She hoped this business relationship that had worked so well in the past endured this journey.
“Do you have anything serviceable in there?” He pointed toward her valise.
Oh, yes! “My half boots!” Except mud surrounded her completely and the stockings on her feet were soaked through and through. If she could manage to change into her other pair of stockings…
Mr. Waverly surprised her then, by dropping to one knee. What in the world?
“Sit on my leg, Mrs. Mossant. You can hardly lace up your boots while standing in the mud.”
She paused only a moment. “That is very… gentlemanly of you. But would you mind closing your eyes?”
“Close my eyes? I do assure you that I’ve seen ladies’ feet before.”
“I intend on changing my stockings, if you don’t mind.”
“You—” He stopped himself. “Do hurry, though, we don’t want—”
“I know, I know. We need to get out of here. But I can hardly walk with mud in my boots and I can hardly remove my stockings with you looking on.”
A glimmer of a smile danced wickedly across his lips.
“Really, Mr. Waverly, I would imagine you might be more understanding.”
She lowered herself gingerly onto the seat he’d created for her and reached beneath her skirts.
“These were one of my favorite pairs,” she mumbled more to herself than to him.
And More Mud
Niles steadied Mrs. Mossant as she shifted and squirmed, her bum balanced precariously on his thigh. He tried not to imagine her hands skimming the length of her leg, touching feathery skin, in order to unfasten her garters.
Instead, he kept one hand at her back and the other ready to right them, lest her manipulations toppled them both over.
He dared not conceive the pain that might invoke. While tumbling down the hill, he must have slammed into something hard, bruising a rib.
Or two.
Or a perhaps all of them.
“There’s one,” she declared, taking his mind off the sharp pain in his left side. This time he allowed his mind to envision her sliding the hose down the length of her leg and off her foot. Sounds of the valise opening and her rummaging about kept him informed of her progress. Along with her nervous narrative.
“These are much more practical. Wool. My mother made them for me ages ago, and they’ve held up quite well. I brought them along so I could walk about the estate after we arrive. It’s been a while, and I doubt Jean Luc has made time to visit any of his tenants.”
And then, by her wiggling, he surmised she had her hand beneath her skirts again.
Focus on the mud beneath your knee, man. Even the pain in your ribs. Devise the next steps required to extract your client from this quagmire.
Yes. Client. Mrs. Eve Mossant was nothing more than a client.
He needed to get her up this hill and to the nearest inn as quickly as possible. Considering the damage the carriage had taken, he doubted it could be repaired easily, if at all.
Damn but he ought to have considered road conditions more than the desperate look in her eyes when deciding to travel in the wake of this morning’s storm. He’d made a foolish decision and nearly gotten them all killed.
He inhaled deeply at his thoughts and winced. He didn’t mind the inconvenience so much for himself, but he had a lady to protect.
Her hand landed on his shoulder, and she pushed herself off his leg. “There. Much better. You may open your eyes now.”
She looked quite satisfied with herself.
