“Can I help you with anything, sir?” A tidy-looking fellow wearing a white apron approached. “Are you returning from Gretna or on your way up?” His eyes twinkled knowingly.
Stone laughed but didn’t answer outright. “You see a lot of that, I imagine.”
“At least three or four a day.” The man was smiling and in that instant, Stone envied the simple life of a shopkeeper. Ironic that if two of his father’s distant cousins hadn’t been tragically killed in a freak carriage accident two decades before, making his father the Earl of Ravensdale and changing all of their lives forever, Stone very well might have lived similarly.
He chatted amicably with the fellow, learning that although a ducal caravan had come through the day before, they’d only stopped to change out horses before continuing south.
This man did not seem to be dissembling. Likely, Culpepper thought that he was racing to catch up with the two of them—and his cat.
“Will this suffice, Mr. Chester?” Tabetha appeared at his side with a basket full of rations, speaking to him in a submissive manner he doubted he’d ever hear from her again.
He studied her selection and quirked a brow. For such a predictably impractical lady, she’d made surprisingly practical selections. And she hadn’t forgotten about Archie
“Indeed.” He slanted her a teasing look. “Mrs.Chester.”
The shopkeeper chuckled and walked around the counter to add up the cost.
“So you are returning from Gretna Green.” The man winked at her, having gotten his initial answer after all.
Stone dug in his pocket to pay and a confectioner’s display caught his attention. “Three of those.”
“Biscuits?” Tabetha rewarded him with a grin that brightened the entire shop.
“For your reticule.”
She stepped up to the counter and pointed out which ones she preferred. It was a damn good thing the duke and his men were nowhere in sight. Because the music was certainly playing in her mind just then.
“Archie prefers the lemon ones,” she explained from over her shoulder.
Because of course, hairless cats required gourmet pastries as part of their diet.
She all but bounced on her toes as she watched the shopkeeper wrap her selection in tissue.
He’d seen her do this before, in London, while paying for a ribbon, a pair of gloves, or some other impractical purchase and he’d assumed her to be impatient.
He’d been wrong.
It was excitement. Anticipation of a simple pleasure.
If Stone could freeze a moment in time, it would be this one. Or even better, the night before, the moment he buried himself inside her.
In a flash of insanity, he entertained the notion of running away with her, of taking her to Warton Cottage, his estate in Kent, setting up their home, watching her grow large with his child, and delay telling her the truth for as long as possible.
He was also eventually going to have to meet with her brother at some point.
Obviously, he’d gone mad.
Only when they were back on the road did he revisit his decision to come clean with her—in between surreptitious glances as well as not so surreptitious ones. Once, he’d even taken a breath, having decided how to begin, but then she’d slid her hand up his thigh.
Never before had he realized how frustrating driving a gig could be.
Meanwhile, the rational side to him, the non-romantic practical man he’d been before chasing this impossible woman, was wishing they could somehow beat Culpepper back to London. If they could manage that somehow, he could announce their marriage and head off any rumors regarding her ill-fated attempt at becoming a duchess before anyone was the wiser.
They’d have to appear in public, play the part of a besotted couple, and that would be that.
Only he wouldn’t be playing.
Would she?
