The Rake's Inherited Courtesan. Ann Lethbridge
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well. I will ride with you as far as the Hare and Hounds.’ At least the rain had ceased.
He handed her up. The fragile equipage rocked precariously on its long springs. While she settled herself with care on the seat, she admired the high-priced cattle in the traces. Mr Evernden obviously knew horses.
The team tossed their heads and stamped their feet. The rackety thing lurched. She grabbed for the side. It was worse than any ship.
The moment Mr Evernden climbed into his seat and took up the reins, the groom released the bridles. Solely in charge of the spirited pair, Mr Evernden glanced around him. With a dexterous twist of his strong wrist, he flicked his whip and set his horses in motion.
She’d heard a great many tales about young blades who drove like the wind in their sporting carriages. More often than not, they broke their necks. She curbed the desire to hang on to his solid-looking forearm.
In moments, the carriage eased its way through the archway. No sign of the man she thought she’d seen loitering in the shadows and yet the hairs on her neck prickled as if someone was watching. Oh, for goodness’ sake. Now she was imagining monsters on every corner. The events of the afternoon must have rattled her nerves. Her biggest problem sat at her side.
They turned out on to the road.
‘I assume you know where to find this Hare and Hounds?’ she asked, pulling her cloak tight against the chilly air.
‘I didn’t say I was going to the Hare and Hounds.’
She stared at the hard line of his profile. He kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead, but the flickering muscle in his strong jaw boded ill.
‘Then where are we going?’
‘You’ll see.’
Once more, something uncomfortable writhed in her stomach. Alone with this man, she had nothing but her wits to defend her and half the time they seemed to go begging where he was concerned. ‘I expect I shall see, but I would prefer to know.’
He gave a short humourless laugh. ‘What difference does it make? You’re going, whether you wish it or not.’
Chapter Four
‘If you are wise, you won’t cause any more trouble,’ he said and pulled out to pass a slowly moving town coach.
Sylvia gripped the side of the curricle and shot him a glare designed to freeze ‘Without your interference, there would have been no trouble.’
‘I suppose you didn’t almost cause a mill back there, cosying up to some namby-pamby, titled puppy with more hair than wit.’ He fired her a hard glance. ‘And just what were you doing there, anyway?’
The mill, as he called the altercation, was entirely his own doing. ‘My affairs are not your concern.’
A muscle jerked in his jaw and his anger sparked across the space between them. ‘Really? We’ll see about that.’
Prickles raced down her back. Until his resentment subsided, she risked more than sharp words from the bristling male at her side. And if he overturned this ridiculous vehicle, it would be the perfect ending to a perfectly awful day. She sat back, determined not to say another word.
The carriage bowled along at a smart clip, his strong hands grasping the ribbons with practised assurance. The spirited team ate up the road, passing everything in its path.
The traffic thinned. Signs of habitation dwindled to the occasional farm along the road. The clouds rolled away and the horizon disappeared into hazy dusk, while sunset gilded the tops of distant trees. She nibbled her bottom lip. Just how far did he intend to travel? If they went too far, she would not get back to Tunbridge Wells in time to catch the morning coach.
Her trunk. How could she have been so stupid? She clutched at Mr Evernden’s sleeve.
A stony expression met her gaze. ‘What?’
‘I left my luggage behind.’
‘You can collect it in the morning.’
The savage edge to his tone and the vicious flick of his whip above his horses’ heads gave her but a moment’s pause. ‘We must go back. What if it is stolen?’
‘Miss Boisette, if you think I would set foot in that place again… I have never in my life been ejected from anywhere, let alone a common inn.’ Anger vibrated from him in waves.
She quelled a sudden urge to laugh at his injured expression. ‘Then you have me to thank for a novel experience.’
He scowled.
She’d gone too far. She edged away a fraction.
‘It’s an experience I could have done without,’ he said. ‘And I’d liefer not go through it again. If it is not too much trouble, I would appreciate your behaving with suitable decorum at this next inn.’ Despite his repressive tone, he no longer sounded furious.
A sideways glance revealed his lips in a slight curve. ‘Gad,’ he muttered, staring straight ahead. ‘A novel experience.’
Her lips twitched. She pressed them together, but not before she knew he’d caught the beginning of her smile.
‘Don’t worry about your trunk,’ he said after a brief silence. ‘It will be safe at the Sussex Hotel. The landlord appears to run a tight ship.’
‘As we found to our cost.’
He smiled. ‘Indeed.’
Her breath caught somewhere between her throat and her heart. The grin made him younger, almost boyish. His eyes crinkled at the corners and danced with green pinpricks of light. Unable to resist, she smiled back.
The travelling must have sent her wits to sleep. Signs of friendliness posed risks she dare not entertain. Men were dangerous enough without encouragement. She straightened in her seat and braced herself for what might lie ahead.
At a crossroads, he slowed the horses and turned them off the London Road. Sylvia tried to read the signpost, but the faded letters flashed by too fast. High hedges and overhanging trees cast deep shadows in the rutted, twisting lane. A flutter of disquiet attacked her stomach. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Somewhere we will be welcome, of that I can assure you. It is not far now.’
Did he have to be so mysterious? This stiff young man at her side thought her a wanton. So he should. She’d behaved like a strumpet, gambling everything on his desire to be rid of her. What if he changed his mind? Alone with a young and virile man, who-knew-where, tasted of risk.
Better him, than one of those other men at the Sussex Hotel. Better? A sudden tremble shook her limbs. She clenched her fingers around her locket, a familiar anchor to her past in the storm-tossed ocean of an uncertain future. If it came to a confrontation, somehow she had to make him understand she was not like her mother.
The Bird in Hand’s mullioned windows flickered with warm light, a lighthouse in the deepening dusk. Wood smoke scented the cool air and the front door stood open in welcome.
Christopher hadn’t been here since his grandmother had died, but it looked the same as always. The blackened Tudor timbers breathed permanence, despite the green of new thatch and a recent extension to the adjoining stables. A plaque over the weathered oak door boasted of hosting Good Queen Bess in the year fifteen hundred and fifty-six—along with half of England’s other inns. He brought the horses to a stand.
A balding groom ran out from the stables and grasped the team’s bridles.
A wonderful aroma of roasted meat filled Christopher’s nostrils and set his mouth watering. If he could count on one thing, it was Mrs Dorkin’s cooking.
‘How pretty,’ Miss Boisette said.