“Hey,” Mary said sharply. “Where is my valise?”
Francine laid a restraining hand on her sleeve. “It’s been loaded into the carriage. Don’t fuss over it. They’re only doing their jobs.”
Mary scowled, but she didn’t speak another word on the subject.
I stepped into the bright sunshine, a good omen for the long ride ahead of us. Two carriages waited in front of the house. I strode toward the coach with the Annesley family crest on it. Francine’s father had lent it to us for the party.
Daisy stood with her back turned to me, her arm on her new husband’s sleeve as he helped her into the carriage. Spotting my arrival, she paused on the step and sniffed. “There isn’t room in this carriage for you,” she said.
I glared at her. “Of course there is. I came up in it, after all.”
“That was before Arthur came down with us. He’ll be taking your spot.”
I spluttered. “And how am I to get home?”
Francine laid her hand on my sleeve. I clutched her. Surely, she wouldn’t let Daisy turn me out of the carriage.
Before she said a word, Lady Dunlop cleared her throat. “I have a solution,” she said. “Another guest needs to borrow my carriage to return to London. There is room for you and your maid.”
She swept her arm to indicate the other, smaller carriage.
As coaches went, it was quaint. A squat little contraption, taller than it was long, with seemingly just enough room for two—or, with Emily, three—people. I glared at Daisy, who cast me a smug look.
“Very well,” I said graciously, even though that gentle emotion was the furthest from my mind. “Thank you for your generosity.”
I turned my back on Daisy and her new husband. Truthfully, I preferred a separate carriage from them, anyway.
“We’ll stay at the same inns, like we did last time,” Francine said, trying to placate me. I wondered why she bothered. She’d have her nose in a book throughout the travel home and likely wouldn’t even notice the difference.
I nodded anyway. “Thank you,” I said. “A bit of time alone sounds like just the thing at the moment.”
With one last glare in Daisy’s direction as she slipped into the bigger carriage, I strode toward the squat coach. Lady Dunlop’s favorite manservant, the older man who accompanied her everywhere, leaped forward to hand me into the contraption.
My eyes adjusted slowly to the dimmer interior of the carriage. I groped along to my right, sidestepping the occupant’s legs, as I found my seat. Behind me, Emily giggled as the manservant treated her with the same thoughtful assistance into the carriage as he had me. I scooted along to the very edge of the coach seat—not far, at all—and Emily squeezed into the spot beside me.
As my eyes grew accustomed to the dim interior, I found myself staring into Warren’s face.
Chapter Twenty-Two
My breath caught, but the carriage lurched into motion, beginning our journey. I was trapped with Warren. “Why are you here?”
A wry smile twisted his lips. The coach boxed him in, the sides framing his shoulders and the top scarcely clearing his head. “My cousin took my carriage when she left. Lady Dunlop was kind enough to offer hers.”
I dropped my gaze to my hands, fiddling with the arrangement of my skirts as I avoided his hot stare. It caressed the backs of my hands and the top of my head, a tingling reminder of his presence.
Despite the cool spring day, it soon grew unbearably warm in the coach. The window was open, letting in a small breeze as we turned out of the Dunlop drive and into the road proper. We were well and truly on our way back to London.
Beside me, Emily moaned. She leaned her head back against the squabs and clutched her belly. “I shouldn’t have eaten breakfast.”
I patted her on the hand. What else could I do? Another two long days of torture loomed ahead of her during the ride back to London. If only she didn’t get carriage sick. None of Francine’s tinctures did the trick. In fact, some of them made the ordeal worse.
Warren frowned. “Is she quite all right?”
“She gets carriage sick,” I told him.
Emily grew steadily paler with every jolt and wobble of the conveyance. Screwing her eyes shut, she rested her head against the squabs. Her breaths came in shallow pants through her mouth. She moved as little as possible.
Warren’s frown deepened. “Is there nothing we can do to ease her plight? Should we stop?”
