Chapter Eight #2
What would it be like to drive a pair such as these at such speed?
She’d done a fair bit of driving in her time, most often of horses of a much more mundane and workmanlike breeding, but she knew how to handle the reins and whip.
The desire to ask him to pass the reins over arose again.
However, a glance at his stern expression made her shelve that idea.
For now. She could just hang on firmly and enjoy this sortie into the countryside for what it was.
Eventually, though, their madcap pace slowed and Dunster brought his horses to a walk, their sides heaving and steam rising from their sweat-slicked coats.
“This is as far as we’ll go,” he said, finally turning to look at her.
“Any further and we’ll be on Hounslow Heath, and even though any highwaymen who remain would be unlikely to strike in daylight hours, there could well be footpads lurking.
If I were alone, this would be of no moment, but I refuse to take a lady into danger.
We’ll turn for home now and to give the horses time to regain their breath. They deserve it.”
He swung them around with a little difficulty due to the narrowness of the road and headed them back at a walk in the direction from which they’d come, giving them a longer rein so they could stretch their necks. They took advantage of this and visibly relaxed, their need to run quenched.
He needed a compliment for this display of his driving skills, especially if she were going to request a turn with the reins.
“That was the most exhilarating ride I’ve ever had.
I’ve never seen horses handled so well. You are a veritable Corinthian.
” In her experience, men were always susceptible to praise, and in this instance, he deserved it.
Lord Dunster was apparently no different. A smile curved a mouth she suspected could, if he wanted, look as cruel as that of the man in the portrait in his parlor. “Thank you. I have a reputation as a noted whip and have had the pleasure of that soubriquet you so kindly mentioned.”
And probably a reputation for having a big head too. But men who liked flattery were often easy to control. A tactic she’d employed many times while at the card table with Papa. With Papa himself, in fact.
They passed a cart load of hay drawn by a pair of oxen, but the horses paid it no heed.
Verity took the opportunity to survey the view now it wasn’t passing her by so quickly.
The sun was high in the sky and the day was warm with a light wind stirring the branches of the roadside trees.
In the small fields, barley, wheat, and oats bobbed in the breeze, rippling like water.
Most of it was beginning to change from green to gold, and the heads hung heavily in promise of a good harvest. Not so very different from the countryside she’d experienced in countries such as France, Germany and Italy, although with a lot more hedgerows and no mountains.
Over there, in the warmer regions, she’d been more used to seeing fields of vines and lavender as well as orange groves and olive trees.
How different was the world and yet how similar.
The people working in the fields and gardens could have been the self-same people she’d seen in villages and on farms all across Europe.
The only difference being the language in which they spoke to one another.
They passed an orchard heavy with ripening fruit, the fat geese grazing beneath the trees guarded by a small, barefoot boy. Doves fluttered up from the roof of a barn then resettled on a farmhouse, cooing to themselves. Ahead a daring flock of chickens scratched on the dusty verge.
England. The place she’d dreamed of so often in her exile abroad with Papa. The place she’d longed to return to. And now she was here, at last, it seemed to be fulfilling all her childish dreams. If she could have preserved this day forever, she would have.
Lord Dunster broke in upon her thoughts. “How are you finding staying with Walter’s family? Your family, I should say. He’s told me a little of your history, which I imagine he’s had from his mother. You have had an unusual upbringing.” His tone was one of interest in what she might have to say.
She tore her gaze away from a millpond dotted with a large number of ducks, some with tiny, fluffy ducklings, the wheel on the old mill beside it idle.
“I am most grateful to my aunt for taking me in.” Best to stick to polite pleasantries.
He was virtually a stranger to her, after all.
“As I am grateful to you for agreeing to help me avoid disgrace.” Although it would have been his disgrace as well.
Only she had a strong suspicion he didn’t much care about what people thought of him.
And she still wasn’t sure she wanted to be avoiding disgrace this way.
Who would care or even know about it if she and Papa returned to the Continent?
