This place didn’t even have windows; evidently the owner had seen no need to get taxed for something as intangible as natural light.
He guided the horses into the courtyard. When he stepped down, she didn’t take his proffered hand. The ground might seem awfully far away, and a groom might usually assist her, but he needn’t think her so helpless that she couldn’t disembark on her own.
The speed at which she descended the coach was perhaps more quick than normal.
Her feet crunched against the gravel, and she glanced warily at the wagons, carts and vans parked outside. More donkeys than horses were present, and some of the male guests had wandered outside, still clasping their tin tankards.
“Oooh!” Some of the men shouted and pointed in the direction of them.
Lord Hamish Montgomery’s face paled, and he halted. “Follow me.” He dashed back to the coach, jerked open the door and removed the blanket. “Wrap this around you. You’ll look just like any other woman.”
He spread the fabric over her shoulders. He smoothed his fingers along it, and warmth that could not be entirely attributed to the woolen material spread through her. Georgiana held its corners as if it were a cloak, simply missing its buttons.
“You resembled a cake confection,” he explained. “Something some French patisserie concocted from sugar.”
Georgiana flushed. “And the men don’t enjoy cake confections?”
He looked puzzled for a moment, and then he shook his head. “I’m afraid these men might be overly fond of them.”
Chapter Sixteen
They were trouble.
Hamish recognized their type at once.
They were loud and drunk and there were too many of them. One of them might prefer to concentrate on his tankard, two of them might grumble to each other or set out to seduce one of the barmaids, but three of them were a force to encourage one another on toward disaster.
Unfortunately there were more than three.
He hurried Miss Butterworth along.
He’d done his best to make Miss Butterworth look less radiant, less beautiful, less glamorous, even though he’d felt horrible covering up her dress. She shouldn’t change anything about herself for these wretched men, but when they neared them, the men started to call out names of such vulgarity that Miss Butterworth’s face paled.
The only comfort was that the words possessed such vileness, he doubted Miss Butterworth knew them.
Part of him wanted to return to the coach at once, but the horses needed to be changed, and he hoped that waiting inside, in a place overseen by barmaids who might desire some modicum of order, might be more pleasant.
They soon entered the inn. Despite the fact that the structure must be relatively new, it had taken a traditional view on measurements, and Hamish had to duck as he entered. The white walls lacked charm. People clustered at tables and ate.
He turned to Miss Butterworth. “Any preference in food?”
She shook her head.
“Two hot meals,” he declared to the barmaid.
The barmaid directed them to a rickety table near the bar, and Miss Butterworth and he sat down.
The people in the pub were only slightly more proper than people lingering in the courtyard. Evidently the food was a suitable distraction to them.
Still, Hamish was uneasy. Miss Butterworth didn’t belong in a location like this. Perhaps she’d not come from money, but she was a vicar’s daughter. He doubted her father would have wanted her to be here.
“If anyone asks, you’re my sister,” Hamish whispered.
“Then I was far better at learning the accent here.” Miss Butterworth’s dark eyes glimmered, and he mused again over the discovery that brown eyes were decidedly not dull.
His cheeks warmed, but he found himself smiling all the same. “Perhaps we had different fathers.”
“How scandalous.” Miss Butterworth widened her eyes. “Did my mother decide to run off with a swarthy pirate?”
“Red-headed pirate, it would seem, though I don’t think it would be good to spread about the idea that your mother had low standards in men.”
“Pirates can be most under appreciated.”
“Yes,” he said. “All that pillaging they do. Quite unfairly seen.”
“At least they’re skilled at something,” Miss Butterworth said. “Sailing, swordsmanship, shooting...”
He stretched back, assessing her. “That’s an unusual sentiment for a young lady in London to have.”
“I’m not in London,” she said, “though perhaps you would benefit from spending more time there. We’re really not as silly as everyone makes us out to be.”
“Is that so?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Yes. We have this dreadful reputation for frivolity, but we’re not permitted to do anything else. Why wouldn’t we become accomplished at the few things that are permitted us?”
