A Breath of Scandal: The Reckless Brides (12 page)

She had hunkered down right there next to him. If he turned his head, his mouth would be level with hers. Yes, damn his eyes, God certainly was laughing at him to make temptation look like a disreputable, moth-eaten boy. “And that’s why it’s called gambling, Preston.”

Her answering smile was entirely sanguine. “Then let us gamble.”

The girl insinuated herself easily and confidently into the game, disappearing into the boisterous tangle of arms and cap-covered heads. She waited her turn patiently, making prudent bets without ever looking to him for advice, and rubbing her hands together in eager anticipation when it came her turn to throw.

Within a few minutes she had increased her small stake of shillings threefold. But a sovereign and a half in winnings was a lot of money to such men, so when she called off on the next roll, Will was happy to see her lose the sixpence gracefully, and stuff her winnings into her pockets.

“I didn’t want to appear greedy,” she said by way of explanation, but he could tell by her smile and warm cheeks that she was pleased. And feeling a tad bit cheeky. “What do you think of my theories now?”

“I think I’d like to put you in a high-stakes game of hazard.”

She laughed, a marvelously throaty sound spiced with delight and mischief that made him want to play different sorts of games with her. Intimate games where he could explore her laugh without layers of restrictive clothing. “Not tonight anyway. I’m hardly appropriately dressed for it.”

Her own comments meshed with his thoughts so exactly, he had to wonder if he had spoken aloud. But no—she would have slapped him at the very least.

He steered her away from the game. “That is the first sensible thing you’ve said and done all evening.”

She narrowed one eye and raised her brow over the other. The sheer cheek of it made his heart tilt sideways in his chest. What a lovely, strange, restless girl.

“I found the superior cognac, didn’t I?”

Lovely demented girl. “I stand corrected. The second sensible thing. My respect for your range of theoretical talents grows. Is there anything else on your agenda this evening, or are you content at merely following me to a lovebird’s nest and fleecing the footmen and stable boys of their pennies?”

“I didn’t fleece. I played fair and square.” Her tone was something stronger than tart. “And if it’s your lovebird’s nest, what are you doing flying around on the outside?”

“I didn’t say it was
my
lovebird’s nest. Only that it is one. And overstuffed.”

She looked across the pavement crowded with men and carriages at the windows showing their warm yellow glimpse of inside. “It does seem like an awful lot of men for one nest.”

“Again, we are strangely in accord, dear Preston.” Demented, that’s what they both were. But damn his eyes, he
liked
her.

“Master Will?” Broad Ham was approaching. “Your brother, Lord Jeffrey, sent word out that if you’re not joining him, he’ll be coming out soon.”

“Thank you, Ham. But I won’t be joining him. I think I’ll stay, and see to the boy.”

The expression on Broad Ham’s face didn’t change, but his tone sharpened as he cut a glance at Preston. “Whatever you like, sir.”

“Why don’t you fetch your horse, Preston,” Will said to her.

“Over by the Sanderson coach.” Broad Ham pointed her in the right direction.

“Much obliged.” Preston tugged her hat and slouched away.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Will turned back to his father’s overly perceptive, longtime coachman. “Broad Ham, it’s not what you think.”

Broad Ham’s face stayed forcefully blank. “Don’t get paid to think, young sir.”

“Well do, then, and take another look.”

Broad Ham’s bushy eyebrows rose high enough to touch the brim of his tall hat. “Then what I think, young sir, is that
girl
is already in a heap of trouble, and more than likely—if you don’t mind my sayin’ so—to get you in a deep pile of shite, too. What I
think
is that mare is as fine and costly an animal as I ever seen in my days, and even if nobody is missing that girl, that mare come out of a stable that’s going to be missing her damn soon. And if you want my advice, as well as what I think, Master Will, you’ll do something about that girl and that mare before it’s too damn late.”

God’s balls. Broad Ham may have been a servant, but that was as fine and as well deserved a dressing-down as Will had ever earned from one of his captains.

There was nothing for it but to take his punishment like a man. “Agreed. She’s a young lady, of good family. The mare is hers, but I can’t leave her out here, alone. I’ve got to see her home.”

