Chapter 3
Wesley stared out the murky glass window of the inn. There she stood, head held high, waiting for the coach. Ned took a seat across from him with a cup of tea and a scone in his hand.
“Is she here?”
Wesley nodded toward the window. “She's standing right there. Didn't you see her?”
Ned smirked. “I don't track her every movement like you do.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Yep, that's her. I’d know that cocky tilt of her head anywhere.”
Wesley frowned at Ned. “She doesn't have a cocky tilt to her head.”
“When not viewed through rosy-tinted spectacles of lust she certainly does,” Ned replied. “She looks upon the world as if she already knows what you're going to say before you say it, and she's judged it inadequate.”
Wesley smiled. “What I’m hearing you say is that she makes you feel inadequate. Not so with me. She makes me feel…like a lit fuse.”
Ned drew his head back. “I don't think that's good. At the end of the fuse is explosives. You explode. You’re obliterated. One can only hope you don't take anyone out with you.”
Wesley raised a brow as he sipped his coffee. “Like you?”
“Exactly. I don't want to be blown up. So what do you do now?” Ned asked.
Wesley took a sip of his coffee and gently set the mug on the table. “We wait until she leaves. Then we'll mount our horses and ride to the next coaching stop.”
“I'm a little concerned they gave us the schedule beforehand. What if we were highway men intending to rob the coach?”
“Patrons need to know the schedule ahead of time. How else would they plan their trips?” Wesley asked.
“Oh, that makes sense.”
“Don't be nervous, Ned.”
“I confess I am anxious about the idea of following someone. I like Willa, and I don't want her to be upset with me.”
“This is for her protection. She is stubborn, and she is choosing to ignore the obvious dangers of her plan. We're being good friends by doing this. Should anything happen to her, she will be grateful for our interference, and if luck should favor her and nothing happens, then she will never know we were there. We will meet her for tea at Gunther's as planned.”
“What will we do if something does happen?” Ned asked.
“Whatever we have to do to protect her.”
Ned nodded. They sat there for a few minutes more, Wesley nervously tapping his fingers on the table. After he finished his coffee, the innkeeper took their cups away. Wesley's stomach knotted as he watched Willa give her valise to the coachman, who set it in the boot of the coach and handed her inside. He clenched his teeth with worry as the coach loaded with patrons and prepared to depart at the snap of the reins.
Wesley lurched from his seat. “Let's go.” He hurried out of the inn as the rear of the carriage exited the inn yard, turning down the main street to converge with the morning traffic of carts and horses.
Wesley called for their horses, pulling his hat low on his head. He wore a plain brown coat and breeches, his old boots, and a thick scarf to cover half his face if needed, but he didn't plan on riding close enough to the carriage that she would see him.
He mounted his rented horse, a sleek chestnut with a wide back. He could hear Ned muttering curses as he fought with his anxious steed before settling himself in the saddle. Wesley wasn't thrilled about Ned coming along, but so far in his quest for Willa's hand, Ned had been his staunch supporter and a voice of reason when Wesley needed it.
Wesley fought the urge to go faster, his hands tightening around the reins as they trotted out of the inn yard. He needed to remain calm and not rush ahead, risking their discovery. The stagecoach was easy to see, bursting at the sides with luggage, riders on top, and the interior filled with stoic faces.
He wondered what Willa was thinking. Was she scared? Was she excited? He muttered a curse. He should have taken note of the men who had entered the carriage. Most chose to ride on top, preferring the open air, weather permitting. There were some cardinal rules, a gentlemen's code of conduct, so to speak. The stagecoach business relied on its reputation. They would not tolerate ruffians or lecherous rogues harassing the womenfolk. It might not always be proper, but women frequently rode by stagecoach alone or with a companion.
But not women like Willa, who had the benefits of wealth and the privilege of a personal coach at her request. He knew she was exhausted of her patience. Her sisters harangued her about choosing a husband, about her conduct in society. Willa had spoken of it many times. But this endeavor was a bit extreme, in his opinion, but not totally unlike her. Since that first night, that first dinner when her beauty, her sly smile had driven his wits from him. He'd known that there was something special about Willa, but he suspected only he could see it.
Her come out had been spectacular, but her popularity quickly faded. The elite ton did not like to be judged and found wanting. But that's just what Willa had done. She made them second-guess their superiority, and while she wasn't a pariah—how could she be with such close ties to a duke—she'd been relegated to the ranks of wallflower, which Wesley knew she hadn't minded at all. They'd already struck up a friendship, he, Ned, and Willa. She didn't seem troubled by her lack of dance partners. Though he knew gentlemen wanted to ask, they were frightened by her intelligence and her blunt opinion.
But not Wesley.
He relished that her dance card was always open for he and Ned, but mostly him. He could never dance with her more than once, sometimes twice at more informal events. Two years had made him impatient.