“Like garden design?”
“I’m lucky. Papa has always been most tolerant of my desires to tear up and reshape the world around me. He holds neither fresh air nor exercise with suspicion, even when it pertains to women.”
“And what intrigues you about garden design?”
“Everything. The task of enhancing a space, to make it the loveliest it can be, is delightful.” Her eyes glazed, as if envisioning her work, but then she smiled. “But it’s possible father simply favored a quieter house. More conducive to sermon writing. Or simply reading.”
Hamish chuckled. He could imagine that. He’d seen the number and variety of books in the London townhouse. No doubt their actual home contained much more.
“And your sister?”
“She’s less enthusiastic about shoveling mud about, though that could be a sign of her greater intellect. She prefers mathematical formulae.”
“Indeed?” Hamish asked, conscious he may have sounded overly surprised. Just because he’d found mathematical formulae dull, at least in comparison with the wonders of geometry, did not mean everyone did.
The barmaid interrupted them with their food. The taste might be dull, but dullness would certainly not extend to the rest of the dinner.
God in heaven.
Miss Butterworth was like no woman he’d ever met. She was brave, intelligent and not the least bit selfish.
“One of my dearest friends, Louisa Carmichael, is quite passionate about the ocean and everything in it,” Miss Butterworth remarked. “She’s created this most delightful contraption to allow one to stay longer underwater.”
“How incredible.”
“Yes,” Miss Butterworth murmured, her tone almost wistful. “Rather more wonderful than a garden.”
He shook his head adamantly. “No. Garden design is most intriguing.”
She tilted her head. “His Grace did regale us with tales of your architectural triumphs.”
“He did?” Hamish had rather thought his brother hardly knew anything about the commissions he’d undertaken.
“To think that you designed a practical castle for someone, with all its intricacies, all its romantic touches...” She smiled. “It must have taken so long.”
“It’s still being built,” he said. “But I started designing buildings years ago. I’d shared my sketches with an acquaintance, and when he inherited...”
“You gave him the designs for your dream home,” she finished.
“Aye.” The fact seemed less pleasant than it normally did, and he considered his brother’s comment about using some of the considerable Montgomery wealth to build a home of his own. “Perhaps I don’t live there, but I can visit at times. But the main thing is to know that it exists, and it will exist longer than I will. Barring any earthquakes.”
“Unlikely.” Miss Butterworth smiled.
“The house is of a most sturdy stone.” He smirked. “Not like your English chalk.”
“We don’t actually build homes with it.”
“You just pontificate a lot about its beauty.”
“It is beauti
ful,” she insisted. “There is so much in the natural landscape to enjoy. And if it can be simply arranged in a manner most pleasing to the eye, with specific spaces to wonder most at the beauty of nature—”
“I would like to see that.”
The air seemed tenser, and she leaned back in her chair, more out of a sense of propriety than an urge to suddenly relax. The distance between her shoulders appeared narrower, and her smile vanished. Perhaps she’d remembered they were not actually friends and that he was the man who was preventing her from returning to her family, risking her entire reputation.
His stomach tightened.
He felt much younger around her. Less suave, less sure of himself. Not that he was ever in the habit of feeling suave. Suavity usually demanded leaving one’s estate with greater frequency than he did.
Harsh laughter sounded from outside. Those damned men were continuing to drink.
“Perhaps it would be better to say that we’re married,” he mused, thinking of the men as the commotion grew louder. “Should anyone ask.”
She scrutinized him, but finally she nodded. He wondered whether she’d refrained from protesting because she agreed with him, or whether she simply was afraid of him. He certainly hadn’t given her any cause to feel safe.
He sighed. Perhaps he should return her to her family after all. Perhaps he’d been wrong.
But it was evening now, and he couldn’t very well deliver her in the middle of the night and expect everyone to think she hadn’t been compromised.
No.
They might as well continue now. The plan was good. Her sister would vouch for her.
“I’ll—er—ask if this place has any rooms,” he said.
