“By five years, not five decades.”
“But Aunt Stapleton said I must make an attempt at ‘town polish’ for your sake—”
He slid his hands beneath her arms and moved her bodily from one padded bench to the other, depositing her on the good seat like a sack of potatoes. “Mayhap now we can both agree that my godmother does not know what is best for everyone.”
A beat passed in silence.
“How long is the drive to London?” she asked in a small voice.
“Eight hours.”
“Then at least share the best seat with me.” She scooted toward the window and indicated the vast amount of available space by her side. The wide bench could easily accommodate three earls beside her. Well, two of his stature.
With an aggrieved expression, Lord Gilbourne moved her to the opposite side of the bench and arranged himself on the seat next to her so that she was facing the unscarred half of his face.
Matilda immediately altered her previous calculations. The bench only fit one Earl of Gilbourne. His outsized presence seemed to take up the entire carriage, from carpet to ceiling. He was certainly consuming all of the available oxygen. Her lungs could barely manage to remember to breathe.
This is all part of the adventure, she told herself firmly. An amusing anecdote you will one day tell to your grandchildren.
She might not tell them how good Lord Gilbourne smelled, though. Soap and bergamot and spice. Or how broad his shoulders were, and how entranced she was by the improbable girth of his muscles.
But she’d tell them he was impossible.
“You can smile if you want to,” she told him. “You won. I’m in the carriage. And no one is here to see you gloat.”
He sent her a look so scathing, it was a wonder every hair on her body didn’t burn to a crisp.
No smiles, then. Even in private.
Pity.
Matilda hated that she found him every bit as attractive when he was cold and angry as she did when he was hot and kissing her.
The earl leaned forward to tap the driver’s panel, to indicate that they were ready. The horses glided into motion at once. Matilda had never been in a carriage this smooth. It was nothing like bumping along in a dog cart. More like floating on a sturdy raft down a peaceful river.
Lord Gilbourne looked as though he’d never been less comfortable in his life.
“How many hours did you say?” she asked tentatively.
He sent her a look. “Eight.”
“And it’s already eight o’clock at night?”
“Eight forty-five.”
This was pronounced without a visible glance at a pocket watch, yet Matilda had no doubt that Lord Gilbourne was right. He was the sort of man who was always right. Who expected reality itself to heed his commands—and often got what he wished for.
“You don’t think… you might be more comfortable spending the night in a bed, rather than a carriage, and traveling home in the daylight tomorrow when we can see the countryside through the windows?”
His gaze shot up to the driver’s panel, then back to her. His jaw worked in silence for a moment, then he leaned forward and slid open the panel. “John Coachman! Blushing Maid Inn, please.”
“You have lodgings booked for tonight?” she asked.
“I have lodgings rented for all week,” he answered dryly. “Courtesy of your great-aunt, who arranged this travesty.”
“You have an entire week of lodgings, and you were just going to abandon them?” she said in disbelief.
“I have a home in London and two country estates I’m currently ‘abandoning’, if that’s how you intend to interpret things,” he replied. “Of those, the least of my allegiance is to Marrywell.”
