Chapter Fourteen
Sylvie, so outraged by her mother’s blatant scheming, perched stiffly on the edge of the plush seat.
Clamping her hands tightly in her lap, she inhaled and exhaled heavily through her nostrils, fearing that if she opened her mouth, one of her more vulgar curses would spill forth, forcefully.
Blood pulsed in her ears so loudly she could not hear the rest of the exchange between Westland and her mother, and truthfully, she did not want to.
Whatever had possessed her ordinarily meek and mild mother to do such an outrageous thing was beyond her.
And Betsy… oh, when she got her hands on that perfidious creature, she would, would… .
“Miss Mason,” intoned Westland with a solemn nod as he entered the carriage and took his seat beside her.
He rapped on the ceiling three times with the ornate silver head of his cane.
The carriage jolted into motion with such force, Sylvie lurched inelegantly, nearly landing in an unladylike heap on the floor, if not for his strong arm instantly across her waist. The unexpected contact made her squeak, and just as suddenly, the arm was gone.
“It may be prudent to sit a little further back. We will be travelling at speed.”
“Yes, thank you,” she murmured, shuffling deeper into the seat, though try as she might, she could not bring herself to meet his gaze.
The awkward silence for the next half an hour became overpowering, and Sylvie, unable to bear the discomfort any longer, finally blurted, “I am so dreadfully sorry. I do not know what came over Mama… and…”
“Don’t,” Westland interrupted, sharp and commanding, making Sylvie press her lips firmly together.
He took a deep breath, and it was several long, agonising moments before he continued, his tone softer this time.
“Please do not apologise for your mother. Her actions, though misguided, were meant with good intent.”
“I see,” she murmured back. “And your intent, my lord? Was it to leave without saying goodbye?”
“No,” he replied bluntly, then, after a pause, slipped his hand inside his coat and withdrew a letter. “I had intended to leave you this.”
She eyed it suspiciously as he held it out to her.
“Take it,” he said, pressing it gently into her hand.
“W… why, then, are you giving it to me now?”
“It is bad manners not to reply to a letter.”
Her eyes flew to his. “Oh, no… you… It wasn’t supposed to be for you to… to read.”
“It was addressed to me.”
“I know, but… oh…” she resigned with a deep sigh. “Do… do you wish for me to read this now?”
Relaxing back in his seat, Westland closed his eyes. “It is addressed to you, Miss Mason. It is yours to do with as you will.”
Sylvie remained silent, the letter lying in her hand near burning a hole through her glove.
Seconds ticked by, stretching into minutes…
minutes into half an hour. Finally, she dared a brief glance at the giant of a man sitting beside her.
Thank the goddess, he was asleep. She sat for another few minutes, stealing peeks here and there, studying his profile, his perfectly straight nose, his long dark lashes.
Did she dare open the letter? To read her fate?
Was it not awkward enough to sit in such close quarters, let alone have to endure the long hours ahead, knowing he had broken their engagement?
Would it not be better to leave it unread and keep up the pretence of ignorance?
No — she finally decided with a heavy heart — it would be better for all concerned to get it over.
With a deep sigh, her trembling fingers broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
Dear Miss Mason,
When you read this, I will already be on my way to London, so I bid you farewell for now.
I dearly hope I will not be set upon by a Highwayman and cursed with a bout of festering pustules, as I do not wish to delay my arrival in London, as I intend to call upon your father, post haste.
Oh, and has the Pirate Captain considered the threat of keelhauling to keep his motley crew in check?
It is quite a gruesome punishment! Till we meet again in London, Miss Mason.
Yours, Westland.
Unable to stifle the little squeak of delight, she read and re-read the elegantly penned lines.
It was the most romantic, wonderful thing she had ever received.
She nearly pinched herself to be sure she wasn’t dreaming, then turned to steal another furtive glance at the writer of the note while he slept.
A lock of hair had fallen across his brow, and her fingers tingled with a desire to sweep it aside, to trace the line of his jaw, feel the texture of his close shave, to outline his lips, to…
“You are staring, Miss Mason,” Westland murmured, turning slightly as he opened one eye.
“Oh!” she peeped in surprise, and to her horror, her stomach chose that very moment to protest its emptiness with a loud, very unladylike groan.
“And hungry,” he added.
“Very, my lord. Dearest mama did not allow for breaking our fast in her scheming.”
“Hm,” he murmured as he sat up, stretching, rolling his neck.
Sylvie, unable to command herself to look away, watched in fascination.
She could not recall ever seeing a gentleman do such a thing in her presence, and the intimacy of such a simple act, performed as though it were entirely ordinary, made her heart skip.
Rapping the ceiling with his cane, Westland gave her a quizzical glance. “There is a hamper.”
Shaking herself slightly as if startled from sleep, she murmured dreamily, “Oh… how wonderful. A luncheon outside, and such a glorious day, and such a pretty spot.”