Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mr Stanton hadn’t said where they were going, nor did he seek her approval. The best she got was a list of curt instructions in a tone that invited no argument.
She watched him pull clothes out of the armoire, take a shaving case from the washstand and pack them into a valise. He lifted a floorboard with the edge of his blade, took a notebook and a file of papers and slipped them into the bag.
He looked up once she’d fastened the clasp on Charlotte’s portmanteau. “We’ll take the pillows and coverlet.”
“Are we to sleep beneath the stars?”
She pictured a romantic adventure, but the fantasy vanished when he threw the discarded dummy onto the bed and used the blade on her opera dress.
“Trust me. That would be preferable.” He gripped the neckline and tore the gown in two, freeing the pillows.
“We don’t have to leave town.” She recalled the shock on Pullman’s face when he heard he’d take the helm. Mr Stanton had given him a framed copy of The Sentinel’s first edition and told him to guard it with his life. “I expect you’ve not missed an issue.”
He swallowed. A muscle in his cheek twitched as he stared at the ruined dress. “It won’t be for long. Pullman is capable of holding the fort.”
If they were truly married, she’d cross the room and rub the tension from his shoulders. But she was the inconvenience upending his ordered life. The least she could do was stay quiet.
Rowton was waiting outside, his back to Peele’s coffeehouse as though he suspected every window had eyes. He drew Mr Stanton away from the door, and the men spoke in low voices. Twice, they looked at her—the woman who stole tricorns and broke vows.
“We’ve an hour on the road,” Mr Stanton said, climbing into the carriage and taking the seat opposite her. “I’ve papers to read, but we’ll stop halfway if you need to stretch your legs.”
She sat with her hands in her lap, her gaze fixed on the window while he kept his head bowed. Rowton took more than one detour on the journey out of town, doubling back before veering south across the river.
“Your obsession with facts must be contagious,” she said when half an hour of silence proved too much.
He glanced up, though he had been reading the same page since they’d crossed London Bridge. “I wouldn’t call it an obsession.” He studied her slowly, from her mouth down to the hem of her skirt. “Facts don’t keep me awake at night.”
She was almost tempted to ask what did.
“Well, I’m obsessed with one fact.”
He arched a brow. “How you’ll pay the Colworths for the ruined gown? Either the modiste ignored your request, or your sister insisted on the daring neckline.”
He was right about the neckline. “Perhaps I asked for it cut low to make it easier to attract a husband.”
“Then I should applaud your cunning. I’d wager more than half the audience left with a crick in the neck.”
She bit back a smile. “Is that why you’ve kept your head bowed? You should have said. I’d have prepared a mustard plaster for the journey.”
He laughed. “It wouldn’t be enough. I’ve more than one ache this morning.”
She had a few aches of her own. The memory of his mouth, the heat of his hands, the desperate sense that he wanted her left her breathless in ways she couldn’t blame on the bumpy ride.
“Leaving behind what you love most can’t have been easy. I’ve never known you so quiet. It’s that, or you’re playing the cold husband.”
He looked at her, unblinking. “It would take more than your curious mouth to lift my spirits today.”
She might have thrown down the gauntlet. He’d been the one who’d struggled to pull away last night. The one whose fingers trailed her hip after they’d parted. “Then you won’t mind if I remove this bonnet and let down my hair. I made a dreadful mess of pinning it this morning.”
She didn’t wait for him to object. She pulled the bonnet free and set it on the seat beside her, though one pin still dug into her scalp whenever they bounced through a rut in the road. “So, back to my obsession with one fact in particular. Will you tell me where we’re sleeping tonight?”
His gaze dropped to the pages in his lap. “Stonefold Grange.”
He spoke like the words tasted bitter.
“And where is that exactly?”
“Near Bromley.”
She suppressed a sigh. It was easier to wrestle a compliment from Melinda. “To a coaching inn? A family member? A friend you trust?”
He turned the page balanced on his thigh, studying it far too intently. “The house where I was raised. The one entailed upon me.”
It was a response worthy of a newsman. All facts, no emotion. She reached across and touched his arm. “Yet I sense you’re neglecting an important detail.”
His eyes moved to where her fingers rested on his coat sleeve. “The house I inherited but haven’t visited since.”
She recalled Rowton’s comment during the argument about his beloved tricorn. “Since the night your father died and you smashed half the garden?”
His focus shifted to a passing field. “Yes. Since then.”
The silence stretched.
Grief was the obvious explanation. A son lost his father and couldn’t bear to return. Yet she suspected there was more to it than that.
