“And I would never have taken you here if I had known who you were,” he countered. “I intended to marry your sister, notyou.”
Her jaw dropped, shock written so plainly across her face, he could have laughed. “Marry,” she repeated. “You were going tomarryIsabella?”
“I can think of no other reason to take such a miserable trip across the border.” He sighed, trying to think his way through the mess. In the dawn light, with the scarf and the cloak, he hadn’t noticed it wasn’t Isabella. That ought to be any man’s first step in arranging a runaway wedding, but the fact of the matter was, he hadn’t been expecting anyone else.
And she had climbed into the carriage under her own power.
“Well, this is a bloody mess,” he said. “I presume you are the infamous Emily.”
She blinked, and her fingers shook a little around the pistol. The next second, she adjusted her grasp. “You may address me as Miss Brunton. And yes, I am Isabella’s sister.”
“Miss Brunton.” He swept off his hat and sank into a low bow, replacing it on his head with a wince at the cold. “I’m TheHonourable Oliver Beaumont. Now we are both acquainted, let us get to the heart of the matter. Why are you here?”
“I received the note you were so obliging as to send my sister,” she said, her face heating a little, fiery red giving her some wonderful colour that disguised the thinness of her cheeks.
“And you decided the best course of action would be to take her place,” he said dryly. “No doubt you thought you would rather findyourselfthe wife of a gentleman.”
Fire flashed in those eyes. He’d assumed them to be the same blue as her sister’s, but now he rather suspected they were grey, like steel. “Your note said nothing of marriage.”
He barked a bitter laugh before he could help himself. So, Isabella had kept their arrangement secret, and thus Miss Brunton had seen his note and assumed a mere assignation.
None of this explained why she had chosen to take Isabella’s place.
“I need a drink,” he said. “And these horses need a rest. I’ll find us a nearby inn.”
“Together?”
“Unless you would prefer to remain in the carriage?”
He could see from her face she did not. No doubt she was nearly as cold as he was, and just as exhausted. Against the paleness of her skin, her freckles stood stark like constellations. She was not soft or delicate enough to be pretty, but he conceded that the freckles were taking.
Not that it mattered one way or the other.
He gestured at the carriage, entirely out of patience. “Get in, or I’ll leave you here.”
She huffed in irritation, but climbed back inside. He slammed the door and went to climb onto the coachman’s seat, every muscle in his body aching. If anything, the snow only came down faster. “Damn weather,” he muttered, and flicked the reins.
The ride to the inn took around five minutes, which gave Emily just enough time to find her composure from where Mr Beaumont had disposed of it.
He’d been intending to bring Isabella to Scotland—most likely Gretna Green—tomarry her. Marriage. Her mind felt as though he had dipped a spoon into her brain and twirled it around. All this time, she’d been assuming the worst, and he’d planned this.
Had she ruined everything?
Of course not, she told herself.If he wanted to marry her clandestinely, he probably had evil plans for her.
The Honourable Oliver Beaumont. If he was in the area, close enough that he might have met Isabella, the only person she could think of that he might visit was Lord Marlbury—a man who ruined women and abandoned them with heartless regularity.
If that was the case, Isabella would have known about the connection. For her to have continued to encourage him—and Emily was not so foolish as to think Mr Beaumont acted without consent—then the only explanation could be infatuation. Like countless women before her, Isabella had fallen prey to a set of devilish hazel eyes and artful curls, and that childish inclination had been enough to overpower every warning Emily could give her.
What a mess.
They rattled into the coaching inn, which, given the early hour of the morning, was not as busy as it might have been. Emily rejoiced silently; the fewer witnesses, the better.
Mr Beaumont hopped down and after a few moments’ conversation with an ostler, he opened the door for her.
“Sister,” he said pointedly, holding out his hand. His fingers looked reddened and sore from the cold, and after a moment, she placed hers atop them. His skin was just as chilled as it appeared, and she almost jerked her hand free again. Brows lowering, he gripped her tighter and tucked the same hand firmly in his arm.
“Breakfast is served in the taproom,” he said conversationally as he led her towards the door. The building was small and ill-kept, though it looked as though it saw a great deal of traffic. The whitewashed walls were peeling, revealing grey stone underneath, and a great slab served as a front step, the middle dipped from where countless feet had stepped. The interior of the building was dark and smoky.