Then she remembered Papa trying to disguise how poorly he was.
If she was married to an earl, then she could buy Papa all the treatments he needed from the best physicians in the land.
Lord Dunster had let his strong, gloved hands rest on his knees as the horses ambled back up the road, the reins slack. “It was the least I could do, as Walter so wisely pointed out.” A trace of irony tinged his voice.
Let him be ironic. If he hadn’t accepted her in payment of a debt, he wouldn’t be in this position now. And he could have refused to continue playing cards with Papa very easily, but he hadn’t. So it was his own fault, really. She had no sympathy for him.
He was looking straight ahead and not at her, showing her his profile with its firm chin and slightly Roman nose. No hint of any kind of emotion. What had she expected, though? Nothing.
Did he regret accepting her in payment for Papa’s debt? Most likely. A sense of annoyance rose in Verity’s breast.
A life on the road had stripped her of needing to guard her words. “I take it you are not the marrying sort.”
Now he did look at her, his black brows slanting and giving him a devilish appearance.
Despite not having been long in London, she’d heard the whispered, and quite ridiculous, rumors that he’d sold his soul to the devil, or even that his true father had been Satan.
Perhaps he’d started them himself. She wouldn’t have been surprised.
He smiled, and she couldn’t deny how charming he could make himself, soul sold to the devil or not.
“You have it correct.” If she wasn’t careful she was going to fall under the charms of the magnetism that seemed to radiate from him, which would have been such a shallow thing to have done.
She must not be taken in by his undeniably attractive appearance and remember he was, at present, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Two could play at that game. “And you will perhaps be surprised to discover that I too am not the marrying sort.” She wrinkled her nose.
“I have not led the sort of life that would have encouraged me to find a suitable husband. And let me assure you, Lord Dunster, that when I called on you three days since, I had no intention of forcing you into marriage.” Which was quite true.
Those eloquent brows rose. “You did not?”
Did he think she had?
She shook her head with vehemence. “Nothing of the sort. I am not in the habit of forcing gentlemen into matrimony.”
He returned to frowning. “So you came without hope of anything…respectable?”
She shrugged. “I am skilled with numbers, and I was hoping you might make use of me to keep your books, or if not that, as a housemaid. I have been used to managing my father’s household, such as it is, and I would have made an excellent maid.
I am also skilled with a needle and thread, if you were ever to need anything darned.
” She paused, reflecting how very unlikely it was that he’d ever worn anything that had been darned.
“But I am a loving daughter. You must know I would do anything to help my papa. To save him from ruin”
He appeared to be ruminating. “So,” he said, his voice speculative, eyes narrowed. “I presume you have done this sort of thing before? To help your father?”
What? For a long moment she couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. Been accused of. What was in his mind. What he thought of her.
She stared at him, shock making her heart thud.
All she could think was that he was accusing her of having done before what he’d so clearly wanted her to do before he’d realized who she was.
The import of this question sank in like a lead weight on her heart, and fury rose in her breast to replace the annoyance.
How dare he ask her this. How dare he think this.
How dare he put it into words with such casual disdain. How bloody dare he.
On an impulse she grabbed hold of his hand and yanked on the reins.
“Stop the horses at once.” Her voice and hands were shaking.
Perhaps because she had indeed been ready to do what he’d wanted in order to save Papa, and would have done it before had he ever asked it of her.
But he hadn’t. And now she stood accused of it.
Such little words, but such hurtful ones.
Looking taken aback, he halted his horses and she released his hand.
Still carried away by anger, and without a second glance for him, Verity climbed out of the curricle and landed squarely on the side of the road, glad she hadn’t stumbled in front of her accuser.
A large hedge reared over her and up ahead an oak tree spread its branches in an oasis of shade.
This far from London nobody was about and no other traffic was visible even in the distance.
She glared up at him. “Thank you very much for the ride, my lord, which I enjoyed, but I think I will walk back from here.” Her voice was stiff with hatred.