Springtime Pleasures (13 page)

She opened her eyes very wide. “But who else could I ask?”

Gloomily he stood in front of the carriage, his chest heaving as if with exertion or with some strong feeling. Finally, he looked up at her, his face blacker than thunder. “I am of a mind to drag you off that seat with my own bare hands and—”

“My lord!” she exclaimed, infusing her voice with just the right mixture of shock and hurt reproach. “You would not dare!” She took up the reins and made as if to drive off. “If you do not want to help me, you need only say so.”

For a moment, he smouldered in silence, then, “Alright, I will teach you to drive this… this thing.” A contemptuous glance encompassed the phaeton. “Though I would like to know who has been so birdwitted as to allow you on the seat all on your own, so I can wring his da–” He caught himself and his scowl deepened. “His deuced neck, that is.” He directed his glower onto the porter. “Dalton!” he bellowed. “Stay and do not let her out of your sight. I’ll be back in a trice.”

With that he turned and stomped back into the house.

Now that went well
, Charlie thought, and bestowed a broad smile on the porter. “Is he not the dearest man? Most chivalrous!” Not to mention tall and devastatingly handsome. Her insides positively
melted
whenever she merely looked at him. It was most disconcerting!

The porter grunted something unintelligible and retreated a few careful steps.

Charlie did not have to wait for long before Lord Chanderley returned, now properly attired for a drive about Town, though his face was still set in the most forbidding expression. Yet she did not feel deterred in the slightest. Quite the opposite was true: the drive would do him plenty of good; she was certain of that even though it would tax her insides most dreadfully. But she was fully prepared to suffer a little, if it meant she could help the poor man. Emma-Lee had called her a problem-solver, and she was probably right: Charlie could not stand seeing her friends and acquaintances in pain or in trouble. If one could fix their problems, one ought to do so.

And so, her smile still firmly in place, she removed her reticule from the seat and stowed it behind her legs to make room for the viscount. No sooner had she completed this task that he hauled himself up—my, he really had the broadest shoulders!—and sat down next to her. So very much next to her in fact that their bodies touched.

In more places than just one.

A curious little shiver raced down Charlie’s spine. All at once her skin
prickled
and she couldn’t seem to draw enough air into her lungs. Touching him, she found, had actually much more adverse effects upon her than merely looking at him.

Pea-goose!
she scolded herself. Aloud, she said brightly, “Well, shall we?”

And then they were off—and soon she realised another, most annoying fact about London: the streets were most awfully thronged with people and vehicles and animals of various kinds.

“Is there no place where you can drive
fast
in this confounded town?” she said, exasperated, trying her best to ignore the pressure of his muscular thigh alongside hers or the strong arm that rubbed against her shoulder whenever she moved. Then her brow cleared. “Oh, I know! Brighton Road! Isn’t that where the young gentlemen usually have their races?” She threw Chanderley an enquiring look. “We could try Brighton Road, couldn’t we?”

To her disappointment he did not greet this suggestion with raptures of delight. Instead, he scowled at her in the most alarming fashion. His eyebrows actually
met
over his nose, she noticed with interest. Nobody else she knew could make his eyebrows merge like that.

“Miss Stanton, have you no regard for either your safety or for propriety?”

She blinked. “For propriety?” she echoed blankly.

“Yes. Propriety.” He sounded as if he spoke through tightly gritted teeth. “It is not seeming that a young lady goes on a drive with a gentleman
all on her own
. In the country perhaps. But not here in London.” The more he talked, the angrier he appeared to become. Now he actually started waving his hands about. “And apart from propriety, don’t you care for your safety? I am a virtual stranger for you.
Anything
could happen!” He glared at her, his chest heaving with indignation.

