Dukes Prefer Bluestockings

by Bianca Blythe

  The door opened, and Mr. MacTavish appeared.

  Outside him was only inky darkness, and not the cheerful glow of a coaching inn.

  Uncertainty flickered through her, and Mr. MacTavish sat down on the seat opposite. The space diminished in size, and she drew her feet toward her, conscious of long legs, broad shoulders and a seductive fragrance.

  “There’s no coaching inn,” he said.

  “Then keep on going.” Georgiana frowned. The answer was simple, but for some reason the man was not moving.

  “It’s dark, and the road isn’t good. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to the horses. I’m sorry.”

  Oh.

  Georgiana’s shoulders slumped. Mr. MacTavish had been riding outside on the perch, but he could hardly be expected to sleep outside. No. They would need to share the coach, this tiny, compartment which wasn’t conducive even to pleasant sitting.

  Traveling alone with a man was scandalous, but sleeping in a small, enclosed environment? Far from anyone?

  Her heartbeat quickened, but she jutted out her chin and forced her voice to sound confident. “Let’s keep on going. The inn is bound to appear soon.”

  “Fine,” Mr. MacTavish said after a pause. “But we really can’t do it for long. This lantern won’t last for long, and it’s too dim to be much help for the horses when they’re stepping over the road.”

  “Ten minutes,” Georgiana said.

  Mr. MacTavish’s look was grim, but he nodded curtly. Soon the coach jostled to a start, and Georgiana leaned back against her seat. Her hear thrummed with too much force for her to feel relieved. She hoped she’d made the right decision.

  Georgiana moved the curtains back and searched the darkness, trying to distinguish if any of the dark shapes in the night might be a building, the sort that would come with warm food and drink and a bed that wouldn’t rattle and swerve in the night.

  Boom.

  The horses grunted, the rhythm of the hooves became more more frantic, and then the coach jerked to the side.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” Mr. MacTavish shouted, but in the next moment the coach tilted and the next thing Mr. MacTavish said was a curse.

  The coach veered to the side, sending her sliding to the opposite side of the coach. Her shoulder smacked against the hard, polished wood just as Hamish cursed.

  She scrambled upright, rubbing her shoulder. The horses continued to neigh, and their hooves continued to pound against the ground, as if scrambling to right themselves.

  Georgiana’s heart lurched in her chest.

  The sound had been too large, but more worrisome was the fact that the coach was no longer moving.

  It was supposed to be moving.

  They wouldn’t be able to reach the next posting inn if the carriage couldn’t move, and right now proceeding even a few measly yards seemed an insurmountable feat.

  Georgiana pushed open the door and rushed outside. For the first time the ground did not seem far away, but her reaction was not joy.

  “Are we stuck?” Georgiana asked in a small voice.

  “Aye.” He hopped onto the ground and grabbed the lantern. “I’ll examine it.”

  The golden glow of the lantern moved with him, leaving her in the darkness. A blustery wind fluttered her clothes, and she wrapped her arms about her. She’d heard the wind pattering against the carriage, but she’d hoped part of its force could be attributed to their speed.

  She couldn’t retain the same hope now.

  It was cold and dark.

  And they were alone.

  “How is it going?” she asked.

  “Not good. A wheel is broken.”

  “And I don’t suppose there’s a spare?” Her voice squeaked, as if guilt and hopelessness were weighing against her chest, rendering any speaking challenging.

  “No,” Mr. MacTavish said.

  Right.

  Georgiana supposed wheels were rather too large and too cumbersome to make riding with spares a common practice, but disappointment still moved through her.

  “Let me look,” she said, stumbling over the uneven ground.

  “Suit yourself.”

  Her feet wobbled over the path, abundantly scattered with stones and tree roots, and she made her way to the lantern.

  “See?” Mr. MacTavish moved the lantern lower and handed it to her.

  It wasn’t a hallucination.

  The wheel was broken.

  “We’ll find someone to fix it in the morning when it’s light,” Mr. MacTavish said.

  “And where do you expect us to sleep tonight?”

  Georgiana abhorred the wobble in her voice and the fact that it had ascended an octave.

  “It will have to be in the coach,” Mr. MacTavish said. “I’m sorry. I wish we could be in an inn too, but I don’t see another option.”

  She crossed her arms. “You’re supposed to take me back. That was the plan.”

  “Well, it didn’t work.”

  She was alone with a man.

  At night.

  Secluded from everybody and everything.

  This wasn’t what was supposed to happen, despite the fact that Mr. MacTavish seemed to be under the impression that she was strong,

  “We’ll be on our way to Gretna Green in no time. You’ll see. Besides, I’ve already seen you in your night rail,” he murmured.

  “You mustn’t remind me of that.” Georgiana’s voice was miserable. “That was an accident.”

  There had been women at her finishing school who interested themselves in men, being sent to the school after sneaking kisses with the footmen and grooms.

  But that had never been Georgiana.

  She’d tried to behave.

  In fact—it had been easy to behave.

  Temptation had never presented itself to her.

  But now… Now it seemed that there were a multitude of things that could happen.