“It wouldn’t help for long,” Emily said, her voice strained. She pressed her lips together. A neat ring of white framed them.
“She’s right,” I informed Warren. “We tried everything on the way down.”
Nevertheless, he rapped on the roof to signal the driver to stop.
“Maybe sitting in front with the driver will help. Fresh air might do you some good.”
“Glory, yes,” Emily said, with feeling. She scarcely waited for the carriage to pull to a stop before she lurched out of the vehicle. I made a face as she heaved at the side of the road. I patted my reticule, but I didn’t have anything to give her, not even a drop of water. Nonetheless, I crossed to the open carriage door to help her. The driver hunched over Emily’s prone form, offering her a flask. The color returned to her cheeks as she accepted it with a wan smile.
I shut the door and sat back. She was well taken care of.
In fact, I was more than a little jealous as the carriage resumed its rumbling progress. She got to sit up front, but I had to face Warren.
The tension between us mounted. It deepened, tightening like a girdle cinched too tight. I couldn’t take the thick, heavy silence blanketing us. I fidgeted.
Warren raised his eyebrows. “You can’t stand to sit still, can you?”
“This journey would be so much better if I was out there,” I said with a sweep of my hand to indicate the window. “A horse.”
He chuckled low under his breath. The sound rumbled over my skin, reminding me of times he’d made that very noise while pressed against my body.
“Astride like a man, no doubt.”
I scowled. “Astride like a proper horsewoman. Have you ever tried to ride sidesaddle? You don’t have near the control you should have.”
He held up his bare hands, palms outward in surrender. “I haven’t,” he told me, “and I hope never to suffer such a fate, given your opinion on the matter.”
He teased me. I glared at him. He had no right to, not after the way he’d treated me. A surge of disappointment and hurt rose in my chest again. He’d apologized, but I’d hoped never to see him again. Why had Lady Dunlop put us in the same carriage?
Actually, I knew why. She continued her machinations even after we left her presence. If she only knew the truth…
No matter what she thought, Warren and I wouldn’t marry. Warren didn’t believe in love. I did, and I refused to settle for anything less. When he’d tried to manipulate me, he’d burned all possibility of tender feelings toward him. After two days of long, grueling travel, we would part ways. For good, this time.
The silence and tension choked the carriage once more. After a while, even Warren shifted in spot. He unknotted the cravat from around his throat.
The air in the coach was suffocating, hot and stuffy despite the open window. Perhaps the silent battle of wills squeezed all life from the air, like we itched to do to each other.
I said nothing as he pulled the cravat free and laid it on the seat next to him. At least, not until he started to shuck his jacket.
“Are you undressing?” My voice emerged sharp and acerbic.
He raised an eyebrow. “It’s bloody hot in here. If we expire from the heat, how do you expect us to reach midday, let alone when we stop for the night?”
I squirmed in place but didn’t cede the point. If I had to remain fully clothed, so did he.
“You could muster a little modesty.”
“Why?” he said with a sly smile. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”
My che
eks ached from the force of my scowl. “Keep your voice down,” I whispered. “Do you want the whole world to hear?”
“Maybe,” he said slowly, “if it will keep you from murdering me with your eyes.”
I huffed out a breath and leaned back against the squabs. He was intolerable.
When he reached for the buttons on his waistcoat, I kicked him in the shin.
“Ouch! Why did you do that?”
“You’ve undressed quite enough,” I snapped. “If I must remain clothed and hot, so must you.”
At that, he sent me a lascivious grin. “I don’t mind if you’d care to undress, my lady.”
Despite the my lady quip, his tone was far from proper. His gaze twinkled, reminding me that he recalled our passionate night in his bed in embarrassing detail. My cheeks heated with shame. I’d let myself get carried away, I’d fooled myself into thinking he cared for me, and look at what it had gotten me.
Nothing but misery.
