A Regency Virgin's Undoing: Lady Drusilla's Road to Ruin / Paying the Virgin's Price. Christine Merrill
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attractive woman, but seemed unaware of the effect she had on the men around her, wandering about alone and putting her virtue at risk. Any feelings John had for her were not a symptom of fickleness. They were proof that he was male.
But when she’d said she had an ‘understanding’ with the gentleman they were chasing, his first thought had been, At least you are not yet married. As if that would matter. Even if she was unattached, she was a duke’s daughter and he was the bastard of who knew who.
Of course, she had said her Gervaise was a plain mister and not the Marquis of Gretna Green. It seemed that if the lady’s heart was engaged, a title was not required. And John knew himself to be a better man in one respect. No matter what the circumstances of his birth, at least he was not the sort who made promises to one lady and ran for the border with another.
He had half a mind to thrash sense into this Gervaise fellow for running off on her. Though Lady Dru’s tongue was sharp, she deserved better. That John would find himself rushing her north and into the arms of such a lacklustre lover was an even sharper irony. It was too like the part he’d played in the reconciliation of Emily and her husband.
He’d told himself often enough that his own parentage was not a reflection of his worth as a man. But when given a chance to test the theory, society always proved the opposite. And if Lady Dru was eager enough for her Mr Gervaise to set off cross country without a feather to fly on, hoping to win him back, then she would not be interested in some itinerant gentleman she met in the coach, even if that man was unwise enough to take a fancy to her.
Which he did not mean to do. John thought of a certain amiable widow who lived near the Folbroke country estate. It had been some months since his last visit to her. The extended period of celibacy must be addling his brain. Though he never seemed to be the target of it, the haze of feminine lust around his recent employers had raised something in him that was nothing more than envy disguised as infatuation and a desire to take care of natural and unmet needs.
When the carriage had got stuck, as he’d known it would, it had been almost a relief to exercise some of demons from his brain with pushing on the thing. Of course, to do it he had taken his employer in his arms and taken her to high ground, which had only made things worse. She was curvy under the simple gown she wore. And she had clung to his neck as though she’d enjoyed it, her red lips parted in surprise at how easily he’d carried her. He’d set her down quickly, out of the mud, before she could notice her lapse and his impropriety. If she spotted it, she would scold him for it, putting up barriers of rank and bad temper that were not the least bit threatening, once one knew her.
Strangely, he felt he did know her. Perhaps he was reading too much into the intent way she looked at him, or how easy it had been to talk to her on the previous evening, when they had been alone and no one could hear.
Then there had been that moment of awkwardness she’d displayed earlier, when she’d said she had not danced at Almack’s. She must have meant that she had no permission to waltz and that she would not have been so rude as to slight any partner. For a moment, it had almost sounded as though she was woefully inexperienced in the arts of society and had some personal reason not to give him up when he’d held her.
He shook his head. He was dreaming again. If he was fortunate, at the end of the journey he would find a Scottish widow sympathetic to his plight, and he would regain his equilibrium.
As he led the horses back to Lady Dru, he put on his most proper and deferential air, getting clear in his own mind the distance between them and the relationship they must have: respectful courtesy on his part and complete indifference on hers.
She looked dubiously at the horses, which were probably not the fine bloods to which she was accustomed.
‘You have experience enough to ride, do you not?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she answered, although her tone did not make her sound the least bit sure. ‘But I did not pack a habit.’
He almost sighed in relief to hear the sort of clothes-obsessed response he’d expected from a smart young lady of the ton, foolish and easily dismissed. ‘There is no place to change into it, even if you had it.’ He gave her an encouraging smile. ‘In any case, there will not be room enough to take much luggage. You will have to make do with a single bag; the rest will travel north to meet you when you reach your destination.’
‘I do not have more than that now,’ she said, glaring at him again. ‘I left in rather a hurry and am not such a great ninny that I wasted what time I had in packing band boxes.’
Damn. ‘Of course, my lady.’
Then she whispered more urgently, ‘But, Mr Hendricks, there is a problem. This saddle is … wrong.’
‘You are referring to the lack of a side saddle?’ he asked. ‘Coach horses are not generally equipped for a lady’s Sunday ride. These are accustomed to having a postillion, so at least we will not have to worry about being thrown into the dirt. But I cannot promise more than that.’
Such an enormous beast would frighten a normal woman to tears, but his employer was staring at the horse with a raised chin and a dark look. Then she stared back at the saddle with apprehension. ‘But what am I to do?’
There, at last, he saw the frightened girl under the iron façade. Perhaps this trip was not as easy as she made it out to be. He tried to hide his smile at the well-bred delicacy that thought spreading her legs was more risky than breaking her neck on a coach horse. ‘You must weigh your desire for further rapid progress against the need to retain your modesty in the wilds of the country, where no one will see you.’ He hoped she would take the more sensible choice, but knew that she would not.
‘I cannot ride astride,’ she said, finally, ‘but I must continue north.’
‘Then you can balance on your hip as best you can with no pommel to hold on to. Or we can use one horse for the luggage and you may ride with me.’ It would be faster than walking the horses so that she did not slip from the saddle, but it would mean that he would have to hold her close as they travelled, which would be awkward in ways she could not possibly imagine.
She stared back at him, brow smooth, eyes cool, chin raised and lips narrowed. ‘It cannot be helped, I suppose.’ The expression put him firmly in his place, assuring him that the ride would not be a pleasant one for either of them.
And yet … He thought for a moment that he saw a fluttering in the pulse of her neck and a nervous swallow. And the faintest of pink flushes to her cheek. Then it was gone.
He cursed his wayward imagination and mounted the larger of the two horses, then offered her a hand up. To assure her, he said, ‘Let us go a short way and see how we manage. You need have no concern for your safety, for I am an excellent horseman.’
‘I know you will not let me fall,’ she said. Her confidence in his abilities would have pleased him had it not been delivered in a testy voice, as though she’d just as soon be dropped upon her head than share his saddle. But she sat before him comfortably enough, posture good, and an arm about his waist with a grip that was firm and not the least bit missish.
It took only a few miles for him to begin wishing she’d taken the other choice. It was nice to ride with her—far too nice. She fit easily into the space before him, her soft hip pressed into his thigh as though it belonged there. As he spurred the horse, wisps of her fine black hair escaped from her bonnet and whipped in the breeze, teasing the skin of his cheeks. It was a tickling sweetness, bringing with it a whiff of cologne that made him want to lean forwards and bury his face in the side of her throat. He had to work to stifle the urge to loosen the bonnet and free the rest of it to let it stream in the wind.
He wished he was in a position to make conversation with her, for it might have helped to pass the time and occupy his mind in anything other than the scent of her hair.
‘Who are you?’ The words came from her suddenly, with no preamble. And then she stopped herself, probably shocked at sounding ridiculous, nonsensical and, worst of all, rude.
But