“Well, all right, then.” Broad Ham adjusted his tall hat upon his head. “You do that, young sir.”

“I will. And we’ll keep our young friend’s presence to ourselves, will we not, and not be sharing my mode of departure with my brother?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Master Will. But you’d best get a leg up, young sir, if you want to miss Lord Jeffrey. He’ll be coming out soon.”

“Thank you, Broad Ham.” He shook the coachman’s meaty paw. “I’ll say good evening to you.”

“Evening to you as well, sir.” Broad Ham touched his hat and retreated. “Take good care, young sir.”

“Thank you, I will.” But how was he going to take care with a girl who obviously thought so little of taking care of herself? Still, she had laid old Stubby out like a bos’un with a grudge. The action spoke volumes about her virtue. He would have to tread carefully if he didn’t want to find himself in the same state. Although he was no Stubby.

It might be fun to start a fight with her just to see where it led.

God’s balls. Will wisely tucked that particularly intriguing, albeit idiotic idea back in his pocket as Preston returned with her great tall mare, who seemed to regard him with large, baleful eyes.

“Will this great beastie of a nag hold both of us?” he asked.

“She’s not a nag, she’s—”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure she is as remarkable as a unicorn—
as fine and costly an animal as ever was seen
—but will she take both of us is the question?”

Preston seemed to think this was an insult to her animal. “She’ll do whatever I ask of her.”

“Good. Then get your backside back up on this horse, and ask her to stand very quiet and very still,” he ordered amiably. He turned her by her shoulder, and legged her quickly up into her equally leggy mare’s saddle. Not that putting his hands around Preston’s shapely, long legs did anything for his peace of mind. Or his peace of body.

She scooted back until her derrière was off the saddle and on the horse’s back, making room for him.

“Oh, no.” He shook his head and motioned for her to move back forward. “Up you go. I’ll ride on back.”

She shook her head. “It would be better if she took your weight in the saddle.”

“My dear Preston, it would be better if she had a competent rider at the reins. I’m a sailor, not a Corinthian. I haven’t so much as sat astride a horse since sometime in the year five. Now, scoot up, give me your hand, and hold the hell on tight.”

She did so, reaching across with her far hand to grasp his forearm with a surprisingly strong grip, to pull him up behind her. Though why he should be surprised at anything having to do with Preston at this point was beyond him. But seated on a horse he was, with his arm comfortably ensconced around her trim middle.

There were definite advantages to playing the fool. Her very shapely derrière was pressed firmly against his thighs as she settled their weight together in the saddle. He wrapped his arm around her waist, and pulled her snugly back against his chest. Yes, the land was proving better and better with every minute that passed.

“All right, Preston. Where to? Hampshire awaits.”

Chapter Eight

There was a man plastered all along the length of Antigone’s back. A tall, warm, living, breathing man whose heat was seeping through the intervening layers of her clothing until she felt as toasty and soft as a buttered piece of bread. Absolutely lovely.

He was so overwhelmingly, wonderfully near, with his hand around her waist, towering over her so closely she could smell the slight tang of tobacco and brandy on his clothes, and hear the creaking of his high leather top boots against the saddle. Every one of her senses was alert, busy cataloguing the new sensations flooding into her body. It was a wonder she could think at all.

But think she had to, because the rain persisted with renewed force, and as they came up toward the top of the High Street, the wind off the downs funneled down the street and drove the icy sheets into her face.

Jellicoe’s arm tightened and drew her back against him, enveloping her. Like a large, protective blanket of a man. His chin seemed to come over the top of her head like a balcony. “Can you see where you’re going?” His voice was right in her ear, and she felt the words rumble through his body and burrow comfortably into her bones.

“Redhill is to the east, in Sussex.” She had to turn her head to answer, and found that her mouth was just below his chin. His left arm was the one wrapped around her middle, and his thumb had somehow insinuated itself under her coat, and was drawing lazy circles against the fabric of her shirt. The intimacy was both comforting and uncomfortable all at the same time. She wondered if he could tell that she wasn’t wearing stays.