“I will not undress,” I snapped at him. “The only article I could take off would be my slippers.”
He gestured with one hand. “By all means, if it will make you less prickly.”
I glowered at him. I’d show him prickly. After toeing off my slippers, I shoved them in his direction with the tips of my toes. I hoped he tripped over them the next time he stood.
The cramped carriage afforded no means of escaping from one another. My knees pressed against Warren’s. Every jolt of the carriage rubbed me against him. In other circumstances, with other company, it might have been enjoyable. Then again, if another man had taken his spot, we could have passed the time chatting amiably.
Not that I had a tendré for any other man at the house party. Frederick’s face flashed before my eyes but not a twinge in my chest accompanied the loss of his suit. Thoughts of him felt distant, as though I’d fancied him years ago rather than a mere week. Maybe Francine had been right, and I’d fallen out of love with him too quickly to care.
Warren cleared his throat. He’d loosened the collar of his shirt, enough that it gaped in front, showing the shadow of his throat. His Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed.
“You could remove your stockings, as well. That might put you in a more charitable mood.”
I balled my fists. “My uncharitable mood has nothing to do with the heat and everything to do with the company.”
He pulled a face. “You don’t mean that.”
“I assure you, I do.”
Shaking his head, he raised one corner of his mouth in a half-smile. “Are you that afraid to relax with me? Are you so afraid of what you might do?”
I drew myself up so tall I knocked my head against the low carriage roof. Scowling, I pinned him with my glare. “I am not afraid I’ll do anything. Relaxed, or not.”
“No?” He raised an eyebrow. “You seemed more than willing to surrender to me when you relaxed in my presence before.”
“And look what it got me,” I snapped. I bit my tongue the moment the words emerged.
“We could still marry.”
I balled my fists. “Never. If I wanted a man to manipulate me for the rest of my life, I’d sell myself to the highest bidder.”
A look of concern crossed his face. “I didn’t withhold the knowledge of our engagement to manipulate you.”
“Then why?”
He grimaced and passed a hand over his face, no doubt preparing to lie. “You have a reputation,” he said at last.
I stiffened. “A reputation for what?” Belatedly, I recalled all the horrible things he’d said about his fiancée when we’d first met. The urge to kick him mounted. Balancing my heels on the edge of the seat, I drew my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them to squash that urge. “For entertaining men?”
I tightened my arms around my legs to the point that they ached. What I chose to do with my body was nobody’s business but my own. Not that that stopped the gossips’ wagging tongues.
Warren’s gaze wasn’t accusing. If anything, it was sympathetic. “For breaking hearts, if you must know. Your father told me that you valued love. I wanted the chance to win you over.”
“You did nothing but antagonize me.”
He made a face. “My ego got in the way. Can you blame me? You were pursuing another man.”
“I didn’t know we were engaged.”
“I realized that soon enough.” His voice was clipped. His words dissipated into the clomp of the horses’ hooves and clatter of the carriage wheels on the packed dirt road.
The seconds stretched into minutes. Neither of us spoke. My dress clung to my back, sticky. I shifted in place.
“Why would you ask to marry me? We never met before this party.”
“Our fathers were friends,” he reminded me. “If mine were still alive, this would have happened a lot sooner.”
“We don’t have to do everything our fathers say.”
Something uncomfortably close to pain crossed his features. He looked away. In a low voice, he admitted, “Maybe you don’t. My father didn’t leave me with many edicts before he died.”
My lips parted. What would it have been like growing up without Papa? I didn’t want to imagine it. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “It’s fine. I never knew him. I’ve been Lord Hartfell since I could talk.” He pressed his lips together and turned his face to look out the small window. Locks of his blond hair fell across his forehead. When he met my gaze again, he said softly, “I need a wife, so I figured I should at least try to follow his wishes.”
“With someone you’ve never met?” I shook my head. “I could have been a shrew, for all you knew.”
