A Regency Virgin's Undoing: Lady Drusilla's Road to Ruin / Paying the Virgin's Price. Christine Merrill

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СКАЧАТЬ expect the day’s travel to be equally uncomfortable,’ he said, this time to Dru. ‘The driver was in the parlour when I took my breakfast; he has got word that the roads grow more difficult the farther north we travel. They may become impassable.’

      ‘I prefer not to invoke disaster by discussing it,’ she said uneasily.

      Mr Hendricks shrugged. ‘It is better to be prepared against the eventuality of it. Then one can posit likely alternatives, should the worst occur and the coach fail us. Now, if you will forgive me, Sister, I mean to rest. It was a beastly night and I got little sleep.’ He glared at the man opposite them, making it clear who was to blame for his bad humour.

      The merchant answered with a similar glare, as though to say, even if they were siblings, he did not care.

      ‘But if you need anything, my dear, do not hesitate to wake me.’ Although he said it mildly, there was an underlying tone of menace in the words. Yesterday’s troubles would not be repeated. If her harasser gave so much as a glance in her direction, he would pay dearly for it. Then Mr Hendricks closed his eyes and tipped his hat forwards to shield his face as he napped.

      Drusilla reached for the book in her reticule and tried to hide the strange thrill that it gave her to be protected. When Priss was in attendance, Dru’s life was largely without such courtesies. If required to, the men who flocked around her sister might come to her aid, but it would be done as an afterthought, in an effort to curry favour with the daughter that actually interested them.

      Of course, Mr Hendricks was doing so because she had agreed to pay him—and he was worth every penny. At each change of horses, he was up and out the door in one smooth movement, even if the coach was not fully stopped. It was strange to think of his movements as graceful, but there was a kind of economy to them that rivalled anything Mr Gervaise could demonstrate on the dance floor. And the sun glinting off his short blond hair was every bit as attractive as Gervaise’s dark handsomeness.

      He would ignore the coachman’s cautions to ‘Have a care!’ and the shouts from the guard that there would be no time for passengers to alight, then go straight to the innkeeper. She could watch from the window as he described their quarry in succinct terms: a tall dark man, nattily dressed, travelling with a petite blonde in a black carriage with a crest upon the door. He would take in the innkeeper’s response, toss the man a coin for his troubles and be back in his seat before the horses were fully harnessed.

      He was organised, efficient, left nothing to chance and seemed totally focused on her comfort. He would adjust curtains to make sure her seat was shaded from the sun, but not too gloomy to read. He got her food and refreshments almost before she could request them.

      If she was the sort of woman prone to flights of fancy, she would come to enjoy it all a bit too much and imagine that it was anything other than a job to him.

      A particularly vicious bump sent her sliding across the seat into him. Without waking, he reached out an arm to steady her.

      To maintain their fictional relationship, she tried to take the sudden contact without flinching, but his hand on her arm was strangely unsettling. And for that, she had only herself to blame. She had been too much out of the society, if she could not even manage to accept a little help without reading things into it. Though it was hardly gentlemanly to touch a lady without permission, he could not very well let her slide off the seat.

      Yet this felt like somewhat more. Almost as if he had been her brother, or a very close friend, and cared what happened to her, even without opening his eyes.

      Because you employ him, said a voice in her head that was as cold and rational as her father would have been. It is in his best interest to keep you intact, if he wishes the favour of the Duke of Benbridge.

      But more than that, his touch had been innocent, yet strangely familiar. Sure of itself. And sure of her. It had made her want to reach out and clasp his hand in thanks.

      She took a firmer grip on the binding of her book, to make sure that the temptation was not acted upon.

      It appeared, as they travelled, that Mr Hendricks would be proven right about the difficulties that lay before them. The carriage had been slowing for the better part of the morning, and Mr Hendricks had removed his watch from his pocket on several occasions, glancing at the time, comparing it to the schedule and making little tutting noises of disapproval. When she raised a questioning eyebrow, he said, ‘The recent rains have spoiled the roads. I doubt we will be able to go much farther today.’

      ‘Oh dear.’ There was little more to be said, other than to voice her disappointment. It was not as if arguing with Mr Hendricks would change the quality of the road, after all.

      Half an hour later, the coach gave a final lurch and ground to a stop in the mud. The drivers called to the passengers to exit and for any men strong enough to assist in pushing.

      As Mr Hendricks shrugged out of his coat and rolled up his sleeves, Drusilla looked in dismay at the puddle in front of the door. As she started down the steps, her companion held up a hand to stay her. ‘Allow me.’ Then he hopped lightly to the ground, and held out his arms to her.

      ‘You cannot mean to carry me,’ she said, taking a half-step back.

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘I am too heavy for you.’

      He gave her an odd look. ‘I hardly think it will be a problem. Now hurry. My feet are getting wet.’

      Gingerly, she sat on the edge and lowered herself towards him. Then he took her in his arms, turned and walked a little way up the hill to a dry place. He proved himself right, for he carried her easily. His body was warm against hers; suddenly and unreasonably, she regretted that she had not lain closer to him in the night. It felt delightful to have his arms about her and she allowed her own arms to creep about his neck, pretending it was only to aid in balance and had nothing to do with the desire to touch him.

      Too soon he arrived at the safe place and set her down on the ground. ‘Wait for me here, Sister.’

      Was the last word a reminder of her role? she wondered. As he laboured behind the coach, she could not manage to think of him thus. His broad shoulders strained, outlining themselves against the linen of his shirt. She could see muscle, bone and sinew in the strength of his arms and his legs as well, his lower anatomy well defined by the tightness of his mud-splattered trousers.

      It made her feel strange, rather like she had first thing in the morning, when he had been staring at her. She put a hand to her forehead, wondering if she had taken ill, and then let it fall to her side in defeat. It was getting harder and harder to pretend that her reactions to Mr Hendricks were related to heat or indigestion. It excited her to have his attention, if she fluttered at every glance and touch.

      Perhaps her sister’s foolishness was contagious. She was normally far too sensible to be looking at a man and thinking the things she was. More importantly, she should not be looking at this particular man. She had hired him, for heaven’s sake. He was her inferior. Not a suitor. Not a lover. Not even a friend. It was no different than Priscilla and her dancing master.

      Except in one thing. Mr Hendricks had shown no interest in seducing her. Last night, with the candour brought on by too much alcohol, he had admitted that his heart was already bruised. He had been eager to withdraw from civilisation, particularly the company of women. If he had even the slightest idea what was going on in her head, he would depart from her at the first opportunity, leaving her to face this calamity alone.

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