Chapter 2 #2
“But—but I am not alone! I have Benson with me.”
“A great deal of good that did you,” he muttered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The night has deepened, My Lady, and as you have seen, this part of London is not safe. A lady with only her coachman is an easy prey—again, as you have seen.” He knocked at the ceiling of the carriage. “Drive on, Benson.”
“Why you… the nerve!” Dahlia fairly sputtered with indignation.
“Have you any idea the scandal that could ensue if I am to be found in a closed carriage with a strange man that I am not even related to?” She did not wait for his reply.
“Of course, such trivial things as ruined reputations are not important to you, Your Grace. Such trifles, why even bother with them?”
“Madam, half of London is already drunk at this time, and those who are not are too busy getting drunk. Only thugs are out watching carriages with ladies in them.” He gave her a meaningful look, and she had the grace to blush.
Her eyes turned a deeper green when she was indignant. Peter had not noticed that he had been staring. To cover for himself, he used a more severe tone than he had intended.
“What were you doing in that part of London?”
Dahlia’s brows drew together, but she did not answer immediately. She seemed to be considering her reply.
His eyes scanned her, scanned the interior of the carriage and its contents; he took in everything that he saw, but he was particularly interested in the item on the seat beside her.
At first glance, it appeared only to be a thick stack of parchment bound together by a string.
The stack had obviously slipped out from its canvas bag, probably from the chase, but a few words written on the front parchment caught his eye.
Training his eyes back to her face, he studied her again. Did she know how expressive her face was? He would wager that he could discern the answer to her mystery just by watching her every expression.
“I already told—”
“Yes, yes, you were headed to your friend’s dinner party. Which is where, precisely?”
“In Mayfair.” She sat up straight and held her head high.
“Mayfair is on the opposite side of London.”
“We were lost!”
Above them, they heard Benson’s objection to her words. She winced.
“Lower your voice if you please, Sir; there is no need to shout,” she hissed.
“You alone have been shouting, Madam.”
Lips pressed tight, Dahlia drew in a deep breath through her nose. From the clenching of her fists, he judged she was holding in a scream.
“Are you normally so emotional?”
“Sir… Your Grace.” Dahlia drew in a breath. “Your presence must be needed in a very important dinner or meeting at this very minute. I am sure an esteemed man such as yourself must be in attendance somewhere—anywhere.”
“Now I am really curious to know why a lady would be out and about late at night in a disreputable part of London, alone but for a loyal—a trusted—servant with her.”
Dahlia’s hands were clasped tightly together.
“Could she be meeting a beau or perhaps eloping?”
“I beg your pardon!”
Her outraged reply made him very glad. No man… good. That is good for her reputation, I mean! That meant… and if he was right… well they would just have to find out. His eyes went back to the item beside her.
“No? Then that only leaves one possible answer.”
“And what answer is that?” Dahlia gulped.
Dahlia watched Peter as he rested his elbows on his knees.
She felt her face heat at his unwavering gaze.
In the contained space of the carriage, she was very aware of how much smaller she was compared to him.
When he leaned forward, she had to lean back flat against the seat to allow a semblance of space between them.
Neither of them spoke, but the air was rife with questions and with a different kind of energy entirely.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Peter’s spoke.
“Are you much of a writer, Lady Dahlia?”
Dahlia could not speak for a moment. She discreetly glanced down at her manuscript, and her eyes turned huge as she saw that it had slipped out of its bag.
It lay beside her for all the world to see.
The world, in this case, was The Duke of Icedale, the very man whose character and physical attributes lay within the pages of the manuscript.
Moving her hand over the title, she spoke hurriedly.
“Oh yes, what lady is not, truly? It is very important that we maintain our correspondence! One might say it is our duty even! Why, we write so many letters that they really do pile up!”
“As yours have, I imagine?” he said with a raised eyebrow.
“Why yes, I have occasion to write so many letters but have not the time to actually send them!”
“I see. And those, I take it, are your numerous letters?” He gestured to the manuscript with his eyes.
“Indeed, they are!”
Peter leveled her with his gaze. His voice was steel when he spoke.
“Really? I don’t suppose you were delivering a letter of yours to the Thomas he gave enough to allow her to move out of the carriage. But she was wrong if she thought that escape was hers, for Peter followed her out onto the street, manuscript still held in his grip.
“Give that to me please.”
“You are Penelope Lovelace. Do not deny it, the proof is irrefutable!”
“I know not of what you speak, Your Grace.”
“Do not compound your lies with more lies, My Lady. I demand you to stop this nonsense! You must stop writing about me. No proper lady would endeavor such pursuits!”
“Your Grace has obviously had too much excitement tonight; you are spewing nonsense!”
“Dahlia Hill! You have been caught; there is no use denying it.”
“Give it to me!”
With a cry, she reached once again for the manuscript. His hand caught hers and held it firmly in his. She tried with her other hand; he moved the manuscript beyond her reach. Dahlia strained to reach it, her body flush against his in the effort.
“Ahem.”
A small cough froze them. Turning to see, the color drained from Dahlia’s face as she saw her friends, Celine and Rhys, the Duke and Duchess of Wylds, and Helena, the eldest daughter of the Earl of Huntington, together with all of Celine’s dinner guests, stare at them.
“Lady Dahlia,” Rhys spoke, obviously trying to contain his laughter. “I had not thought you would be bringing a guest, but I must remind you that the parlour games are still set for later!”
Celine threw him a murderous look. Helena slapped him in the stomach with her fan.
Dahlia jumped away from Peter, who stood motionless, looking back at all the faces that watched them. For the first time since all the excitement of the night, Dahlia became aware of her appearance.
Her hair had, by now, almost completely unraveled from its coiffure, her cloak and gown were rumpled beyond acceptability, and she realized that there was a tear in her sleeve.
Quickly looking at Peter, she saw that his cravat was twisted, his greatcoat was missing a button, his hair tousled from their wrestling match, and in his hand, he held the manuscript to The Duke and the Mysterious Debutante by Penelope Lovelace.
Had they heard? Had all of them heard their fight? She scanned the faces of the members of the ton who stood immobile, watching them. Finally, she met Celine’s gaze then Helena’s.
“This is not good.” Dahlia closed her eyes. “This is not good at all!”