One corner of his mouth turned up in a half-smile. “Yes, you could have been. I’d heard you were beautiful.”
My lip curled. “Beauty has nothing to do with personality. Beauty fades.”
“Perhaps,” he agreed. “But your fierce loyalty, your wit, your passion for life—those persevere.”
Slowly, I lowered my feet to the ground. My legs were starting to cramp.
The silence between us lengthened, gathering tension. I fanned myself with my hand.
“Bloody hell, Rose.”
I jumped at Warren’s outburst.
“I won’t ravish you at the sight of your bare ankle. Take off your stockings and maybe you’ll be more inclined to pass this arduous trip in a kinder frame of mine.”
“That’s highly unlikely.”
He raised his eyebrows, no doubt intending to argue further. I cut him off.
“Even if I wanted to, there isn’t enough room in this carriage for me to maneuver my stockings off.”
At that his face darkened with lust again. I made a face at him, reading his thoughts plainly.
“I’ll help,” he said.
“A far from gentlemanly suggestion.”
A smirk crept over his featured. “I’ve claimed before that I’m no gentleman.” He patted his knee. “Put your foot up here. I’ll do nothing more than remove your stocking. I promise.”
I narrowed my eyes, wondering if I could trust him. Probably not.
I lifted my foot and placed it daintily on his knee anyway. The movement drew up my skirts to my calves. A bit of color flooded my cheeks as he ogled my ankle.
How could that possibly be erotic to him after he’d glimpsed so much more of me?
He eased his hand around the fabric on my ankle. His big palms swamped the top of my foot. He anchored me in place. With his free hand, he eased my skirt up my leg.
I stiffened. “What are you doing?”
“I can’t see where the stocking ties,” he said, his smile lustful. The tickle of his palm as he lifted my skirt over my knee made me shiver in anticipation.
No. I tamped down the emotion. I didn’t want him to romance me.
The slow slide of the silk garment over my thigh tightened every muscle in my body. His hot palm followed, a reminder of how near and intimate he was. I should pull away. In fact, his expression dared
me to.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I murmured, as much to myself as to him.
His lips stretched in a smile. “Good.”
He reached the top of my stocking. My skirts were bunched around my thigh, higher on the right side than the left, though a good deal of my left leg peeked into the open air as well. I shifted lower, lifting my leg to allow him access to the ties binding my stocking to the top of my thigh.
An inch or two of skin remained between the top of my stocking and my intimate flesh. I hadn’t worn drawers today. Warren traced the rim of the stocking as he searched for the ties. I resisted the urge to spread my legs wider. I recalled the pleasure he could invoke with those long fingers. An echo of that night traveled over my skin as he finally found the ties. With a smile on his face, he bent over my leg. The hand on my ankle caressed the full length of my leg as he joined it with his other one at the top.
Slowly—too slowly—he pulled the bow free. He hooked two fingers beneath the top edge of my stocking. I squirmed in place, urging him to go faster. I certainly wasn’t asking him for that other, pleasurable thing he’d wrought with my body mere days ago. My nipples stiffened against my bodice. I balled my fists to keep from crossing my arms over my chest and drawing attention to the reaction.
With aching slowness, he stripped the stocking from my leg. The pads of his fingers caressed the bare skin left in its wake. They curled beneath the sensitive underside of my knee, lingering there. I bit my tongue, not daring to say a word. I couldn’t be sure if it would be in protest or in encouragement.
When he reached the bottom of my foot and stripped my stocking away completely, he set it beside him on the pile of his clothes and treated the other leg to the same lavish treatment.
At some point during his ministrations, my legs had fallen apart. His gaze locked on the crux of my thighs. I should be embarrassed, but when he stared at me with such rapture written across his face, I felt strong. Powerful.
The rock of the carriage shifted me back and forth in place, a mimic of the way Warren had gyrated against me many a time before.
How to Play the Game of Love (Ladies of Passion) Page 23