“You are horrible, Lord Carlisle!” And she swatted him lightly.
“Justin,” he reminded her. She’d called him by his Christian name first in the chapel, when…
“Then you must call me Rhoda.”
“Not Rhododendron?” he teased.
“Definitely not Rhododendron. Only my mother gets away with that.” At the mention of her mother, her mood subdued. “Tell me about this estate of yours.”
She was quite good at that. Changing the subject when things got uncomfortable.
Justin released the reins just long enough to adjust his hat. “It was built in the early 1500s. And I don’t think it’s had a lick of maintenance done on it since then. But it’s beautiful in its own right.”
“Your poor cousins!” But she was laughing.
“I wouldn’t feel the weight of it so much if it weren’t for the poor tenant conditions. I only stopped into a couple of them, but both needed new roofs.”
“You poor dear.” She patted his arm. “You’ve only been responsible for the spiritual health of others up until now. It must all seem rather daunting.”
Her words comforted him. So simple and yet… such truth. “I imagine I left the bulk of my responsibilities up to God until now.”
She laughed again. “Perhaps you ought to continue to do just that.”
His heart warmed at her words. That a girl painted a tart by a few idiots of thetoncould see such a simple truth.
“Where are you taking us… Justin?” She remembered to call him by name. This afternoon already was improving his mood.
He turned the vehicle onto a darker, narrower route. “Along with the debts I’ve inherited, I now own a townhouse in Mayfair.”
She examined their surroundings, craning her neck to peer up at the flower boxes hanging over the cobbled street. “The outskirts of Mayfair, I take it?”
This time, it was he who chuckled. “Where else would it be?”
“Cheapside?” She slanted him a dancing smirk.
He couldn’t help but lean closer to her. “Watch your mouth, minx. This might very well be your future home.”
Rhoda’s heart skipped a beat.My future home. My future husband.She’d not ever enjoyed spending time with a gentleman so much as she was enjoying Justin’s company. She’d never felt she could trust someone so much.
He spoke to her as though what she had to say was relevant.
The thought brought her up short.
She’d spent hours, hundreds of hours perhaps, in St. John’s company. She’d flirted with him. He’d flirted back. They’d spoken of the dismal London weather, of whom was betrothed to whom, of the theatre, for heaven’s sake. But they’d never spoken of personal matters.
Even when she’d lain with him.
He’d called her beautiful. He’d compared her hair to the mane of his favorite horse. She smirked at this memory. She’d thought it a compliment at the time.
He’d rambled on and on about the smooth quality of her skin and the depths of her eyes. He’d even complimented her bosom.
He’d never discussed his feelings, his thoughts about life. About the two of them or any future they might have had together.
She’d made some grand assumptions based on all that frivolity. Some grand mistakes.
Justin joked about himself. About his empty pockets, even. He allowed her words to bring him comfort. The tension had left his body when she’d offered her suggestions. She’d felt it. And then he’d leaned toward her and joked about their pending betrothal.
He maneuvered the high-perched phaeton into an even smaller driveway and drew to a halt behind a weathered but rather grand townhouse. The brick was covered with black grime, and the windows had been boarded up. Other than that, it appeared to not be tilting in any one direction, and the roof seemed intact.
