretch her legs.
And to get away from Lord Wycliff. The audacity! He really expected that she would allow him to sleep in her room! The man was completely insufferable.
He held an umbrella over her as they ran to the inn.
Once inside, he bespoke a private parlor "for my wife and me."
Louisa was about to protest when she felt very strong hands squeeze at her arm. Then, she realized a scene would attract a great deal of attention. She would merely shake it off for now, then later insist the obstinate man obtain separate sleeping rooms. Right now all she could think of was her desire to plop down in front of a bright fire and drink a cup of warm milk.
Since they were the only occupants of the private parlor, she and Lord Wycliff were at liberty to take a seat immediately in front of the hearth. Soon the chill in her bones faded, and she felt her cheeks growing hot. She also felt Lord Wycliff's eyes on her and finally looked up to meet his gaze.
"Really, Mrs. Phillips," he said, "you mustn't worry about your virtue. I assure you the last thing I want is to share a bed with a man-hating reformer."
Even though the last thing she wanted was to share a bed with a man, she was oddly piqued by his remark. "Then how would you suggest we share a room without sharing a bed?"
"How do you know I couldn't lie with you without wanting to make love to you?" he asked.
She hoped he would mistake her blush for flush from the fire. "I know that you're a man, and all men want the same thing."
"I assure you, Mrs. Phillips, the thing you allude to I can have whenever I want. It has not been so long since I was with a woman that I would lower either my preferences or my expectations."
Now she was really mad. Lower his expectations indeed! She took a long drink from her mug of milk and avoided eye contact with the conceited, arrogant, obnoxious peer of the realm.
Before long the innkeeper's wife brought each of them a plate of mutton and hot bread with freshly churned butter.
Lord Wycliff cut, but did not eat, his mutton. "I see I have offended you," he said. "I thought you would be pleased that I do not find you desirable."
She lifted her chin haughtily. "I am."
"Then we can sleep together?"
She bit into a thick slice of crusty bread and slowly chewed it before answering. "I can scream quite loudly, you know."
He smiled before biting down on a forkful of meat.
Chapter 8
Butterflies danced in Louisa's stomach as she and Lord Wycliff mounted the steep, ill-lit stairs to the bedchamber they would share.
He inserted the key into the iron lock and eased open the door. A candle already burned beside the bed, and a fire blazed. The room's wooden ceiling was low, which together with the warmth, gave the room a comforting feel.
She stepped into the room, a chill inching down her back despite the room's warmth. Her portmanteau had been placed beside the bed.
Lord Wycliff stood in the doorway. "I go to the tavern now. I have the key and will let myself in later." His voice dropped to a husky whisper when he added, "I daresay you'll be asleep when I return."
Louisa looked at him with surprise, but he was already turning away to descend the stairs. She crossed the room and locked the door, then began to remove her wrinkled traveling clothes. First the pelisse, then the gown. And still she wasn't really cold. She decided the innkeepers must keep a fire burning even when there were no guests. She would have to ask Lord Wycliff to give the innkeepers an extra sum in appreciation of the accommodations. Lord Wycliff could obviously afford such a trivial expense. After all, he was going to settle her for life, merely for accompanying him on this journey.
Her chest suddenly tightened. What if he was not a man of his word? Did he truly plan to recompense her so well for a few days of her time? As she had so thoroughly been reminding herself all day, she knew not what manner of man he was. In spite of the many hours they had spent together over the last few weeks, he had revealed nothing of himself.
She stopped midway through donning her woolen night shift and wondered what she really knew of him. That he possessed a great deal of money was a certainty. His cousin boasted of Lord Wycliff's ability to build a sizeable fortune after being left virtually penniless by his squandering father. Louisa also knew without doubt that the lord who was to share her room was fiercely devoted to his mother. An admirable trait in a man, she thought.
But what else did she really know of him? She recounted their many visits together and realized she knew only the little he had allowed her observe, and little of it was personal. She had no idea even of how he had amassed his fortune. Nor did she know if he had ever been close to matrimony. She wrung her hands, learning just now as she was about to share her bed with him that the handsome nobleman was a virtual stranger.
She donned her night rail, slid beneath the warm blankets and blew out the candle. Weary from the day's travel, she went to sleep almost immediately, careful to take less than half of the bed.
* * *
Lying beneath the warm covers some hours later and listening to the rhythmic breathing of the feminine creature beside him, Harry could barely hold back the desire to laugh. The silly woman had actually believed him when he told her he had no desire for her. With every rise and fall of her breasts, he wanted her. His desire for her was more keen than even the desire to command his first ship. Or the desire to reclaim Wycliff House. Or to regain his mother's portrait.
Yet he had instinctively known Louisa Phillips was not a woman to be taken lightly. She would certainly not give herself to a man who did not plan to make her the center of his life, and Harry knew the complex reformer was not the woman for him. Why, she didn't even like men!
He gave himself to trying to unravel the puzzle that was Louisa Phillips. Why did she hate men with such vehemence? The source, of course, pointed to the vile man who had been her husband. What manner of man would leave a young thing like that without provisions for a roof over her head?
From something she had begun to say before amending her words, Harry felt certain that Godwin Phillips had raised his hand to his young bride. Harry could barely hold back his curse. If Godwin Phillips were still alive, Harry would take pleasure in beating him until his ugly face looked like a can of maggots.
As he lay beside her, Harry vowed he would see that Louisa Phillips was comfortable for the rest of her life. Whether she aided him in his quest or not.
* * *
The following morning they ate a hearty breakfast before renewing their journey. He had awakened before she did, slipped on his pantaloons -- for he had slept only in his silken shirt -- and gone downstairs without disturbing her.
That she had survived the night with her virtue intact undoubtedly loosened her tongue this morning when she met him in the parlor for breakfast. Gone were the scowls of th
e night before.
Through his restraint, he had earned her approval.
"I believe the innkeeper keeps fires blazing in the rooms so they are warm when guests arrive," Louisa told him between spoonfuls of porridge. "You must be generous to the man, my lord."
An amused grin lighted his tanned face. "As you wish, madam."
"From the indentation on the bed I surmise that you slept in our room," she said, "but I declare I never knew when you came."
He watched as her cheeks grew rosy. He had learned to detect her propensity to blush when things embarrassed her. "Have I earned your trust, madam?"
She shyly nodded. "I daresay it's because I hold no appeal to you."
He would play along with the charade. "Please don't think you're not attractive, ma'am. I vow that any number of men would find you desirable."
Her scowl returned. "Then you lied when you said I was the prettiest woman at Lord Seymour's?"
He fairly spit out his tea. "Not at all, madam. You were the prettiest woman there. It is just that I like women who are a bit more. . ."
"Free with their favors?"
"I confess to having a certain amount of experience with women of that description."
"Women like Lady Davenwood?"
How in the deuce did she know of his affair with Fanny? "A gentleman does not discuss such matters, Mrs. Phillips."
That blush of hers returned.
"I do find your liberal opinions at odds with your own lifestyle," he said.
"How so?" she asked.
"Do you not espouse the principals of free love?"
"I do," she said. "Marriage as we know it is nothing but a sham."
He raised a brow. "I'm afraid I don't follow you."
"Surely you know how freely ladies of the ton share their beds with men who are not their husbands."
She really does know about Fanny. He nodded sheepishly.
"Which appears to be perfectly all right because they are married women. Then there is the fact that few women are truly given the opportunity to choose their own husbands. Circumstances of birth determine who marries whom. You must admit a man of your birth would never marry a flower woman at Covent Garden."