He was a dear; still, Charlie couldn’t help laughing about his last remark. “Anything? Don’t be ridiculous!” She nudged her reticule with her foot. “I have brought my blunderbuss
and
my huswife. So should you try anything funny, I will either stab you or shoot you. Or both, really.” She thought a moment longer. “Well, if you made me
really
angry, I suppose I would probably stab you, shoot you, and then I would kick you in your manly parts, too. I could also break your kneecap, if that is what you prefer.” She gave him an airy smile. “Oh, you mustn’t look so shocked. Miss Pinkerton always said that a Young Lady must know the Ways Of The World & Where It Hurts Most. A most useful advice, don’t you think so? Especially in this country, where there are so many ruffians at large.—Truly,” she continued, warming to her topic, “I had no idea that England was so
infested
with people of the criminal persuasion. It is most shocking.—So, where is this Brighton Road, then? Do you think we might encounter highwaymen there?”

Somewhat weakly, he answered, “I daresay the highwaymen would surely regret any such an encounter.”

Charlie glanced at him. He sounded so… so
wan
, the poor man. Driving around in a high-perched phaeton apparently still affected him terribly. “I am sure they would,” she said in soothing tones. “The blunderbuss is loaded.” Weren’t gentlemen generally interested in guns and horses and such things? She would talk about something that would not only spark his interest, but would also be sure to ease his mind. “It is a most pretty thing, you must know. All gleaming and shining once I properly polished it.” She frowned. “It was devilishly difficult to find a shop where they sold ammunition, though. I asked my cousin, and she was nearly thrown into hysterics. Apparently I committed another blunder. I am
prone
to them,” she confided, as she steered the phaeton around another of those ticklishly tight corners London seemed to specialise in. “Blunders, I mean.—La! Did you see that curricle?” She craned her head.

“Miss Stanton,” Lord Chanderley said in constricted tones. “Please be so kind as to keep your attention on the road.”

“Hm?”

“The road
ahead
!” he gritted out.

Ooops. For a moment there she had forgotten how this whole business of driving around in a high-perch phaeton affected the poor viscount. Turning, she gave him a reassuring smile. “Have I told you that I am a past champion at the haywagon races? So you see, there is no need to worry.”

He blinked. He really had the most wonderful eyes, she thought. A luscious, melting brown, surrounded by dark lashes, which were such a
nice
contrast to his golden-dipped hair. Too bad gentlemen had to wear those silly hats most of the time. She would have preferred the viscount without the hat.

“Haywagon races?” he echoed.

“Yes, indeed. In autumn, after the harvest, the older girls at Miss Pinkerton’s all take part in the haywagon race across Mr Andersen’s field. It is a most bumpy ride, I can tell you. You get your bones rattled in the most uncomfortable fashion. Driving this phaeton, by contrast, is a mere snap.” She snapped her fingers to illustrate her point. Unfortunately, the gloves she was wearing prevented her from producing a truly satisfying snap.

She chanced another glance at Chanderley.

Her reassurance had not seemed to help because he was still clutching the side of the vehicle tightly. Further diversions were called for. Guns she had already tried, now on to carriages!

“Wasn’t that the most dashing curricle we’ve just passed? All lacquered in that deep red like a Chinese chest.” Charlie was proud of herself for that last simile. It was something she had learnt since coming to London: Chinoiserie was terribly
en vogue
, as Cousin Caroline would say. And the curricle had been Chinese red.

An undistinguishable growl answered her.

Not to be deterred, Charlie gave a sigh. “I wish
I
could own such a dashing curricle! Wouldn’t that be most delightful?”

This time, the growl was much easier to understand. “No,” Chanderley said.

She shot him a surprised look. He was again doing that thing with his eyebrows. Making them mesh. Furthermore, he wore a most alarming scowl. Again. “Why ever not?” she asked, perplexed.

If possible, his expression darkened even more. “That was Mrs Robinson’s curricle,” he said in forbidding tones.

“So?”

His voice dropped another octave to an even deeper grumble. “She is a courtesan.”

“Oh.” Charlie blinked. “A what?”

~*~

It was a minor miracle that they found the Brighton Road in the end. But Griffin must have given Miss Stanton correct directions after all, even though he was in a daze.

Or perhaps he was developing a brain fever.

Given the state he was in, the latter was a distinct possibility. It would certainly account for the whirling in his brain and for the fact that he had let himself be persuaded to join Miss Stanton on the box seat in the first place. No doubt Boo would read him the riot act if he ever found out, and tell him that he must have had rats in the upper storey to entertain for the merest moment the idea of accompanying her, never mind actually going through with the scheme.

