He had not forgotten how she’d overlooked him when he’d visited Winterhope Downs—or the twinge of disappointment he’d felt.But he needed to be invisible. Hell, he preferred it that way.
So yes, it had been amusing to throw her over his shoulder, to land a few swats to her soft bottom when she’d dared try to defy him. But perhaps he’d enjoyed it a little too much…
Lady Amelia’s hesitant promise came to mind. He’d accepted her word that she’d stay put. Perhaps he shouldn’t have, but… damned if he didn’t believe her.
Not enough to afford her unfettered freedom when they’d stopped to change out the horses, but enough to leave her alonein his carriage. Enough to trust she wouldn’t try jumping out whilst in motion, anyway.
Which, all things considered, wasn’t much.
But it wasn’t so much about trapping her as it was about protecting her.
From herself. From strangers.
From Crossings, and possibly her own father.
Leopold cursed the stab of guilt in his gut. Bloody guilt. He had a job to do. More than one, actually. Being led by his emotions was a sure-fire way to botch his responsibilities.
The sound of approaching hooves finally wrested his attention from his thoughts, and Leopold looked up to see one of his forward riders coming toward him. After a moment, the indistinct figure resolved into his right-hand man, and then Fitz was circling around the carriage to draw up again from behind. “Was thinking I’d ride on ahead toThe Goat’s Tail,” Fitz announced as he pulled abreast of Leopold. “Meet with Billings and have a look at the inventory.”
Tonight would be their last overnight stop, just outside of Exeter, at another one of Leopold’s properties. AlthoughThe Goat’s Tailwasn’t the most luxurious of Leopold’s holding, it was one of his most frequented. Because of its proximity to the coves and London, it was the most strategic.
But the managers of the inn, Mr. Tom Billings and his wife, had only been working for Leopold for half a year. It would take considerably longer before they fully earned Leopold’s trust.
Fitz would not only be confirming their accommodations, but taking a look at the books, inventory, and if necessary, putting the fear of God into Billings if he suspected any discrepancies. Or, more accurately, the fear of the King…
Leopold smirked, and just as he began to nod, held up a hand.
“Hold up.” He drew his mount to a sudden stop, and dismounted so he could dig around in his saddle-bag.
After a moment, he drew out the bundle of muslin he’d stuffed inside earlier and, picking through the mess, cast a few items onto the ground in disgust.
“Give this to Mrs. Billings,” he said. “She can use it as a measure to purchase a few items Lady Amelia can wear.” Handing it over, he added with a mischievous grin, “She can’t exactly go about in your ugly scraps, now, can she?”
“I don’t suppose that would be proper,” Fitz agreed, unphased by the teasing as always. “The mercantile ought to have something appropriate. Won’t be fashionable, like she’s accustomed to, but anything will be better than what she’s got on now.”
Both men took a moment to stare at the disappearing conveyance, almost as though they could see right into it.
“Seems like she should know the truth about all this…” It was Fitz who broke the silence.
“Right.” Leopold didn’t want to get into this now. “Tell Mrs. Billings to buy a larger size, so they fit looser.” He gestured to his midsection. “I’ll not be replacing that ridiculous undergarment.” The reminder that she’d spent the entire night struggling to breathe pained him more than he’d like to admit.
“I believe it’s called a corset, sir.”
“Bloody torture device.” Leopold frowned. “Lady Amelia will need a hot bath when we arrive. And make arrangements for some sort of lady’s maid… Be sure the chit knows something about hair and whatnot…”
“Anything else?”
And because that pit of guilt remained, Leopold didn’t stop there. “Supper in a private dining room.” Feeling somewhat foolish, he finally dipped his chin. It didn’t make up for his stupidity, but it helped.
A little.
The water wastepid and the soap rudimentary, and yet Amelia couldn’t remember ever enjoying a bath so much.
She tilted her head forward, closing her eyes as a maid poured one last pitcher of water over Amelia’s head.
“How old are you, Sally?” Amelia asked.
“Twenty, I think,” she answered. Two years younger than Amelia.
