Now he would return Miss Lucas home, then the horse to its master, and his current existence would end in a blaze of ignominy. He folded his arms over his chest. The infant wailed. The coach bumped. Forgetful sleep came slowly.

Chapter 3

Mr. Yale awoke again only as the coach entered the posting inn’s yard. He was the first to go out into the rain.

Diantha needed an enormous tea, a vigorous stretch, and then a good stroll. Her arms and shoulders ached fiercely from holding the babe.

Its mother pressed her hand. “Miss, you saved me today. You’ll be in my prayers tonight.”

“You would have done the same for me, I suspect.” She smiled and upon wobbly knees pushed herself toward the door.

Standing by the step in the lowering light of the rainy evening, Mr. Yale offered his hand. It was perfectly silly that a tingle zigzagged about her stomach. But since she had only thrice in her life encountered a man who caused those sorts of tingles, and all three times they were him, it wasn’t to be wondered at. A true hero was bound to have that sort of effect upon a lady.

She placed her gloved fingers on his palm and came down the two steps to the drive awash in puddles, then looked up at him.

More tingles.

“Madam,” he said quietly as she drew the hood of her cloak over her hair, “while I beg pardon for asking it of you, I hope you will accompany me now to the stable briefly while I see to my cattle.” He gestured to a pair of horses tied to the rear of the coach. “In the absence of Annie, perhaps you will see the wisdom of not entering the inn without suitable escort.” His gaze flickered to the coach’s door where Mr. Sausage Fingers loomed.

“I do, sir. And I shan’t mind accompanying you to the stable in the least.”

“Excellent.” He bowed, and now his gray eyes seemed to sparkle.

Really, his eyes were silvery. Black-haired and square-jawed, he was ridiculously handsome, even rather lean-cheeked as he was now. But from the first time she had seen him at a wedding at Savege Park, she had liked his silver eyes most of all. They rested upon a girl as though her every word and desire were his first concern, as though, in fact, he wished to read her mind to discover her desires rather than require her to make even the slightest effort to express them in words.

He’d done that the night of that wedding. He had read her thoughts and rescued her. He had been her hero.

He untethered the horses from the rear of the coach and drew them toward the archway leading behind the inn. A ragged little dog stood in the rain outside the stable door, watching as they passed inside.

“Look at that poor thing, all skin and bones, and favoring its forepaw. I think it is injured.” She craned her neck but the stable hand pulled the door shut.

“Only a mongrel, miss.”

“Someone ought to feed it. It’s starving.”

Mr. Yale cast her a curious glance, then turned to his task. He did not relinquish the horses into the hands of the stable hand, but saw to them himself then returned to her at the door.

“Thank you for your patience, Miss Lucas. How do you do?” He bowed so beautifully, as though he were encountering her in an elegant drawing room.

She curtsied. “Well, sir. Especially now.”

“Have you luggage aboard the coach?”

“A traveling trunk and bandbox. Why?”

“Then our first order of business must be to retrieve it.”

“Oh, I don’t think that is necessary. The coach is bound to leave again shortly. It is only a dinner break and to change out the horses, I think.”

“You will no doubt wish to dine?” He came forward and gestured her toward the door into the inn.

“I will. I am famished! I never quite realized how traveling the public coach encourages the appetite.”

“Didn’t you?”

“Oh, no. I hadn’t planned on being so hungry at all, or I would have instructed Annie to pack a cold dinner before we left Brennon Manor.” She walked before him through the door into warm air scented with roast and ale. The taprooms meandered over several attached chambers, all wood paneling and cozy crackling fires, a mix of farmers and villagers and the people from the coach clustered about the bar and at tables. Her stomach rumbled.

Mr. Yale took her cloak then pulled out for her a chair at a small table. A man wearing a starched apron appeared.

“What can I serve you, sir?”

“The lady will have whatever she desires, and I shall have a pint, an empty glass, and a bottle of Hennessy.”

“Miss?”

“Whatever is best tonight, thank you.” She smiled. “It smells wonderful!”

“My wife’s roast and pudding, miss. Finest in the village.”

“Well it isn’t a very large village,” she whispered when he’d left, “but no doubt I shall enjoy it. I could eat a horse at present. Not one of yours, of course. What beautiful animals you have, Mr. Yale!”

“Thank you, Miss Lucas.” He did not sit. “I will return in a moment.” He looked at her quite directly. “If you will remain at this table while I am gone, that would be best.”

“I am so hungry, the farthest I would go is the kitchen.”

He bowed and disappeared out the rear door again. She glanced at the bar where Mr. Sausage Fingers was again staring at her, then out the window at the rain.

By the time Mr. Yale returned, her food had arrived, and his drinks.

“Aren’t you eating?”

“Not at this time.” He poured from the bottle into a glass and drank the contents in one swallow. “But please do enjoy your dinner.” He lifted his ale glass.

“Thank you.” She tucked in. “It tastes even better than it smells. I barely ate a bite the entire fortnight I was at Brennon Manor, I was so excited about my journey.”

“May I be so bold, Miss Lucas, as to inquire how you come to be traveling alone?”

“Teresa’s maid Annie deserted me. We thought she would be terribly clever to have along, but we never expected her to decamp so swiftly, or frankly at all.”

“I see. Teresa . . . ?”

“Finch-Freeworth. We attended the Bailey Academy for Young Ladies together for three years when my stepfather sent me there after the dismissal of my fourth governess. Miss Yarley, Head Mistress of the Bailey Academy, however, was splendid, so I never gave her trouble. Good heavens, this pudding is simply divine. Is the food at all posting inns so delicious?”

