“I’m not certain it will hold for long.” Lord Blakely’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “I tightened the screw, but it’s stripped.”
She would have to be careful. She’d packed a second pair… somewhere. “Thank you.” She’d love to ignore him, go on watching the passing scenery, but his presence was just so damn… commanding. “Thank you.”
He nodded but then turned his back to her. It was his turn to stare out the window, leaving Emily free to lean forward nonchalantly and inhale his aroma. His hair had dried by now, a little curlier than normal. She hadn’t realized how bronzed his neck was. Must be from all the riding he did. She’d heard on more than one occasion how mad he was for horses.
“Do you think your mount is well enough?” Emily asked, making an attempt at normal conversation. “He does not spook easily in storms?”
“She,” he grunted. “No, she trained for battle. Loud noises don’t faze her.”
Emily wished she’d trained for battle. “What’s her name?” Good heavens! She was making ordinary conversation. It must be ordinary, because he showed every indication of boredom.
“Aminta.”
“Aminta? That’s Greek, you know.” Such an appropriate name for a horse that didn’t spook. “It means the protector.”
She finally captured his attention. He turned away from the window, his gaze falling on her with a questioning look. “You really are a bluestocking, aren’t you?”
He spoke the word somewhat disdainfully. Why would she wish to help such an arrogant fool? Oh, yes!Rhoda. Perhaps if she married him off to Rhoda, she herself would stop obsessing over his wonderfulness.
The pig.
Damn him.
She lifted her chin. “Any man who is put off by an educated woman isn’t worth the minerals of which his body is composed.”
He laughed. Ah, yes, he would find amusement from her once again. “Miss Goodnight, if you’d listen carefully, you’d comprehend that I did not say that I couldn’t appreciate bluestockings. I simply verified my initial assessment.” He raised his hands defensively, as though she were a pugilist who would attack him. “Never let it be said I’m put off by educated women. Good God, I fear you might have my body broken down into its simple substances!”
Sophia and Prescott both chuckled at that. When Emily met Sophia’s gaze, however, she had the good grace to pinch her lips together in disdain.
Just then the carriage jerked to a halt.
They’d arrived.
Marcus waited for Prescott to climb out and then assist the duchess and their child. Miss Goodnight waited beside him, patiently holding some sort of carpet bag on her lap. It likely contained books.
Not many guessed at the meaning of Aminta’s name. Leave it to the minx to make the observation.
As the doorway cleared, he gestured to Miss Goodnight to precede him. Her brown eyes flew open wide, as though she’d not expected gallantry. Even with the blasted spectacles, he noticed her eyes now. She rose, crouched over, and edged sideways to make her way past him. Just as she did so, the carriage jostled and with nothing to grasp to regain her balance, she tumbled onto his lap, dropping her bag onto the floor.
“My apologies, my lord!” Her breath fanned against his throat as she gasped her regrets. Despite all her bristle and intellectual outrage, she was still a woman. Marcus couldn’t possibly ignore this fact with her squirming around on his lap.
Soft bum. Tiny waist. He’d not considered before what she hid beneath her petticoats and drab dresses. For one outrageous second, he imagined what her thighs would feel like wrapped around his waist. The tender skin between a lady’s legs never failed to arouse him.
When she pulled back to peer up at him, Marcus had to blink himself back to reality. Except… one of her eyes looked perfectly normal, but the other was hugely magnified behind the remaining lens.
The glass had fallen out again.
A little freakish, to be sure, but she also appeared adorably confused and more than a little… lost. Marcus couldn’t help but laugh.
Her face scrunched into a scowl, drawing even more hilarity from him. “Lord Blakely! I’m glad you find my handicap so amusing!” She turned her attention to his shirt front, lowering her face closer to it, and her curious hands began searching his person. “It must be here somewhere!”
It took him another moment to realize she wasn’t suddenly overcome with his masculine assets so much as to fondle him, but that she was searching frantically for her lens.
Tiny fingers explored down his sternum, past the waist of his breeches… Good God! Did the woman not know what she was doing? She’d dropped to the floor and now kneeled before him, her fingers probing still. His thighs, around his lap, the seat.
“Hold still, woman!” he finally ground out. And then…
Crunch.
