Page 229 of The Ladies Least Likely
His eyes found her immediately, as if he’d been waiting. She moved through the air somehow—it must be Beater helping her descend from the coach—and a shadow chased across his face at the sight of the other man’s hand at her waist. Regret, annoyance, longing, shame; they were gone in an instant, but she understood what he felt watching her be assisted by someone else doing what he, with his negligible balance, could not do. His expression was smooth when he reached her, or shereached him—everything in her pulled toward him like a tide—but his eyes were the blue of the sky in high summer.
“What—how—who—when?” She was the one stammering. She slid her gloved hands into his and only just refrained from kissing him.
“It happens I have business to see to in Shepton Mallet. Problems with the Manor House, and some trouble at my mills.” His eyes flickered to the coach, then the chaise. “I thought I might offer you a ride in my conveyance.”
“But I have already paid for the ticket.” Stupid, but she had to be frugal. Her sudden title had not come with funds. The guineas from Mrs. Darly’s prints lay wrapped at the bottom of her reticule and stashed at various points about her person, the girls having advised caution due to the high chance of encountering gentleman robbers on the highway.
The draft on Renwick’s bank for a staggering sum lay in the tiny pouch with what passed for her jewelry. She had not cashed it yet and knew in all practicality she must do so before leaving England.
His portrait canvas was carefully rolled, wrapped in layers of silk, and protected in the long leather tube waiting with her trunk in the bedroom she shared with Melike in the Countess of Calenberg’s house. She wished she had it before her. She hadn’t accented enough the strong square of his jaw, but saw now just how to do it.
A smile rippled across his lips. At least she’d captured his mouth precisely, the hint of a bow in the upper lip, the curve of the lower, not overlarge, but exactly perfect proportions. She stared like a ninny.
“The innkeeper thinks he might sell your ticket yet. Or I shall reimburse you for the cost.”
“And ride with you.” Alone.
It would be at least two days to Shepton Mallet traveling at speed, possibly two nights if the roads proved rough, as roads in Britain were wont to do, even in summer. Two men in Renwick livery lounged dicing in the shade of an overhang, and the postilion would accompany them as well. Servants made the travel more comfortable, but not more respectable.
“I don’t suppose you brought a companion. Or a maid.”
Chaperonage was the kind of thing her aunt could not bring herself to care about, and Harriette, in making her travel arrangements, had not taken into account that she was now the daughter of a duchess and would be expected to turn out like one, in a style of dress and an entourage suiting her station. She was wearing a plain German habit that would endure the dust and wear of the road, a set of stays she could fasten and unfasten herself, and had no more luggage than what she could carry.
“It would be just you, and me, and my hat,” Harriette said. He regarded this extravagance, its deep crown set with silk rosettes and a bright red spray of berries.
“That is an extremely fetching hat,” he said, his voice deepening.
“What about Amalie?”
“What about her?”
“We’ll look in on her ladyship and make sure she’s going on aright.” Jock swung up beside them on his crutches, touching the brim of his hat to acknowledge Ren. “We’ll keep an eye on the place, as we promised you and the girls.”
“The girls?” Harriette said in confusion.
“I, uh, may have m-made a call in Ch-Charles Street last night,” Ren said.
Harriette noticed the innkeeper and the postilion drawing near. Servants as well as strangers made Ren nervous, but he had likely brought his footmen to accommodate her. Warmth bloomed over the surprise ricocheting through her innards.
“Is that why the girls were so sanguine about my leaving today? Because they knew you would offer to take me?”
“Your aunt approved,” he said, and a slight flush of embarrassment touched his cheeks. Harriette could imagine what her aunt might have said about his offering Harriette escort. It would include advice to overlook her inconvenient betrothal to another, she didn’t doubt.
But shewasbetrothed to another. And she recalled with aching clarity how Ren had set her from him yesterday, breaking their passionate embrace.I can’t.That was clear enough. She would be in close company with him for days, not allowed to touch him, not permitted to act on her loving impulses, which she now knew came from deeper places than physical attraction or the trust of past friendship. She felt an undeniable bond with him, an attachment more complete than she had ever known in her life, but she could not claim him for her own in the elemental way that God and nature had designed.
This was penance for the sins of all her past lives, as well as this one. It didn’t matter. The truth was she would follow Ren anywhere, do whatever he asked. Perhaps it made her weak, but it was her truth.
“How soon do you wish to leave?”
Travelingwith the Earl of Renwick was an infinitely different experience than traveling back and forth from her girls’ school as Miss Harriette Smythe. Lesser conveyances waited at the posting inns while hands poured out to help the wealthy travelers in the post chaise, eager for the coins that might be in the offing. Innkeepers showed them to their best rooms just ahead of maids bustling in with fresh linens and hot water. To avoid any looks of askance or insinuation, Ren loudly introducedher as Lady Harriette, daughter of the Duchess of Löwenburg, whom he was escorting to be united with her mother.
The fierce concentration and small scowl with which he produced all the l- and r-sounds of her name never failed to make Harriette’s heart turn over, and she didn’t mind when the bowing and scraping turned in her direction if it took unwelcome attention off Ren. Because of him their meals were hot and tasty, they were served the best wines at dinner, and a private dining parlor was always available, even for a simple dish of tea during a change of horses, even when the public rooms were filled with curious villagers craning their necks to get a glimpse of London’s latest sensation.
One innkeeper’s wife sidled up to Harriette at dinner on the second night, ostensibly to offer her a cup of Madeira. “So that be ’imself, then?” she whispered while watching Ren, who chatted with a local squire who’d been occupying the public room when they arrived.
More correctly, the squire was holding forth with red-cheeked enthusiasm, and Ren smiled and nodded, his lips firmly closed. Harriette watched fondly. He’d mastered the art of making his silence appear sophisticated and intelligent, rather than a reluctance to speak, and as he leaned on his cane with the nonchalance of a fashionable gentleman, no one would ever guess that his leg pained him from long hours of sitting. She’d offered to help him with his exercises within the confines of the coach, but he’d declined, no doubt wisely, as it was in part an excuse to place her hands on him.
“That is the Earl of Renwick, yes,” Harriette said in answer to the inquiry of her hostess.
