A low hiss escaped him. “I know you, don’t I? I never forget a face.”
“Forgive me if I doubt you to be that observant.”
His eyes narrowed to slits. “Christ, you’re Mrs. Culpepper’s wizened spinster of a cousin. I suppose that’s why Lady Trent found it appropriate to allow us to travel together. There’s no worry about damagingyourreputation. I’m probably the closest a gentleman has got to your skirts in years.”
The pads of her fingers bit into the page of her book. She longed to throw it at his head.
He tapped a blunt fingertip to his lips, drawing Emmagene’s attention to his mouth, which was rather nice and something she shouldn’t notice. “Now let me think. What is your name? It rhymes with bi—”
“Stitch.” Emmagene slammed the book shut before he could finish his sentence. “I am Miss Stitch.”
The corner of his mouth tilted up, then he stood, rather gracefully for a large man in a moving coach, and peered down at her.
Awareness skimmed down Emmagene’s chest and stomach. She was suddenly very cognizant of how small the coach seemed with Huntly in it. She licked her bottom lip out of nervousness.
His eyes tracked the movement before he reached across the small aisle of the coach and gripped her shoulders.
Emmagene squeaked in surprise.
Bodily picking her up, Huntly turned and deposited Emmagene in the seat he’d just vacated. Winking at her, Huntly sat down himself, a smug look of satisfaction on his rough features.
Emmagene’s lips parted, as she was so outraged she could barely think.
“Your eyelid is twitching. Are you going to have a fit of apoplexy? Should I have them stop the coach? Maybe drop you somewhere?”
“Drop me?”
He was drumming his fingers on the seat. The digits were thick and blunt. Powerful. Very ungentlemanly without gloves. Something coiled low in Emmagene’s midsection as she took in his hands and knew they’d been on her.
“I suppose you’re only disappointed I didn’t do something improper. Probably hoping I would. Rest assured, Miss Stitch. Your virtue is safe from me as well as every other gentleman in London. Your reputation precedes you.”
“As does yours. I insist you stop this coach and take another. Perhaps your own.”
Huntly rolled the mountain of his shoulders. “It isn’t available at the moment, which is why I find myself in your delightful company.” He pushed himself into the corner so his legs could stretch out over the entire length of the vehicle, or at least as much as possible. Crossing his arms, he closed his eyes. “Don’t disturb me.”
Emmagene’s fingers tightened on her book, anger making the hair on her arms prickle. Huntly’s arrogant reputation was well deserved, his boorish manner not exaggerated.
“I can hear you puffing with feminine outrage. Are you upset,” he said in a bored tone, “I referred to you as a spinster? I was merely stating fact. You’re clearly a lady of mature years.” He opened his eyes. “And unwed.” The sharp blue gaze took in her plain brown traveling ensemble. “It wasn’t meant as an insult, only a statement of fact.”
“Far better than being a foul-smelling oaf with feet the size of a draft horse’s.”
“I’m not foul smelling.” Huntly sniffed at his coat he shrugged. “Maybe a little. Forgot all about this blasted wedding until I arrived home a short time ago. Barely had time for coffee and a bite of breakfast. Look, Miss Stitch.” Huntly turned his palms up in a gesture meant to placate her, and it might have, had it been from anyone other than Huntly. “I know the traveling arrangements aren’t pleasing for either one of us, but the drive to Longwood is short. Trust me, if I had my own coach, I would be in it.”
Which begged the question of the whereabouts of Huntly’s coach. “Did you gamble it away, my lord?”
His jaw, in dire need of a shave, hardened in response to her question.
“I understand gentlemen of your caliber are quite prone to offer up their purses for the most ridiculous things.” Emmagene leaned forward, catching another whiff of cheap perfume. “You smell like a brothel, by the way.”
“How would you know, Miss Stitch,” he snarled, “what a brothel smells like? Or even have any idea of what transpires at such an establishment? It isn’t the sort of place a lady such as yourself would frequent.”
“True, I’ve never been to a brothel,” she said, deliberately leaving the rest of the statement unanswered. “But there is no mistaking the scent of disappointment and poor decisions.”
His eyes narrowed into slits before finally shutting completely.
Emmagene opened her book once again and stared down at the page. Her skin was still prickling madly in awareness of the beast across from her, a wholly unwelcome response and one she put down to the unmitigated gall of Huntly. Far more bothersome was the fact that no one, including Southwell’s driver and footman, was the least concerned about Emmagene being in Huntly’s company for an extended period of time. Especially Huntly.
The knowledge pricked at her. Just a bit.
