Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“Ishall report you to the authorities,” Cressida gritted out as she settled back against the carriage seat, glaring at her captor with all the anger and disdain she could muster.
He lounged opposite her with infuriating ease, one long leg crossed over the other, looking for all the world like a man without a care.
He tilted his head to the side. “Report me? And what precisely will you tell them, My Lady?”
“That you kidnapped me!” She gestured wildly at their surroundings. “That you physically removed me from a public place against my will and forced me into your carriage—”
“To return you safely to your home,” he interrupted smoothly. “After preventing you from causing a scene at the wedding of two respected members of society. Yes, I’m certain the constables will be absolutely riveted by such villainy.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “You… you arrogant—”
“Pragmatic,” he corrected, tilting his head. “There’s a difference.”
Cressida opened her mouth, then closed it, frustration coiling tight in her chest.
Because damn him, he was right again.
No magistrate would care about her grievances, not when she’d been the one attempting to disrupt a ceremony.
She shifted in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position, and became acutely aware of how disheveled she must appear. Her riding habit had twisted during their struggle, the fabric pulling tight across her bodice. She tugged at the collar, attempting to restore some modicum of propriety.
His gaze flickered down, just briefly, before returning to her face, but she’d caught it: that momentary lapse in his otherwise infuriating composure.
“See something of interest?” The words escaped before she could stop them.
One dark eyebrow rose. “Should I?”
Cressida was not one to get embarrassed so easily, especially when she believed she had the upper hand. “You tell me. You’re the one staring.”
“I wasn’t staring. I was observing that your attire has suffered from your theatrical exit attempt.” His tone remained maddeningly neutral. “Though I suppose that’s what happens when one flings oneself about carriages like a bedlamite.”
“Bedlamite?” Cressida’s voice rose. “You threw me over your shoulder like a sack of grain!”
At her affronted words, his lips curled up. “Would you have preferred I drag you by your hair? I was attempting to be civilized.”
“Civilized,” she repeated incredulously. “Yes, nothing says civilized quite like manhandling a woman.”
“An extremely reckless woman, in this case,” he said. “You were about to ruin your friend’s wedding. I did what was necessary. I make no apologies for it.”
“Who are you?” she demanded, leaning forward. “And why do you care so desperately about that wedding? What is Lord Whitebrook to you?”
He studied her for a long moment, as though weighing how much to reveal. The silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring.
“Theodore Yeats,” he said finally. “The Duke of Ashmere.”
Cressida barely managed to keep from stiffening.
A duke. Of course, he was a duke. That explained the arrogance, the presumption, the absolute certainty that he could simply—
Rain struck the carriage roof.
The Duke glanced toward the window with what might have been annoyance. “Brilliant.”
Before she could respond, the drizzle became a downpour. Rain hammered the carriage with sudden violence, and the vehicle lurched to a stop.
The Duke rapped on the ceiling. “Driver! What’s the delay?”
A muffled voice called back through the storm, “The horses, Your Grace! They’re badly spooked. Can’t risk pushing on to London in this—it’s many miles yet, and the weather’s worsening by the minute!”
“Damn it.” He scrubbed a hand across his jaw. “Where’s the nearest shelter?”
“Ashmere Castle, Your Grace. Just an hour back the way we came.”
“What? No!” Cressida lurched forward. “We cannot—you cannot possibly—”
He ignored her entirely. “Take us to Ashmere. Now.”
The carriage began to turn, the movement confirming Cressida’s worst fears.
“This is unconscionable!” She grabbed his arm, her fingers clutching the fine wool of his coat. “This is… this is proper kidnapping now! Taking me with you to your own home? Alone, unchaperoned? You’ve ruined me!”
He caught her wrist, his grip firm but not painful. For a heartbeat, they were frozen there. Her hand on his arm, his fingers circling her wrist, their faces close enough that she could see the golden flecks in his dark eyes.
Heavens, he was striking. And she hated herself for noticing it.
“Would you prefer a carriage accident?” His voice was low, almost gentle even. “Scared horses are dangerous, Lady Cressida. They could overturn us, or bolt, or—”
“I know what frightened horses can do,” she snapped, but her protest lacked force, because he was right.
Again.
She’d grown up around horses; she knew the risks.
Thunder rumbled overhead, punctuating his point.
Cressida wrenched her hand away and crossed her arms, glaring at the rain-streaked window. “You’ve compromised me. Do you understand that? No one will believe that nothing untoward happened. My reputation—”
“Will remain intact,” the Duke said firmly, “because no one will know you stayed at Ashmere. The moment this storm clears, I’ll have you back in London. Your parents will think you’ve been safely tucked in your room all this time.”
She turned to stare at him. “You cannot possibly believe it will be that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Because my aunt will have already sent word to my parents that I’ve gone missing. By now, she’ll have composed the most damning letter imaginable, probably in her best handwriting.”
“By the time her letter reaches London, you’ll already be home.” He said it as though she were being deliberately obtuse. “There will be nothing to confirm. Nothing to explain.”
“And your servants?” she pressed. “You think they won’t talk? That’s how I learned about the wedding in the first place. One whisper is all it takes—”
“My servants are loyal.” He settled back against his seat, all ducal authority. “And discreet. This storm will pass, you’ll return home, and no one ever needs to know about our brief… association.”
