“Forgive me,” he said, proceeding toward his carriage. “There is much to consider. For now, you must return home and begin devising a plan to ensnare your Miss Ashwood. And I must return to Riverside Court and meet with the land agents.”
Satisfied, George nodded and bid his friend farewell. Nicholas watched him disappear the way they had come, smiling to himself at their fortuitous reunion.
Upon entering the carriage, he waited a moment before setting off, collecting his thoughts. A copy of the deed to the Avon dower house in Kennington sat beside him on the bench. He had tasked his late father’s land agent with managing the finer points of the estate without his supervision.
But the dower house was another matter entirely—too important, toodelicate, to be handled by the agent alone.
He thumbed the edge of the deed, the parchment sharp against his skin, his thoughts turning to the long-unoccupied house.
If my mother had not left, he thought sourly,would she have been living there now? Would Oxford have felt like a home to me rather than a place I refused to return for so long?
Suddenly, voices sounded from outside, so close that the people speaking must have been just outside his door.
Nicholas discreetly pushed the curtain aside, admitting a sliver of daylight into the carriage. Outside, he saw two bodies, their heads just outside his view. His driver, in his familiar, modest attire, was arguing with a well-dressed woman.
A crease formed in Nicholas’ brow as he tried to listen, their voices obscured. His curiosity got the better of him as their conversation escalated into an argument, and he cracked open his door, stepping outside.
“What the deuce is happening out here?” he asked, looking first at his nonplussed driver before addressing the woman before him.
His breath caught in his throat at the sight of her, before an amused smile played on his lips.
The circumstances being as they were, he had expected her to be some sort of old crone, arguing with Mr. Blaire about parking outside her house. But the woman before him was young, too fair for her own good, with hair the color of toffee and grey-blue eyes that flashed murder at poor Blaire.
A beauty spot decorated the soft skin beneath her right eye, and his gaze lingered there a moment as he recovered from his surprise.
He wondered what sound she’d make if he kissed it. If he bracketed that little waist with both hands and backed her against the nearest wall until she stopped spitting fury and started gasping his name instead.
It was the exact type of thought he hadswornnot to entertain while in Oxford.
Despite this, he could not help but stare at her. Half with curiosity, half with desire.
She seemed more perturbed than he felt, looking up at him in shock. Her cheeks colored a familiar, satisfying shade of pink as Nicholas waited for an answer, and he felt a prickle of shame for having embarrassed such a delightful creature.
But only a prickle.
“Forgive me for the disturbance,” she began.
Her voice was pleasing, and the way she rounded her words made it clear she was well-bred. He gestured for her to continue, not giving any ground in this well-practiced dance between man and woman.
“I asked your driver to speak with the occupant of this vehicle, at which point he told me to...” She paused, frowning up at Mr. Blaire. “I shall not repeat what he told me to do now that I have your attention. I fear it would be adding insult to injury to hear a woman emulate such vulgar language.”
Nicholas suppressed a laugh, sending a damning look his driver’s way. Mr. Blaire looked apologetic but mostly annoyed. With a nod, Nicholas sent him back toward the front of the carriage, wanting to speak with the curious woman alone.
“I would like to apologize on behalf of my driver for exposing you to such uncouth behavior.” He saw the tension lift from her shoulders, and this pleased him. “But… I cannot excuseyourbehavior until I learn what caused you to accost my driver in the first place.”
The woman blinked up at him, unimpressed, perhaps, by his playful tone.
“I told you, sir. I had hoped to speak with you.” She looked past him at his carriage. “This is an impressive contraption.”
He smiled. “You are a vehicle-enthusiast, then? Most strange...”
“No, you misunderstand me,” she pressed. “The quality of the carriage led me to believe that the quality of its occupant must be… equally fine. By all appearances, you look a gentleman. I would like to introduce myself.” She gave a shallow curtsey. “My name is Miss Amelia Tate, and I volunteer at the establishment you see behind you.”
Nicholas nodded, though he was confused, staring up at the signage that readSt. George’s Home for Children.
“Go on,” he murmured, crossing his arms.
“The orphanage survives on the generosity of this county’s charitable souls. Most among them are titled gentlemen who donate regularly to the—”