Yes, Griff would not be surprised to learn that he
had
developed brain fever.

But how could he have resisted her? His very heart had clenched at the sight of her sitting on that
thing
. No, he couldn’t have let her drive off all on her own. Goodness knows what might have happened to her!

He took a deep breath, making his shoulder shift where it pressed against Miss Stanton’s.

Yet instead of brain-cleansing country air, he inhaled the scent of soap and what he suspected must be Miss Stanton’s very own, private scent.

Oh lud.

It wasn’t even perfume. No, it was her private, intimate woman scent.

Sweat broke out on his upper lip.

He liked his women perfumed, he told himself. Anointed with expensive perfume in all the right places. In his mind, he tried to conjure up the body of his last mistress. Her
naked
body, writhing sinuously on her bed, as she waited for him to join her. A nice, curvy body it was, too, with milky-pale skin and—

“You still haven’t explained to me what a courtesan is,” Miss Stanton said and gave him one of those intense green looks, complete with flashing spectacles.

Her skin was anything but milky white right now, but flushed with the wind.

Would she look like this when she lay in bed, underneath her lover, in the throes of passion?

She raised a black eyebrow.

“Ehm…” What had they been talking about? Courtesans.
Damned
courtesans. “No,” he said. And then, because he felt this answer lacked a certain something, he added in his most forbidding tones, “It is a topic not suitable for young ladies.” If she were a reasonable-minded young woman, this should discourage her enough to drop the blasted topic. He shifted on his seat, aware of a growing tightening of his groin. Damn.

The spectacles flashed once more—by gad, they were ugly, chunky things!—as she turned back to focus her attention on the road. “Ah. One of those,” she said. One gloved hand came up to push the glasses further up her nose. “Golly.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said ‘golly.’” This time, the glance she gave him seemed somehow less intense. She sighed. “You don’t need to tell me: I have committed another whatsname.
Faux pas
. Yes, another
faux pas
.” Her shoulders drooped a little. “I am prone to committing them as my Aunt Dolmore tells me. I even told your sister about the wild boar. She was much shocked, I could see. But I didn’t
know
that it was a Topic Unsuitable For Polite Conversation!”

Yes, he thought. Definitely brain fever, for apparently he now suffered from hallucinations. How else to account for hearing a delicately nurtured young female talking about wild boars? Young ladies, in his experience, talked about what Miss Something-or-other had been wearing at the ball the night before; how many times their rivals had danced with some eligible gentleman or other; or what worthy charity they currently supported, etc. But on the whole, they, as a rule did not talk about wild animals, boars or otherwise. Come to think of it, they didn’t talk about blunderbusses and breaking one’s kneecaps either. Ribbons, yes. Weapons and wild animals, no.

Still, he supposed one ought to humour one’s hallucinations if one did not want one’s brain to burst.

“Wild boar?” he thus echoed tentatively, half expecting Miss Stanton to give him a shocked green look or perhaps even to scream when she realised she was sharing a box seat with a lunatic.

Miss Stanton, however, did nothing of this sort. “Oh, it wasn’t the
Bestial
Boar,” she said hastily. “You must believe that I would never tell Lady Isabella about anything like
that
!”

“I am sure you wouldn’t,” he murmured.

She glanced at him (again), and a smile curved her wide, mobile mouth. For a moment he wondered what it would be like to kiss this mouth, to lick the smile from its corners, to feel her lips moving sweetly under his.

…while her hair was spread out over his pillow and her long, long legs wrapped around his hips…

A shaft of lust so intense shot through Griff that he nearly groaned.
Gad! Definitely brain fever!
Once again he shifted on the seat, trying desperately to ease his hardening cock.

Thankfully oblivious to his discomfort, Miss Stanton chattered on. “Nevertheless, Miss Pinkerton was much satisfied when we brought it back to the academy.”

This surprising statement gave him pause and let him momentarily forget his unruly body. As he mentally reviewed the conversation, he came to the fantastic conclusion that she must be still talking about the boar.