“Association,” she repeated, scoffing.
As though they were mere acquaintances taking tea, not two people trapped in an increasingly compromising situation.
Cressida studied him in the dim carriage light. He was handsome—she couldn’t deny that, much as she wished to. Strong features, dark hair that was longer than fashionable, yet suited his brutish demeanor. Broad shoulders that filled his coat admirably.
And those eyes… dark brown, knowing, and altogether too perceptive.
She shouldn’t notice such things, nor feel this strange flutter in her stomach when he looked at her.
“Why?” she asked suddenly.
“Why what?”
“Why do you care about Lord Whitebrook’s wedding? You still haven’t answered me.”
The Duke’s expression shuttered. “Whitebrook is my friend. He needs—” He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. “He needs stability… purpose, and marriage to Miss Barnes will provide both.”
“How convenient for him,” Cressida said acidly.
How like a man to think foisting an irresponsible partner on an unsuspecting woman and expecting her to pick up the slack constitutes “stability.”
“And what of Harriet? What does she need?” she pressed.
“Security. A title. A fortune,” he replied almost offhandedly, as though she ought to be satisfied with the usual run-of-the-mill list of things society decided that a woman needed.
“She needs to be loved!” The words burst out of Cressida before she could stop them. “She deserves someone who will cherish her wit and intelligence, not some rake who sees her as a convenient solution to his problems! Problems, might I add, that he brought upon himself.”
He studied her idly. “You assume much about a man you’ve never met.”
Cressida could not resist a snort, propriety be damned. “I have heard plenty about him. I know his reputation.”
“Reputations,” the Duke said softly, “are not always accurate. Surely you, of all people, should understand that.”
The barb struck home.
Cressida flinched, remembering the whispers that had followed her through every Season: Bluestocking. Odd. Unmarriageable.
“That’s different,” she managed.
“Is it?”
Rain continued to pound the carriage as they rattled through the storm. The interior had grown close, the air thick with tension that had nothing to do with their argument.
Cressida found herself noticing details she shouldn’t: the way his hair curled slightly at the ends, the strong column of his throat above his cravat, the width of his hands, resting easily on his thighs.
She forced her gaze away, heat creeping up her neck.
“Tell me,” he ventured, his voice cutting through her thoughts, “what will you do when you return to London? Storm into your friend’s house? Demand she leave her new husband?”
“I’ll…” Cressida faltered. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I’ll speak with her. Ensure she’s happy.”
“And if she is?” he pressed.
Her hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into the long-since calloused skin of her palms.
“She won’t be. She can’t be.” Even as she said it, Cressida could not ignore the gnawing feeling in her chest. She was being stubborn, and she knew it.
She was not in the mood to understand why she kept being this way, either.
“Why not?” He leaned forward, and suddenly the space between them felt impossibly small. “Because you know what’s good for her better than she does?”
“I know Harriet,” Cressida insisted, though shame had begun to creep in.
It was not that she thought her friend’s happiness impossible, or that she knew better than Harriet. It was simply that…
“I know what she wants—”
“What she wanted,” he corrected. “People change, Lady Cressida. Desires shift, and perhaps your friend found something in Lord Whitebrook that surprised her.”
“Or perhaps she was forced into it. Pressured by family, or society, or—”
“Or perhaps,” the Duke interrupted quietly, “she made her own choice. As is her right.”
His words hung heavy in the air. Because wasn’t that what Cressida had been denied? Choice? Her parents had shipped her off to Aunt Agatha without consulting her first. Had decided she was too difficult, too unmarriageable, too much.
She’d had no say in her own fate. And it felt like a knife turning in her chest every time she remembered—which, if she was being honest, was every second of every day for the past two years.
“I just want her to be happy,” she whispered, the fight draining from her.
The Duke’s expression shifted, a softening around his eyes that made him look almost kind. “Then trust her to find her own happiness. Even if it looks different from what you imagined.”
The carriage hit a rut, jostling them both. Cressida’s hand shot out to steady herself, landing on the Duke’s knee.
They froze. Heat radiated from where her palm pressed against fine wool and hard muscle. She had to move, pull away. Had to—
“We’re nearly there,” he said, his voice rougher than before.
Cressida snatched her hand back as though burned. “Right. Yes. Of course.” She cleared her throat for good measure, pretending not to feel how hot her cheeks were.
The silence that followed felt different. It was charged now, aware in the manner that they’d both been trying not to acknowledge since the start of this impromptu journey.
Through the rain-blurred window, she caught glimpses of a massive stone structure emerging from the gloom. Towers and turrets, ancient and imposing.
Ashmere Castle.
The carriage rolled through an arched gateway into a courtyard. Servants appeared with umbrellas, moving with practiced efficiency despite the downpour.
The Duke descended first, then turned to offer his hand.
Cressida hesitated. Accepting his assistance felt like capitulation somehow. An acknowledgment of something she wasn’t ready to name.
Thunder cracked overhead, jolting her out of her uncertainty, and she took his hand.
His fingers closed around hers, strong and warm, and for a moment, she let herself imagine what it might be like if this were different.
If she were arriving as a guest, welcomed and wanted, rather than a problem to be managed.
“Come,” he said.
He led her toward the shadowed castle entrance.
Cressida couldn’t shake the feeling that she was walking into something far more dangerous than a storm.