“Are you not staying at Northfield? It is to the northwest. In Hampshire.” The deep timbre of his voice rolled through her, echoing around in all the hollow places inside, filling them up with heat and—

Bloody Lord. Antigone pulled Velocity up to a halt. She hadn’t been thinking at all. She had meant to go home to her snug house in her small village, like an animal instinctively going to ground, seeking shelter where she would feel safest.

“Oh, shite. I forgot all about Northfield,” she admitted. “I wanted to forget. But you are right. I do need to return there.” And face whatever censure was inevitably going to come her way.

Hope for the best, she told herself, and perhaps tomorrow Lord Aldridge would express his outrage and disdain, and she might find herself tucked up safe at home for good. But that would never do. Because there was no such thing as “safe at home” anymore. Without Lord Aldridge and the promise of his betrothal, they would run out of what little money they had left before Easter.

Back to Northfield for her.

So she took the direction Jellicoe pointed out, and steered them slowly up the London Road toward the northern reaches of the town. Just beyond Rams Hill, where Jellicoe would have had her turn northwest toward Northfield, they passed into the warm circle of light from a roadside tavern.

A merry din spilled across the pavement—inside, someone sawed on a fiddle amidst the clamor of voices, and the clinking of glasses and plates. The sign hanging from the hinge creaking in the lashing rain proclaimed the decrepit institution to be the Jolly Drover.

The tavern was what her mother had always disdainfully called a “low public house.” Antigone thought it looked charming. “Why don’t we stop here?” she said before she could rein in the impulse. “Just long enough for the heavy rain to slack off?”

Jellicoe gave the place a long look. “You’re not looking for another dice game, are you?”

“You’re just jealous of my fortune, but I’ll earn you one of your own, if you like. It looks respectable enough,” she coaxed. She might never have another chance like this again. “I’ve never been in a tavern, and you did tell me you could show me how to misbehave.”

“I did, didn’t I?” She felt the smile in his voice just as surely as she felt his heat at her back. “Then I shall, for I am nothing if not a man of my word. As we are already set upon the road to damnation, let us hie ourselves into hell in a well-oiled handcart. Off you go.”

When she dismounted, he swung his leg across Velocity’s neck and jumped down beside her. “Give her to the ostler.” He flipped the lad a coin before he threw an arm across her shoulder, and led her toward the door. “Let us get, as Broad Ham is fond of saying, a bit of a wet. Which is, of course, redundant on a night such as this, but his vernacular refers to the restorative power of drink. In you go. Just keep your head down and let me do the talking, all right?”

“Agreed,” she said, though her heart had risen high in her throat, and was beating like mad. But she was also beginning to feel all the pleasure and thrill of her handsome escort’s companionship, and less and less of the danger. The casual intimacy of his arm pressing companionably across her shoulders made her bones feel soft and pliable, as if they had been drenched in honey.

“Good. Stand tall and make yourself a man, you great Amazon.”

Antigone had no time to contemplate the warm familiarity of that particular appellation, because Jellicoe had gently shoved her across the threshold, through the pool of warm yellow light that spilled from the doorway, and into the bright, warm mass of humid humanity inside the tavern. The air was curling with smoke from pipes and the fire, and the damp, pungent steam rising from too many wet, wool-clad bodies.

With his hand on her shoulder, Jellicoe steered her to a snug corner of the fireplace opposite the door. “Keep your back to the wall,” he instructed while he took a seat opposite. His back was to the room, as if his looming bulk could shelter her, even as he was introducing her to the livelier, more seamy side of Hampshire life.

And speaking of lively, the barmaid who wound her way toward them through the tables was enthusiastic in her perusal of Jellicoe. Especially when he dragged off his hat, and stripped off his wet greatcoat, hanging it casually over the back of his chair, to reveal his broad shoulders.

There he was, looking as handsome, carefree, and amiable as any sporting blood, but with his coat unbuttoned and his bright golden hair rumpled and shining in the mellow light, he looked entirely approachable and utterly delicious. Goodness, but his legs were long, and his thighs, outlined by the impeccably tight fit of his ivory breeches, appeared impossibly strong and powerful as he moved to sit down.

“Well, look at you, your lordship.” The barmaid leaned over to give him a smile, and a front-row view of her packed balcony. “It’s a bitter night to be out and about, innit, love? What can I do to warm you up?”