All such reasonable observations were swept away, however, when those strong, long-fingered hands tightened around her waist and lifted her as if she weighed naught more than a feather pillow.
Then her sodden bottom was squeaking across wet saddle leather, and her hands were lifting away from those broad, muscled shoulders and grabbing the pommel for support. Her palms felt…tingly. She swallowed and attempted to steady herself against the novel sensation. She was clearly stirred up from having almost been run down by a horse.
And who wouldn’t be?
Indignation revived itself and pounded through her.
His head tipped back, and piercing aquamarine eyes met hers. She tried not to stare too deeply into those startling eyes. She’d heard tell of their transfixing nature and had dismissed such whisperings as hyperbolic tittle-tattle.
Now, she saw it hadn’t been exaggeration in the least.
One could sink into the depths of that aquamarine gaze and never surface again.
She gave herself a firm mental shake.
Now who was succumbing to hyperbole?
She dragged her gaze away from him and set busily about securing herself.
“It isn’t a sidesaddle,” he said. “Will you be safe once the horse starts moving?”
She nodded without meeting his eyes. She understood how she would appear to this man—haughty…cold…aristocratic…contemptuous.
She would take all the armor she could muster.
He snorted and grabbed the horse’s reins. “And I suppose you’ll tell me where we’re going?”
Beatrix opened her mouth, then as quickly closed it. He would know where she lived. A knife of panic cut through her—and as quickly dulled.
Lord Devil most definitely wouldnotbe entering her house.
“Little Stanhope Street.”
He gave an assessing nod. “Fashionable address.”
Only a fashionable address would do for the Marquess of Lydon.
She wouldn’t be saying that to Mr. Deverill.
Through the thick blanket of London fog that had replaced the pouring rain, they began picking their way through the park until they reached Chesterfield Gate. Then they were on the slick cobblestones of Park Lane, followed by a turn on HertfordStreet. They weren’t the only people braving the weather, but they might as well have been, for Beatrix’s attention was decidedly fixed on Mr. Deverill. Even when she was attempting to concentrate her energies elsewhere, ready to redirect him if he made a false turn, he ever remained within the edge of her vision.
He was impossible to look away from.
Concern for her appearance wanted to rear its head, but she refused to allow it.
Soon enough, she would see for herself the rumpled mess she was.
Mortification could wait until then.
When they turned onto Little Stanhope Street, she called out, “Number Ten,” as if she were directing a servant.
Actually, she would never speak to a servant thusly.
Anyway, she could’ve just as easily have said,“Locate the shabbiest townhouse on the row, and that’s me.”
She would leave that bit unspoken.
Soon—too soon—he would see for himself.
