Page 52 of When a Lady Kisses a Scot
A spark of incredulity flared in Sophie’s eyes. Truth be told, it had seemed a wonder even to himself that he could utter the proposition without laughter.
“To the cemetery?” she asked coolly.
“Yes. What better place to commune with the old man?” He paused for effect. “Unless your gadabout spirit Esme has an aversion to graveyards. As I understand it, you never know with spirits.”
Trask slanted Sophie what he no doubt believed to be a subtle glance. Did the blighter truly believe Gavin would not notice his razor-sharp expression, or had he calculated the move for effect?
“I understand Esme has been a bit, shall we say, difficult,” Trask said. “Perhaps a sitting with Louis would prove productive. His spirit last walked this earth during the Terror. He possesses a wealth of knowledge.”
“The Terror, you say.” Gavin pretended to mull the choice. “A Frenchman who lost his head in the Revolution or a saucy female…that’s not much of a contest, is it now? Father would have nothing in common with a Parisian aristocrat. He earned his fortune with his own sweat and blood and disdained the elite. The old goat would be drawn to a saucy minx like Esme. Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Devereaux?”
She met his words with a bland expression. “I’m confident Esme will be far more helpful today, if only in appreciation of your chivalrous display. Besides, a tour of the graveyard may feel like a reunion of sorts for her cheeky soul.”
…
Stanwyck’s driver deftly maneuvered the sleek carriage through streets bustling with coaches, work wagons, and pedestrians. Sophie peered from the window, taking in the sight of buildings and people and conveyances cloaked in a somber gray haze. The miasma hovered over the city, a thick blanket of fog, factory smoke, and coal dust. A wretched smell wafted from the gutters, permeating the windows.
Turning away from the relentless gloom, she smoothed her skirts, fanning them out around her. Seated on the opposite bench, Stanwyck’s gaze followed her small movements. Did he suspect she’d manipulated the voluminous fabric to create a barrier between them? How very arrogant—and how very typical of the man.
Pity she’d allowed herself to be drawn to him the night before. She’d been caught up in the powerful feelings the near-abduction had stirred. In his arms, she’d known full well what she was doing. She couldn’t deny that. Not that she would even attempt to do so. It wasn’t as if she was ashamed of her response. It had seemed so natural at that moment in time, an innate response to his masculine confidence and power.
She’d craved that potent contact, wanted his touch and his kiss. But the hunger had been a transient sensation, a fleeting emotion. Sitting here, in the light of day, he was merely a man—a man she knew better than to trust.
Folding his arms, he stretched out his long legs. “You’ve been quiet,” he observed. “Are you well?”
“Well enough, all things considered.” She kept her voice as emotionless as his.
He tilted his head to study her face. “No ill effects?”
“Nothing to be of concern. How very kind of you to ask.” Her words sounded false even to her own ears. If only she did not feel as if he was studying her.
“Your resilience is commendable.”
“What choice is there, really?” Peculiar, how surprising the honesty of her reply seemed to her ears.
The wheels on the coach rattled fiercely as Avery drew the carriage to a halt. Stanwyck escorted Sophie from the conveyance.
The driver cast a wary eye to the darkening clouds. “A storm is brewing. When these bones of mine start to ache, you can bet your last h’penny rain is on the way.”
“Do stay close, Avery. We won’t be long, but I don’t want to chance Miss Devereaux being drenched.”
“I’ll be waitin’.” The older man cast the graveyard a wary glance. “Doesn’t matter how old a fellow gets, the sight of all those tombstones brings a chill.”
“Come now,” Stanwyck said. “Surely you do not harbor a fear of ghosts.”
“I can’t say as I do. But I’ve no hankering to go traipsin’ about their graves.”
“Shall I give my father your regards?” Humor flashed over Stanwyck’s features.
“Aye, of course. He always treated this ol’ man well.”
“He held you in high regard,” Stanwyck said. “He trusted you. A rare thing, indeed.”
“Thank you, sir.” Was that sadness in Avery’s gruff voice?
Stanwyck’s fingers curved around Sophie’s forearm, and he led her toward a massive grave marker that seemed more of a monument. A biting wind whipped through her wool cloak, unleashing a sudden shiver. If she were a more skittish woman, she might’ve found the combination of the charcoal sky and towering tombstones an ominous sight. To the contrary, the weather seemed to mirror her mood. All she needed was a crackle of thunder to mimic the tension-filled pounding in her left temple.
Well out of Avery’s earshot, Stanwyck turned to her.