She frowned, and her eyes flashed with something that was definitely not amusement. “It’s still light outside.”
“It will get dark.”
“The sun isn’t even setting.”
“But it will happen.”
She shook her head. “No. There must be a better option. Can’t we drive farther?”
“I’m not sure we’ll be able to get to the next coaching inn quickly enough.”
“Well, we have to try.” Miss Butterworth leaned closer to him, and an enticing floral scent wafted over him. “I heard what those men said about me.”
Right.
He had to think about her safety and not just ponder potential sun patterns.
He stood abruptly, and the chair scraped against the floor. “Then let’s go now.”
She beamed, and he wondered how he could have desired to contradict her. Soon they were outside, and he glanced around to make certain the ruffians were not nearby and guided her quickly to the carriage.
He nodded to the groom. “How far to the next posting inn?”
“It’s just in the next village,” the groom said. “You can’t miss it.”
“Splendid,” Hamish said. He’d been foolish to worry.
The air was chillier, and he addressed Miss Butterworth. “You should sit inside.”
“But—”
“I wouldn’t want you to catch cold. That dress is thin, and even with the blanket—”
“I’ll sit inside,” she said, and even though he was well aware he’d won a debate, he felt as if he’d lost something more.
The horses trotted merrily down the road, evidently happy for some exercise, even if it involved pulling the coach.
He took in the scenery, conscious of missing Miss Butterworth. The sky had continued to resist the temptation to rain, even though it had seemed to do nothing but that all year. The color had turned a more somber gray, resembling the cinder from buildings ceded to cannon fire in the last war.
No matter.
The sky could be gray. It only meant there wouldn’t be many stars visible tonight, but Hamish could do without them. They couldn’t drive in the night anyway, and he had no expectations of seeing celestial views from whatever room the next posting inn assigned him.
Any moment now he would likely see signs of the upcoming village, and he waited. Would he see a mill? A hay wain, like in some Constable painting? Or perhaps a manor house perched on one of the few hills in the area?
Hamish scanned the landscape for manor houses.
There were none.
Well, perhaps any manor homes were shielded by tall hedges. Not every manor house could come with a view.
It did seem odd, though, that he wasn’t seeing any signs of a village.
Perhaps he would see the river first? Or a lake?
He wondered what the source of water would be for the village. Some babbling brook?
The one thing he knew was that he would see some supply of water. Villages had a tendency to consider them vital.
He inhaled the woodsy scent. Some birds chirped.
The village, though, did not come.
Normally this would be fine, but it was growing distinctly dark. The sky’s grayness had masked the normal sunset, and the sky hadn’t turned tangerine and pink and a display of other colors, all bold and the sort for painters to enjoy. Instead, the sky simply darkened, and he found his eyes straining.
Chapter Seventeen
The carriage stopped, and Georgiana smiled.
Lord Hamish Montgomery must have found an inn, and when his footsteps padded from the driver’s perch to the door, she pulled the blanket about her and prepared to leave.
The door opened, and he appeared.
Outside him was only inky darkness, and not the cheerful glow of a coaching inn.
Uncertainty swept through her, and he 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 replied.
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. Lord Hamish Montgomery had been riding outside on the perch, but he could hardly be expected to sleep outside. No. They would need to share 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.”
“Very well,” he said after a pause. “But we really can’t do it for long. This lantern won’t last, and it’s too dim to be much help for the horses when they’re stepping over the road.”
“Ten minutes,” Georgiana said.
He nodded curtly. Soon the coach jostled to a start, and Georgiana leaned back against her seat. Her heart 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 sway in the night.
Boom.
The horses grunted, and the rhythm of the hooves became more frantic. 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 he 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.
<
br /> 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 darkness. A blustery wind fluttered her clothes, and she wrapped her arms around 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 a challenge.
“No.”
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?” He 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,” he 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,” he said. “I’m sorry. I wish we could be at 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.”
Don't Tie the Knot (Wedding Trouble Book 1) Page 11