One
“My Lord, you really ought to watch the road!” April called over the thunder of hooves, forcing her voice into what she hoped passed for polite concern.
The curricle bounced over a rut, sending her teeth clacking together. She clutched the side of the open carriage with a grip that would surely leave marks on her gloves.Lovely. If I survive this, I shall have the pleasure of explaining torn seams to Mother.
Lord Bertram Wexley laughed, tossing a careless glance over his shoulder at her. His golden hair ruffled charmingly in the breeze, and his cravat sat askew, much like his common sense.
“You worry too much, Lady April! London is quite safe if one knows what one is doing.”
She smiled tightly. “Yes, and one must look where one is going to manage that, I believe.”
He winked—actually winked—before turning his gaze back to the road.
“I must confess,” he said, raising his voice above the clatter, “I find your company infinitely more diverting than these dull streets.”
He will find a lamppost equally diverting once we crash into it,Aprilthought grimly.
She gripped the edge harder as they hurtled past a vegetable cart, the wheels skimming so close she could have snatched an onion for a mid-journey snack. A cabbage bounced off the ground and whizzed past her bonnet.
“Lord Wexley, please!” she urged, sharper now, as she ducked and flattened herself against the seat.
He laughed again, utterly oblivious, and gave the horses a limp flick of the reins. The curricle jolted forward with renewed enthusiasm.
April tried—truly tried—to embody the poise and serenity instilled in her since birth. But there was only so much a young lady could endure before survival instincts took over.
“My Lord, the post!” she cried, pointing frantically.
Wexley turned—at precisely the wrong moment. The curricle barreled directly toward a lamppost, the horses, confused by his bungled commands, whinnying and pulling against each other.
Marvelous. Death by idiocy. Just the sort of thing the gossip sheets will adore,she thought, clutching the seat so hard her fingers ached.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her bonnet slipped askew. Somewhere in the distance, a woman screamed—or perhaps that was her. She opened her mouth to shout again?—
A black stallion surged into view, the sight so sudden and commanding that April nearly forgot her fear. His rider, dressed entirely in black, moved with such unshakable authority that it seemed the chaos itself bent away from him.
In one effortless motion, he reached the curricle, seizing the tangled reins with gloved hands that brooked no refusal. He said something low, just above the thundering hooves—a command perhaps—and to April’s astonishment, the horses obeyed, snorting but settling into uneasy stillness.
Lord Wexley, red-faced and panting, scrambled for an excuse. “The horses—they’re spirited creatures, you see—nothing to be done, really?—”
The stranger said nothing, but his silence cut through Wexley’s blather like a blade. He looked familiar, and April tilted her head, studying his dark blue eyes, powerful jaw and dark, dominating brows.Have we met before?
“I was about to turn us about,” Wexley insisted, fiddling with his cravat as if straightening it might salvage his dignity.
The man’s dark stare did not shift, and Wexley gave a weak laugh. “We’ll just be on our?—”
“Absolutely not,” the stranger said, his voice deep and rich. It curled around April and kept her eyes on the man. She was bereft of speech. Even the horses seemed to stand straighter in his presence.
“I shall be taking the Lady to her home,” he continued, every word deliberate. “Safely.”
Wexley, looking anywhere but at the stranger, gave a jerky nod.
Turning his gaze back to the horses, the stranger added, “In future, pair your horses properly. A smaller beast is never to pull a carriage with a larger one. And learn to handle the reins before taking a lady onto the streets.”
“I… was not…” Wexley sputtered. “That is, I do know how to handle?—”
A look from the stranger had Wexley’s mouth clamping shut.
April sat frozen, her heart thundering against her ribs. Her bonnet hung askew; her gloves were twisted; her carefully ordered world had been upended by a man who spoke few words but commanded the very air around him.