  She couldn’t simply curl up beside him and sleep.

  Georgiana jerked her head up, colliding with his arm. She rubbed her hand, and tried to shake off the man’s always seductive fragrance. “There’s always a way.”

  “And what do you suggest?” He crossed his arms, and his expression was stony-faced.

  “I’ll find the posting inn.” She turned, but he gripped her arm, sending warmth jolting through her. She struggled from his grasp.

  This was the countryside. She should be able to roam about over dewy meadows and wildflowers.

  “It’s dark,” he said, his voice stern.

  “I’ve noticed.” She stepped back, and a twig snapped beneath her.

  “Naturally. But you can’t abandon the coach.” He stepped toward her, forcing her to tilt her head up.

  “I’ll come back,” she said hastily. “And I can’t spend the night here, alone.”

  “With me,” he finished for her, but the sternness of his voice had disappeared.

  Was he remembering their first meeting? Was he remembering the feel of her bosom pressed against his chest, and of how his arms had wrapped around her waist? Was he remembering the feel of her lips against his? Of her taste?

  Doubtlessly he was in the habit of kissing women like that. He strode with the confidence of a man who never questioned his appeal, who was certain that his presence alone would suffice in bringing people joy.

  She refused to get lost in his appeal. She needed her own room, or possibly even one that she might share with the servant girls of the various travelers. That would suffice. She didn’t ask for much; she just wanted to be away from him.

  This was the man who’d worked to destroy her sister’s marriage before it even had a chance to happen. This was the man who’d sneaked into her room in the night, not caring about any rules of propriety or her fear. If her parents had discovered him there, she might have been forced to marry him.

  Georgiana reminded herself that there could be no worse fate.

  No, perhaps the
y would need to travel with each other, but that would be in daylight.

  She’d be a fool to trust him.

  “I’ll be back in the morning.” She marched away from him, widening her strides.

  “Georgiana!”

  It was the first time he’d called her by her first name, and she wondered if he’d elected to do so now out of expediency or if he’d been referring to her by that name in his mind all along.

  No matter.

  It was not the sort of thing to mull over.

  “You mustn’t go!” Mr. MacTavish called again, but his voice had already grown fainter, and Georgiana smiled. At least she was making good speed. She rushed down the road, floundering over the occasional root. She had a moment of longing for London’s cobbled streets. Dirt roads were occasionally less bumpy, but after a rain shower deep grooves could furrow into the dirt.

  This lane had evidently seen many rain showers.

  If only there’d been a second lantern.

  Or perhaps she should have taken the only lantern. Mr. MacTavish had been intent after all at staying by the coach. She quirked a smile, wondering just what compilation of Scottish sounding curses Mr. MacTavish would utter if she’d done that.

  She strode forward. Tall hedges lined both sides of the road.

  She reminded herself that this was probably a good thing. It was a sign of civilization. Or was it a sign of an empty estate which would have no posting inn to serve it? Would highwaymen be lurking in the top of the chestnut trees on the other side of the hedges, eager to jump on passersby in the hopes of expanding their coin?

  A shiver, one perhaps not entirely attributable to the frigid temperature, moved through her, but she continued forward.

  Chapter Eighteen

  She was gone.

  Hamish had scarcely finished showing her the broken wheel before she fled. Her legs might be of a shorter length than his, but she evidently knew exactly how to use them.

  God in heaven.

  Hamish should stay where he was. Let her get eaten by wild wolves or whatever beasts roamed about Cambridgeshire. It would serve her right for sneaking onto his coach. He nodded decisively, but the sense of certainty was not prolonged.

  God in heaven, he could hardly let her succumb to danger. When had he become so intimidating that a lassie would rather take her chances with the great wilderness, even if Cambridgeshire at least didn’t border an ocean into which she might topple?

  Hamish scowled and sprinted after her. Damnation.

  At least the area on either side was flat and any driver would be able to discern the horses’ presence relatively quickly, provided the horses had the good sense to whinny or neigh.

  Not that this area was likely to have many travelers. Anyone with any sense would already be tucked in a posting inn. No stagecoaches would be on the road now.

  Still, she was out there—alone.

  His heart flayed in his chest, and he dashed in the direction Miss Butterworth had headed in. He pounded over the road. The tall hedges disappeared, replaced by a wooden area. God in heaven. This was hardly an improvement. He raised his lantern, hoping that the glow would reveal her presence.

  Nothing.

  He shouted her name, and crunched over twigs and leaves as he rushed through the forest. If any highwaymen were here, they would know that they were not alone.

  They’d driven through fields most of the the day, but now, when he needed to find her, they were in a wooded area. The scent of wildflowers should have been pleasant, but it was only a reminder of their isolation. Hamish had never despised the scent of honeysuckle so much.

  The lantern’s dim light flickered over the surroundings, revealing dark outlines off long, gnarly trees that brushed against his hands when he ran. A scream sounded. He told himself it was just an owl that had caught its prey. It wasn’t Miss Butterworth. It can’t be.

  And then he saw her.

  She was sitting on a rock. He couldn’t see her face, but her back was hunched forward, and her hair had fallen completely loose, perhaps from the exertion of her run.

