“Because I’m not going to. I’m going to let it out of this damned hell.”
“What? Why?”
“Because neither of us deserves to die in this pile of junk. And while I have no choice, there’s still time for him to escape.”
Flabbergasted, I watched as he shooed the spider onto his hand. The comparison did make the beast look a little more manageable, but still. He just… picked it up, biting back a smile as I scrambled to the opposite end of the coach, and took it outside.
Through the open door, I watched in horror as he set the creature on a tree trunk.
“You cannot leave that there, it will get back in.”
“Perhaps you should have considered that when you selected this carriage,” he retorted, then made his way around the tree and into the woods beside us. Presumably he was taking care of the same need that had seemed much more pressing before the unwanted guest.
I crossed my legs against the discomfort.
“Where are we anyway, Alfie?”
“Few miles south of Peterborough. Had to stop on account of the fog.”
“And when do you suppose we can be on our way?”
“Another hour mayhaps.”
I weighed the desire to avoid another encounter with Beelzebub in arachnid form against nature’s call.
Rory appeared at the door. “Yer not going to want to wait, lassie. Come on, I’ll even check for spiders.”
Reluctantly, I followed her deeper into the little woodland beside us, in the opposite direction of both Mr. Summers and the “wee lil’ house spider.” Liars, the lot of them.
Ten
NORTH ROAD—APRIL 11, 1817
KIT
I clenchedthe hairpin in my left palm, letting the sharp edge dig in, but the effort was hardly necessary. Not like it had been last night.
In the dark, my senses dulled by decent whiskey and exceptional company, I’d needed every reminder of our differences I could find. Lungs filled with lavender frosting and lemon curd and the unmistakable amber spice of her, it was difficult to keep my head. And when she slumped into my side, her silken curls brushing my cheek, I couldn’t resist brushing my lips across her crown.
But then she’d started to lean forward, and bound for hell I may have been, but I couldn’t let her sleep like that, all curled awkwardly against me. And my coat was right there, a perfect pillow.
As she nuzzled into my coat, for just a moment, I considered it. I let myself believe it could be real. That every day could be filled with laughter and fairy cakes and what I was fairly certainwere flirtatious comments. She could fall asleep against me every night. I could run my fingers through her hair.
Without thought, my fingers had done just that, catching on a pin. It tugged free without waking her and I examined it in the moonlight. It was simple, nothing special about it, except I was almost positive it was made of gold. And wasn’t that the sum of it. Davina may act as though she were not a duke’s daughter, but she wore gold in her hair.
Lady Davina could drink whiskey and flirt with the solicitor, but she would return to her fine wines and suitable suitors.
And for the first time last night, just for the moment that the cool ribbon of her hair slipped through my fingers, I wanted to do it. I wanted to say yes. I wanted to forsake the law offices and the life I’d worked so hard to build. I wanted to abandon everything that made me Kit Summers. I wanted to accept the inevitable and wear the title of Lord Leighton. I wanted to be a man she could say yes to. It was so breathtakingly easy, I could taste the word on my tongue.
I fell asleep that way, visions of a life I’d never wanted dancing in my head, and the heavy warmth of a woman, lovely and tangible, on my lap.
And I woke to a lady screeching her head off. Over a damned spider. I didn’t know what ladies did, but I knew clergymen’s daughters handled spiders in one of two ways: with the bottom of their shoe, as Lizzie did, or with a teacup and a piece of parchment as was Katie’s practice. Lady Davina wasn’t real, she wasn’t tangible. I couldn’t abandon my entire life for her. And she hadn’t asked me to.
I made it back to the carriage while she was still off with Rory and tucked the pin into the pocket of my waistcoat. There I made a thorough inspection for any more “blood-thirsty demonic spiders” and the regular sort. Finding none, demonicor otherwise, I slipped one of the apples out of my portmanteau and took a bite.
The sun was breaking through some of the fog cover and we could be on our way soon. Another day—this time a full one—trapped in a carriage with Lady Davina. A day in which I would absolutely not forget myself this time. I wouldn’t be distracted by silly plots, flimsy chemises, tempting whiskey, or glossy curls.
I settled back in the carriage, facing the rear as was proper, and thought to pray for the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness. The apple did little to sate my hunger, and I was ravenous when I tossed the core out of the open door.
