LITMIR.BIZ

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to withdraw into herself.

      Her evasiveness nettled him. He gazed at her lips again. Good Lord, stop. Playing lackey to a beautiful, wealthy woman—one suspected of missing a few spokes in her paddlewheel—didn’t sit well. He was used to giving the orders and having his questions answered.

      If she read the book ten years ago, that was about the time of her scandal and deep depression. “Sooo, did these good friends help with the melancholy?”

      C.C.’s head jerked up. With a quick twitch of her eyes she shot a wary glance toward her maid and then back to him.

      Ah, she didn’t want to talk in front of her maid. “And how about your friend—Sarah, was it? Could she also read Plutarch?”

      She gave him a steady, questioning stare as she slowly scratched Plutarch’s ears. “Sarah did not read Latin. If she had, she might have avoided—” C.C.’s shoulders sagged and her gaze turned inward. A sheen of moisture added bleakness to her eyes. “She didn’t deserve what Falgate did.” Her words came out a whisper, and she quickly glanced out the window, as if something caught her attention.

      Clearly, she grieved for Sarah. Thomas had said they were good friends and that Falgate had been implicated in Sarah’s death. It seemed a stretch to imagine C.C. had led the viscount on, but perhaps she saw an opportunity when he pursued her into the library, and exacted a measure of revenge.

      “And what is this one?” Beau leaned toward dog number three on the maid’s knee and extended his hand for the dog to sniff.

      The cur shot forward and bit him.

      “Blast!” Beau yanked his hand away.

      “Fosco! Down!” both C.C. and the maid chided together.

      While the maid grabbed the snarling little bugger and held him tighter in her lap, C.C. continued her scold. “Fosco, you bad, bad boy! We do not bite our guests! I’m very sorry, Captain.” Her gaze dropped to the hand he was rubbing. “Oh, dear. Did he break the skin?” She set Plutarch on the seat next to her and scooted forward. May I see where he bit you?” She extended an ungloved hand over the legroom between the seats.

      Beau eyed the dogs. He doubted either fur ball could jump that far for another bite. Still, he took his time before he laid his hand in her palm.

      She closed her fingers around his.

      He hissed in air through his teeth, as if it pained him.

      “Oh! I’m sorry, Captain.” Concern filled her voice. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

      Her hands were warm and soft, and her touch so gentle. No wonder her little hounds quieted right down when she ran her fingers through their fur. She slowly turned his hand over.

      He made another little hissing sound.

      Her gaze shot to his, and this time he allowed himself to fall into her beautiful, dark eyes.

      “Did he bite you here?” She pointed to a slight redness on the top of his hand—the scrape caused by his trunk latch.

      The dog had only nipped his finger, but Beau liked how her soft fingers smoothed over his skin. The sensation of her gentle prodding sent a tingle up his arm. His pulse jumped as well. He was enjoying this too much to give her any reason to stop.

      “The top of your hand is a little red. It doesn’t look like he broke the skin,” she said, turning his hand gently in both of hers. “I’m so sorry for his bad behavior.”

      Beau gazed about her face as she continued to gently rub her thumb over his hand. “Fosco would need sharper teeth to get through my tough hide.” He could see when it registered in her mind that the dog hadn’t really done any damage.

      A nostril flared. “You are a scoundrel, Captain.” She dropped his hand, sat back rigidly against the seat, plopped Plutarch back on her lap and gazed out the window.

      She obviously knew he’d taken advantage of the situation, but Beau was just getting warmed up. He glared at the cantankerous little mongrel on the maid’s lap.

      The dog growled back.

      “I say, he rather looks like a Lion Dog mix. How did that happen?”

      C.C. gazed coolly at Beau. “He’s Plutarch’s moment of indiscretion with Lady Whiting’s saucy terrier.” Turning Plutarch around, she smoothed the fur out of his large black eyes and whispered, “You were a bad, bad boy, weren’t you? Lady Whiting no longer receives us because of you.”

      “A clandestine mating? It is said dogs often resemble their owners.”

      Her eyes widened, and made another twitch toward the maid.

      He’d not intended to hint at her visit to his bed at Grancliffe, but sometimes his tongue worked things out on its own, surprising even him.

      C.C.’s lips thinned. “My dogs are not like me!”

      “I beg to differ.” He pointed to each dog in turn. “Kiss. Growl. Bite.”

      A rush of pink colored her cheeks. “Really, Captain,” she huffed. “That is absurd!”

      “Will we be taking the train back to London?” Beau asked cheerily, enjoying irritating her. She’d made him plenty uncomfortable with their bargain, and he was going to feel even worse if he found out she truly was a nutter.

      “No, Captain,” she snipped. “Dogs aren’t welcome with passengers on the train, and I can’t bear the thought of them being caged in some stuffy cargo car.”

      Ferrying her mongrels back and forth had to cost a small fortune. Obviously, money didn’t concern her, or she cared a great deal for her dogs. “Will you be bringing your lap warmers to North Carolina?”

      She didn’t answer immediately while she fished around in her reticule. Withdrawing a small hand mirror, she tweaked one or two hair coils around her face and checked the stability of her hat. “I’ll miss them terribly, but I’m afraid it would be too arduous for them. We’ll drop everyone off in London to stay at Mrs. Arnold’s townhouse, Amelia’s…I mean, Lady Grancliffe’s mother.”

      “And you don’t think it will be too arduous for you?” He frowned as he gazed about her exquisite carriage, beautiful traveling ensemble, and flawless coiffure. “War is being waged where we’re headed. Do you have any concept of what that means: the dangers you’ll face—the lack of conveniences? Things are not like they are here.”

      Mirror still poised in the air, she shrugged and said simply, “I know.”

      Well, he doubted she had any idea what she’d be up against, but far be it from him to tell her. He dragged a hand through his hair. “So, what’s on the itinerary?”

      “If all goes well, we should be in London by tomorrow evening.”

      Tomorrow evening. Beau settled back into the plush squabs and gazed about the carriage. It was so new he could smell the conditioning oils in the seat and door leather. Flecks of silver sparkled in the dark purple upholstery lining the ceiling and walls. Silver fringe adorned the windows. It was magnificent if one liked purple, violet or lavender.

      The springs were so well balanced they floated over bumps in the road. At least the trip back to London should be more comfortable than the train. He might even take a nap. Hopefully the compensations of traveling with a wealthy woman would outweigh the uncomfortable feeling gnawing at his gut.

      Not more than a quarter hour later they passed the entrance to Rockford lands. He’d done quite well forgetting unwanted memories, but some remained as sharp and vibrant as if they’d happened yesterday.

      Beau’s lips turn down in disgust. Never had there been a more besotted young fool. At fifteen he’d fancied himself a man in love and had been as randy as a rabbit. That summer Lady Rockford, four years his senior and married to a man twice her age, had made several very specific and beguiling overtures. Her

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