***
They reached the next staging inn in late afternoon, just as the clouds decided at last to produce a half-hearted drizzle. The inn stood where two roads crossed, its whitewashed front mottled by old rain, a swinging sign creaking faintly in the wind. Smoke curled from the chimneys; the smell of roasting meat drifted invitingly on the damp air.
Isla drew the trap up before the yard. Edward dismounted, his legs grateful for the change, and handed his horse to a waiting boy. Henry swung down beside him with the ease of a man who considered such motions minor diversions.
They had barely stepped under the low shelter of the inn’s eaves when the distant rumble of wheels announced the approach of a coach.
“Post,” Edward said, listening.
The big vehicle swept into view an instant later, paintwork dulled by road grime, horses blowing. The coachman called hoarsely and ostlers ran to seize bridles, passengers craned to see where they had arrived. One passenger in particular seemed very eager indeed. The moment the coach had jolted to a stop and the door was flung open, a small gloved hand appeared, followed by a bonneted head. Henry surged forward.
“Libby!”
The young woman on the coach steps lifted her face at the cry. Her eyes were clear, bright, and unmistakably alight at the sight of Henry.
“Henry,” she breathed.
He did not wait for the innkeeper or the footman to offer their palms. He was at the coach in three strides, arm up, hands steadying her as she descended. The world seemed to shrink around them as they met in the muddy yard. Henry, flushedand wind-tossed; Elizabeth, cheeks pink from the cold, dark hair escaping its pins.
Edward recognized her from Henry’s earlier, half-sheepish descriptions. The woman Henry’s parents had forbidden him to marry on pain of disinheritance. Henry did not appear to remember any of that as he caught her hands.
“You are here,” he said, as if this were a miracle.
“Of course I am here,” she replied, laughter trembling at the edge of tears. “You told me to take the coach to the third staging post and look for the man who rides like he is chasing the horizon. You are late.”
“I was detained,” Henry said. “By a duke with an excess of caution.”
Edward stepped forward, resigned. “You might have warned me you meant to commit social suicide on the Great North Road, Henry.”
Henry’s grin flashed. “And miss the look on your face? Never.”
Elizabeth turned to Edward and dropped a little curtsy, there in the mud. “Your Grace. Henry has spoken of you often.”
“I shall endeavor to forgive him,” Edward said. “You must be Miss Mason.”
“Not anymore,” Henry said loudly. “By the time we reach Gretna Green, she will be Mrs. Ashford.”
Elizabeth’s hand tightened on his arm. Her eyes shone, but there was a flicker of apprehension there too. She knew exactly what he was giving up to stand here smiling in a muddy yard with an army captain and a disapproving duke.
“Your father,” Edward said slowly, “will sever your allowance.”
“Yes,” Henry said simply.
“Your mother will collapse dramatically upon the nearest sofa,” Edward added.
“She does that every Tuesday regardless,” Henry said. “It will be a comfort to her to have a more substantial cause.”
“You will be forced to work,” Edward warned.
Henry’s eyes lit. “Think of it.”
Edward stared at him. “Think of …”
“I can drive wagons,” Henry went on. “I can break horses. I can shoot. I can translate French, badly. There must be some use in that selection of talents, even without an earldom attached.”
“Henry,” Isla said from beside Edward, unable to hold back any longer. “You truly mean to elope?”
Henry turned to her. “Your Grace. You see before you a man standing upon the brink of bliss and bankruptcy. I begged leave to accompany your party so that I might have at least two witnesses to my folly.”