Why else would a man avoid his family home and live as a self-proclaimed bachelor? There was pain there, certainly, but pain rarely told the whole story.
“Is it habitable?” They were bringing pillows and a coverlet. Perhaps the roof leaked and the windows were rotten. Perhaps the mattresses were riddled with mice.
“The entail requires the house be maintained to a reasonable standard.”
What was he not telling her? He wasn’t afraid to chase down a killer in a graveyard. To hold the muzzle of her pistol to his heart and insist she fire. Yet something kept him away.
She took her reticule and loosened the strings.
He watched her. She could feel the weight of his attention on her skin like the trail of his finger. The best way to uncover the truth was to make him forget his guard.
Lord Howden’s letter was crumpled. She took it out and began smoothing the edges. It smelled of nothing, but she brought it to her nose and inhaled. A passionate man left his mark. Mr Stanton’s scent had clung to her for hours after that stolen kiss beneath the pew. And oh, how she craved it.
“I wonder what he wants.” She traced her name with her fingertip and resisted the urge to glance at her companion.
“Presumably it’s a bribe,” he said.
“Perhaps.”
“Money to chase away the chill.”
She turned it over in her hand and examined the seal, letting the seconds linger before laying it on her lap.
Mr Stanton stared at the letter. “You’re not keen to know what he’s offering?”
“I know what he’s offering. You were kind enough to demonstrate.”
“I imagine he’s like a bird. All he knows how to do is peck.”
“Yes, and your script drove the point home.”
“I didn’t need a script to convince you. One kiss proved he’s the wrong man.”
And he’d done it so marvellously she could still taste him. “As a bachelor, I suppose there are certain things you look for in a companion.”
“Yes. Someone with a strong grip on their emotions.”
What a liar. She’d seen what happened when he forgot his precious self-control. “Someone who follows rules and is entirely predictable, I imagine. Someone who can’t even spell adventure.”
He cast the papers aside. “Intelligence would be a priority. Passion wanes. Sensible conversation does not.”
She gave a curious hum.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She gave a little shrug, though he’d already taken the bait. “We’re more alike than I realised. We both have a habit of saying one thing while meaning another.”
He frowned.
That was her cue to retreat, but she was her mother’s daughter. “Allow me to demonstrate. I would hate for you to mistake compatibility for attraction.” She put her bonnet back on and tied the ribbons in a neat little bow. “I shall play your perfect companion.”
He snorted. “I doubt you’ve a sensible bone in your body.”
“You would know. You seem to look at it quite often.”
“Because I’m trying to predict what you’ll do next.”
She stiffened her spine and held her clasped hands in her lap, covering Lord Howden’s letter. “Shall we discuss crop rotation or debate parish boundaries and the proper maintenance of hedgerows?”
He arched a brow. “I said intellectual conversation.”
“Irregular Greek verbs?”
“Now you’re being cruel to prove a point.”
“You choose the topic, and I shall nod eagerly.”
“Very well. The breeding practices on stud farms.”
She blinked and dabbed her brow. A genteel lady would surely swoon at the mention of stud farms. “Forgive me, but I find such subjects affect my delicate sensibilities.”
“Shall I open a window?”
“Good heavens, no. I’ll catch a chill.”
He patted the seat beside him and grinned. “Sit here. We’ll warm each other.”
She clutched her pelisse tight to her throat. “There was an article on the nature of contagion in Smithers’ Scientific Review. Do you know the mouth is a breeding ground? Hence my preference for kissing on the cheek.”
“That wasn’t your conclusion beneath the pew.”
Time for a quick costume change. She tugged on the ribbons beneath her chin and let them fall loose.
“Reckless ladies do reckless things. And you were quite compelling, as I recall.”
He ran his hands over his thighs, as if afraid his fingers might stray. “I see the sensible woman has gone to recuperate.”
“Dull conversation can be quite taxing. Perhaps I should leave you to your work.” The bonnet came off again, and a tendril escaped. “You’ve not looked at those papers in a while. Are you distracted, Mr Stanton?”
“No.”
She pulled another pin free. A curl tumbled loose and brushed her jaw. His gaze followed its path with the focus of a man who had forgotten he was supposed to be reading.
He swallowed. Dark eyes traced the column of her throat, the curve of her breast. She felt the path of his gaze like a caress across her skin.
“In all honesty, I have no interest in stud farms, sir.”
“You dislike horses, Miss Vane?”
“I dislike infidelity.”
“Yet you were prepared to marry a man who would keep a mistress. I can’t imagine you playing second fiddle to any woman.”