Out the door she went.
She had arrived by hired hack, and she would leave the same way. Just let him try to stop her.
Chapter Two
For a woman to truly possess her freedom, she must be allowed the rights she deserves.
—FromLady’s Suffrage Society Times
The stubborn chitrefused to listen to reason.
Huntingdon had no choice but to follow her. He could not, in good conscience, allow her to disappear into some hired hack. Lord knew how she had arrived. He slammed out of Lord Algernon’s dingy rooms and followed a swirl of silken skirts. Fortunately, he was long-limbed. He reached her on the street. By a stroke of fortune, she was near his own waiting carriage.
His efficient groom saw him and opened the carriage door.
Huntingdon struck with haste, sliding an arm around Lady Helena’s waist and hauling her to the carriage. She put up a fight, as expected.
“What in heaven’s name do you think you are doing?” she demanded, attempting to wrest herself from his grasp to no avail. “Huntingdon, I insist you release me.”
She could insist all she liked, but the cursed woman had caused him enough trouble today. He was not about to allow her to make more.
“I am seeing you home safely, my lady, and that is that,” he told her calmly, even as he stuffed her and all her flounces into his carriage.
“Cease manhandling me, you ogre,” she charged. “This is abduction!”
His groom’s expression remained carefully blank, as if it were an everyday occurrence for Huntingdon to shove a squawking female into his personal conveyance. Thankfully, such instances were rare. This was the first time he had ever had cause to rescue Shelbourne’s sister from the gaping maws of ruination.
But he had a grim feeling it would not be the last.
“Change of plans,” he said calmly. “My companion will need to be discreetly delivered to Curzon Street.”
Huntingdon joined his unwilling occupant, climbing into the carriage and halting her from attempting further escape by seizing her waist once more and settling her upon the leather bench. Her hat was again knocked from her head as the carriage door closed. The warmth of her curves seemed to burn his hands even through her silk, and he wished he did not take note of the charming flush staining her elegant cheekbones as a result of her exertions.
Lady Helena was beautiful and wild and everything he dared not covet. He well understood her father’s desire to see her properly married.
“Cease struggling, my lady,” he told her, nettled by the huskiness of his voice.
He should stop touching her. And he would, just as soon as the carriage went into motion and he could be assured she would not tear open the door and throw herself into the streets.
By God, he did not feel any boning at all. Was she not wearing a corset? If he slid his hands higher, would he be able to…No. He must not think that.
“You are an overbearing oaf,” she accused, still sounding as outraged as a hive of bees which had just been overturned.
Her scent was invading his senses again. He breathed through his mouth to keep from inhaling bergamot and fresh lemons andher. “I will happily play the overbearing oaf to your shrew.”
He was irritated with himself as much as with Lady Helena.
The carriage lurched into motion, and he released her as if she were made of flame, settling on the bench opposite her with a surge of relief. What the devil was coming over him? He had seen, spoken with, danced with lovely women before. Why was this troublesome one driving him to distraction?
He called Lady Beatrice’s brunette beauty to mind and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I was going to take a hack,” Lady Helena huffed.
She was gorgeous in her dudgeon.
He wanted to kiss the pout from her lips. This was why he kept his polite distance from her as often as possible. Why he had never once danced with her at a ball. Why he had not touched her before today. Mayhap that was where the problem lay.
He had felt the supple softness of her breasts pressed against his chest. That ought to have been his first inclination she had not donned proper undergarments. He wondered if she was even wearing drawers beneath that gown of hers.