“Not all. As your stepfather’s estate is in Devonshire, I am to understand Miss Finch-Freeworth’s home, Brennon Manor, is in the North and that you have recently left there,” he said without even a pause, which she liked. The night he’d rescued her at Savege Park he had also understood the entire situation with very little explanation.

“I departed quite early this morning.”

“And what—” He paused. “Miss Lucas, pray forgive me for continuing to press you for details.”

“Of course. Whyever not?”

He smiled slightly, the barest hint of amusement tilting up his mouth at one side. On the three occasions that he had visited Savege Park, her stepsister Serena’s home, Diantha had seen him smile like that at her other stepsister, Viola, as well as at a veritable goddess, Lady Constance Read, a Scottish heiress with whom he seemed to be particular friends. But never at her, not even when he rescued her that night. Now that smile did strange things to her insides, somewhat pleasant and a bit alarming. Warm things.

“As I can imagine your stepfather would under normal circumstances send his carriage for you, what did he and Miss Finch-Freeworth’s parents have to say of your journey undertaken by public coach?”

“Oh, they proved no hindrance. My stepfather does not know. As for Teresa’s parents, Lady Finch-Freeworth is a soft woman without backbone and Sir Terrence couldn’t care less what the females in his house do. I don’t think he’s ever noticed me, in fact.”

His eyes took on a warm light that made her throat oddly tight. “I admit myself skeptical of that.”

“But it’s true. When we produced the letter from my stepfather, neither he nor Lady Finch-Freeworth blinked an eyelash. I did remarkably good work forging my stepfather’s signature. I have a particular talent with a pen and wax, so it was quite satisfying, really.”

“I daresay.”

“What are you drinking?”

“Brandy. What, then, is your direction, Miss Lucas?”

“I’ve never seen a gentleman drink so much brandy in so few minutes, not since my father died. But my stepfather rarely drinks spirits and of course I don’t know many other gentlemen, except my sisters’ husbands and I suppose the curate, and naturally Mr. H. But that will change after I find my mother, go to town next month, and am introduced into society.”

He set down his glass and said nothing but only looked at her with those silver eyes, carefully, it seemed. She felt studied, but not harshly. She felt looked at. Truly looked at. Not for her spots and fat, which she had sported in profusion until eighteen months ago, and not for her eyes, which her mother had insisted were her only fine feature. Mr. Yale seemed to look at something else. Her insides.

He finally said, “Who is Mr. H?”

“My future. At least that is the plan.”

“I see. Then you are attempting to escape a betrothal?”

“Not at all. I will be as glad to end up with Mr. H as anybody. Or, well, perhaps not anybody. But you must know what I mean.”

His slight smile came again, followed by the warmth in her midsection.

“Possibly,” he only said.

The door banged open and a boy called out, “Shrewsbury Coach boarding!”

“Oh!” Diantha swiped a napkin across her mouth. “We should hurry, Mr. Yale. You must retrieve your hor—”

“Miss Lucas, do remain and finish your dinner.” He did not move.

“But the coach is leaving.” She stood. “There isn’t time to—”

He rose to his feet and there was something shockingly intimate in the glimmer of his eyes as he looked down at her that rooted the soles of her practical traveling boots to the floor. He spoke quietly.

“Miss Lucas, it is not advisable for a lady to travel by night on a public coach, with or without escort.” His stance was so purposeful now, entirely unlike the unobtrusive man on the coach. She felt his command of the situation very oddly inside her, as she had felt his studying gaze.

“By which you mean Mr. Sausage Fingers may pose a threat to me.”

“By which I mean that if you are wise you will not board another coach until the morning and instead enjoy a comfortable night’s sleep here at this respectable inn.”

She seemed to consider this, her brow furrowing delicately. Once more her gaze flickered up and down him, as a man might inspect a horse for purchase, and her berry lips twisted in that partial purse which was not unbecoming—rather the opposite, enhancing the bow and puffing out her lower lip.

“You cannot convince me that you would be unable to best him in a fight.” She glanced at his shoulders, then his hands.

“The question is not whether I would be able to, Miss Lucas, but whether I would wish to place myself in the position of being required to.”

“I see.” Her gaze seemed fixed on his right hand, and a slight flush rose in her cheeks. “What have you done with your gloves, Mr. Yale?”

“I was obliged to discard them earlier today.” A hedonist at the party had stubbed a burning cheroot into the palm of one of the gloves. Wyn particularly disliked that stain. “Will you sit?” He gestured to her dinner.

“I suppose I am tired and would appreciate a rest.” Her brow unpleated and she turned her blue eyes upon him. “Will we hire rooms, then? I have never done so myself.”

“It will be my greatest honor.” He bowed.

She smiled, the dimples dipping her cheeks anew. Then her eyes widened. “Oh! My luggage!”

“I have taken the liberty of having it moved to a private chamber for you already.”

“When you went out?” She blinked. “I may forgive you for not asking my permission to do so. Eventually. But I think you must have some experience traveling.”

“Some.” On several continents.

“So I will trust you about the folly of taking the coach at night.” Her look grew sober. “But I do wish to get on with my quest as swiftly as possible.” She sat, waited for him to do the same, and took up her fork again. “I haven’t much time. I was only expected to be at Brennon Manor for four weeks, and two are already used up.”

“Quest? Then, no scorned suitor to be avoided?”