Chapter 4 - Dahlia #3
He stared down his elegant nose at her as if she were the one lacking brain cells, even though he was outside as well.
“This is highly improper—”
“Even if anyone saw us, I’m the last person you'd want to trap into marriage."
Something in his words rang a bell of memory in her mind. Dahlia’s eyes narrowed, but she couldn't place it.
"At least scoot over." She yanked her silk skirts from beneath his left leg, which threatened to press against her person.
"My dear, this is a hansom cab. There's no room to scoot.”
He leaned forward and gave the driver his address. It was a fashionable one, not all that far from Salisbury's townhouse. The driver slapped his reins against the horses as if eager to be rid of both of them.
The man next to her leaned back and studied her profile. "What’s a lady like you doing out unaccompanied during a storm?"
Dahlia declined to answer his impertinent question, even though she wanted to point out that it hadn't been storming when she left, and that she hadn't thought she needed accompaniment since she was surrounded by so many people. But that was hardly an acceptable explanation.
The truth is, she left Mara at home as often as possible—but only when she went to public places, of course.
Dahlia hardly thought that a visit to the museum or the hotel lobby was dangerous, but perhaps this little interlude had proven her theory wrong.
After all, if Mara was with her, there'd be no room for this great lummox to press his knee against hers like he was.
Dahlia lifted her chin and pointedly kept her gaze forward, even though, if she were being honest, she was quite curious as to what kind of man lived in such a prime part of London and didn't follow social conventions.
The carriage trundled along. The rain beating on the canvas above and alongside them provided an odd sense of seclusion.
Dahlia became all too aware of the man sitting alongside her.
He had wide shoulders and a large frame.
He reminded her of her dear friend Candace's husband, the Duke of Canterbury—he looked like a man who spent a lot of time out of doors.
He moved like it, too, as if he were at ease within himself.
A flicker of interest sprang to life inside of her.
Dahlia dared a sidelong glance, then frowned, thinking of her gridlines, and quickly snuffed out the little ember. Flickers of interest weren't enough to keep oneself comfortable in a garret, she reminded herself. She preferred a warm fire instead.
"I was visiting my sisters," he offered suddenly, as if they had been in the middle of a conversation and had only been distracted.
Dahlia exhaled her censure in a mighty huff, and he gave a low, rumbling chuckle next to her. His amusement shouldn't have sent an answering trill in her stomach. She arched an eyebrow to bolster herself and stared forward once more.
"They're staying at the hotel because I'm having the house renovated."
She pursed her lips. Why he thought she cared was beyond her.
"They're to have a Season.”
He sounded completely at ease, as if they were long family friends.
Meanwhile, Dahlia felt as if she were a piece of thread being slowly drawn between two points.
She should not be in this cab. She should not be sharing space with this strange man who spoke to her with too much familiarity about some sisters that might not even exist.
And he'd overheard her address. For the first time, it occurred to her that she might be in danger. She stiffened.
The man held up a hand. "I mean you no harm," he said lowly. "If I’d thought I would frighten you, I never would have gotten in the cab. But you seemed to be the sturdy type."
"The sturdy type?" she snapped, turning towards him, her brows drawn together.
He grinned as if he'd won something by her response. She scowled, realizing she'd fallen for his little trap. She leaned forward and spoke to the driver.
"Drop me off first, please."
Bernard was always waiting just beyond the door. Besides, the moment when she'd felt danger had passed. Now all she felt was irritation.
"Yes. Sturdy," he said. "It's a compliment."
“For a barn door or a shovel handle, perhaps, but not for a lady.”
“It is in my mind.”
"I advise you not to use that particular compliment in the ballrooms of St. James."
He laughed. “As if I’d ever be caught dead in a ballroom.”
"Do you mean to say you never intend to attend a ball yourself? I thought you said that your sisters were to have a Season."
"What does one have to do with the other?"
Dahlia scowled at herself for engaging with him at all.
He seemed to read her frustration on her face.
His smile deepened. Good heavens, the man had dimples.
He was quite handsome. How had she never seen him before?
She shook the interest away again, as easy as flicking water from the tips of her fingers.
"I only assumed that if they were going to be in the ballrooms, you certainly would be as well. Or do you expect your sisters to trot around unchaperoned?"
Dahlia stifled the urge to look at him again. In the few times she’d met his gaze, in addition to the handsomeness of his face, she’d surmised that he was tall and broad-shouldered, with muscular thighs.
Of course, it would have been highly inappropriate for her to admit she’d noticed said muscular thighs, but it was impossible not to—one was currently pressed up against her knee.
The worst part was, she didn't think he was being impertinent on purpose.
There was very little room with two of them in the back of the cab.
It was an odd feeling. Dahlia had shared many cabs with her lady’s maid or one of her sisters, and she’d never felt crowded before. But with him taking two-thirds of the space, she was obliged to press herself up against the side and try to ignore the heat radiating from his well-formed shoulder.
Being who she was, she also couldn't help noticing the exceptional cut of his suit, made of a fine charcoal wool, with a crisp white shirt underneath.
His boots were expensive leather, polished to perfection, and he had topped the ensemble with a wool overcoat that hit the middle of one of his thighs.
Something about it made her think of sailors upon the docks, although it was far more expensive and well-made than any common garb.
He, at least, had dressed for the weather.
In her silk-satin day dress, Dahlia held back a shiver.
Although her ensemble included a trim jacket, it was an aesthetic choice, not a functional one.
The small amount of rain she'd encountered had soaked her through, and she was grateful that her dress was a dark purple.
Even though it was plastered to her neck, it was still quite opaque.
Not that her modesty helped her feel any warmer.
"I hardly think that you're the one to lecture me on matters of social decorum, Miss…" He raised his eyebrows encouragingly.
She ignored him.
He chuckled again. "Let's not forget that you are the one currently trotting about without a chaperone. Your words, not mine."
"I was completely safe until I ran into you."
"You are still completely safe," he said easily. "Do not consider yourself in any danger on my account."
The hansom cab drew to a gentle stop. The door was opened and the driver offered a hand to help her out. She took it.
The man in the cab leaned out and smiled at her. "I still didn't get your name.”
"That was by design," Dahlia called over her shoulder.