  He stilled. Twigs snapped beneath him, and the sound seemed impossibly loud, her back tensed, but she did not turn around.

  “I won’t come with you,” Miss Butterworth said, but her voice had rather less determination in it than when she’d last seen him.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he said solemnly. “You’re my responsibility now.”

  She shifted and turned toward him. Her locks fluttered in the wind, contrasting with her unwavering expression. “What does responsibility mean to a man like you?”

  Her words were ferocious, and his shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry about the room.”

  “Is that all you’re sorry about?” Her voice trembled.

  He took a tentative stepped forward, but she drew back immediately. He hesitated and raked his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry I broke into your chamber. And I’m sorry I—er—kissed you. I thought you were your sister.”

  “That doesn’t make it better.”

  “I apologize.” He wanted to say that that had been also to test her loyalties, but he wasn’t certain, on reflection, whether that had been the case. Something about her had been so vibrant. He’d wanted to kiss her then. He wouldn’t have kissed just anyone.

  “What about your brother?” she asked.

  “What about him?”

  Miss Butterworth inhaled, and even in the dark her frustration was obvious. “You tried to take away his betrothed, and then you got him inebriated.”

  “I’d forgotten that.” He smiled, remembering it, and she must have heard some warmth in his voice.

  “You shouldn’t be proud of that,” she said sternly.

  “No, you’re right. And naturally I wouldn’t have really harmed him.”

  “Hmph.”

  “Look. Georgiana.”

  Her eyes widened, and he considered taking the word back, but her name had felt correct on his tongue, no matter if it was similar to the name of the very English monarch and all his.

  “I’m not a rake,” he said.

  She snorted. “Of course you are.”

  “No,” he said solemnly. “I know that’s what you think I am, and I know that I’ve given you that impression. I even tried to give you that impression. But I’m not one and have never been.”

  “You burst into my room.”

  “I would probably have done that more elegantly if I’d been wearing my pince-nez. I mean, it wouldn’t have appeared elegant. God in heaven, I’ve had enough people tell me that when I was a schoolboy, but I likely wouldn’t have tipped over the potted plant, and I would not have barreled into the room.”

  “You didn’t barrel,” she said, but he could hear the smile in her voice, and the tension swirling through him eased. “Besides rakes sometimes wear pince-nez. Pince-nez cannot be relegated to those whose who are not rogues.”

  “Name one rogue who wears them,” he said. “Just one.”

  She was silent, and he considered it a triumph that she didn’t name him.

  He knew rogues. Lord Rockport, the Marquess of Bancroft, and Sir Miles all were rogues.

  He was not one of them.

  “Rogues aren’t content to stay home and handle estate concerns, and they certainly aren’t content to spend the rest of their time designing buildings.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Just because you are a woman and I am a man, does not mean that I will feel compelled to dismantle your maidenhood.”

  She flinched, and he sighed. “See, even my vocabulary is not befitting that of a rogue. I’m sure a true rogue would have made some reference to roses and—”

  “Rainbows?”

  “Aye,” he said, feeling his lips move into a grin.

  “I would never want you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “Except kidnap me?”

  A new wave of guilt came through him, but rus
tling sounded. “I suppose I’ll have to take that chance.”

  Relief spread through him as she moved toward him. Her limbs still seemed too stiff, as if ambling toward him still felt unnatural.

  “Look. We are going to spend the night in the coach, and then we are going to travel to Gretna Green together. You will meet your sister, and somehow we’ll concoct a story that will maintain your reputation. But I will not harm you. Think of me as your—”

  “Soon to be brother-in-law?”

  The word brother should not be anywhere near her lips when referring to him. Brother-in-law wasn’t even the technical word for what they would be if Callum married her sister, and he was going to do his best so that Callum wouldn’t marry her sister.

  “Think of me as Hamish,” he said. “Not a stranger.”

  “Not a rogue?”

  “Well. You may think of me as a tiny bit of a rogue.” He smiled. “My masculinity might demand it. But I assure you I only you want to protect you.”

  “Very well, Hamish,” she said. Her voice was warmer, as if she were smiling, and he hoped that just maybe everything would be fine.

  Only a few more days until Scotland.

  *

  They trudged back to the coach together. Hamish’s lantern illuminated the path, revealing thick gnarly branches that she could have collided into and ditches into which she could have fallen.

  An owl hooted, and rabbits scampered away. They knew the forest was dangerous—why hadn’t she?

  She shivered and pulled the blanket more firmly about her.

  She’d been foolish and too impulsive. Just like always.

  She swallowed hard.

  Hamish strode confidently toward the coach, evidently relieved at having found her. The man’s reassurances had been somewhat amusing. The man seemed to be convinced that rogues were only found in the finest parlors and ballrooms in London or Edinburgh, when Georgiana was quite certain that a true rogue was quite more likely to be rambling about craggy peaks on the very edge of Britain and doing daring things like disrupting weddings.

  They were soon at the carriage, and Hamish opened the door. She slipped inside and he followed her, settling onto the other side of the carriage.