Her posture had stiffened, her gloved hands fidgeting with the little ribbons at her wrist.
She tucked a stray curl behind one ear, and then angled her knees ever so slightly toward the edge of the driver’s box.
If there was only one room, she meant to claim it.
Would he let her, though?
Because this wasn’t like his other journeys, not by a long stretch.
And there was something about this widow—naïve, prim, and hopelessly out of her depth—that had him wrestling with his usual sense of propriety. She was too trusting for her own good. If she thought London would be kind to her simply because she said “pardon” and had a lovely blush, she had another thing coming.
A dose of reality, in the form of bedding down on a cot in the back of the kitchen, might not be the worst thing.
Dash licked his lips.
Tugged gently on the reins.
And experienced an odd sense of mischief as the horses halted several yards from the Cow and Cleaver’s entrance.
Giving no warning whatsoever, he then leapt from the driver’s box, landing lightly on the gravel.
By the time the delightful Madame Bloomington even registered that they had stopped, Dash had already hit the ground running, the soles of his worn Hessians striking the dirt in an easy rhythm.
Flickering lights burned from behind the windows ahead, a warm and welcoming sight, and he allowed himself a grin. There was something invigorating about the chase—not for the room, but for the peculiar thrill of knowing Madame Bloomington would be making a mad dash behind him. He had felt her energy coiled beside him before he jumped, all but heard her plotting her scheme.
Certain of his victory now, he slowed his pace deliberately, listening for the sound of skirts rustling or her half boots thudding behind him.
Nothing.
Just the rhythmic clatter of his own footfalls and laughter inside the inn.
By the time he reached the porch steps, Dash stopped short and glanced over his shoulder.
Madame Bloomington was not behind him.
She was still on the driver’s box—dangling from it, rather—her gloved hands gripping the edge as she twisted around, her boots hunting for purchase atop the wheel. One toe landed, but when she went to put her weight on it…
Dash moved to help, but it was too late.
Her foot skidded down the rim and the sudden shift was enough to jar her loose from the driver’s box. “No!”
Her hands shot out, tossing her reticule into the air, and with her feet still somewhat caught up in the wheel, she landed bottom-first.
The audible squish of her landing was followed by a stunned silence.
Then… “Oh, figs and fudge!”
Forcing his attention away from the sight of two delightfully stocking-clad ankles, Dash flinched.
Not at the fall, which didn’t seem as though it had hurt her too terribly, but at the… squelchy patch she’d landed in.
Ah, merde.
He was already moving, boots kicking up dust as he crossed back toward her, guilt warring with his amusement. This was not, he admitted silently, how one repaid a woman’s hospitality.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, crouching beside her.
She pushed up onto one elbow, her face flushed, her expression murderous.
