London was not a civilized place, unless civilization meant stuffing all the flaws and frailties of humanity into a few square miles. Amid the impressive architecture and culture of a revered society, a man could purchase an assortment of sordid and carnal acts.
Montgomery glanced over at the woman slumped on the seat opposite him. For the spectators, she’d been an entertainment, nothing more.
She’d been like a dazed and confused child when he’d dressed her in the robe he’d removed. The material had draped over her hips to puddle on the floor.
She was more victim than woman to him at that moment. Her hair was tangled in the cowl of the robe, but he didn’t reach out to free it. Ever since depositing her on the seat of his carriage, he’d carefully avoided touching her.
He’d given the order for his coachman to drive some distance away in case the members of the Society of the Mercaii thought to follow him. He doubted they would since he’d proven he was rash and improvident. A man who possessed those traits, as well as a gun, was someone to avoid at all costs.
The woman’s eyes were closed, her face unearthly pale. If he hadn’t seen her breathe, he would have thought her dead.
What the hell was he going to do with her now?
Veronica woke with two thoughts. The first was that she was vaguely uncomfortable, sitting up in bed in an awkward position, and her nightgown was scratchy. The second thought was she was cold. She grabbed for the blanket only to find it missing.
Blinking open her eyes, she stared at two men. She was in a carriage, and strangers were staring back at her. One was evidently a gentleman from his attire. The other, holding his cap between his hands, was fidgeting and obviously uncomfortable.
She blinked several times, but the strangers didn’t disappear.
This wasn’t a dream.
She glanced down at herself to find herself attired in an ugly brown robe, and beneath it, she was naked.
What had happened?
For the first time in her life, she’d no clear recollection of the past hours. Only snatches of images that flew into her mind like pernicious birds.
The man whose blue eyes seemed to bore through her had been at the Society of the Mercaii. He’d rescued her.
His hair was thick and black. His face was strong, his cheekbones pronounced, his chin squared and rather pugnacious. His nose fit his face, proud and Roman. His eyebrows and lashes were thick, shielding eyes as blue as the cushions of the carriage. Lines radiated outward from the corners of his eyes, leading her to wonder if he’d spent most of his time outdoors. Or had pain caused them? Twin vertical lines bracketed his full mouth. She suspected they masked dimples that appeared when he smiled. If the man opposite her ever smiled.
“Sir, can I go now?”
She turned her attention to the man with the cap.
“No, Peter. You’re our chaperone.”
“Chaperone?” she asked. That one word was amazingly difficult to say. Her tongue felt furry and her mouth too dry.
Her rescuer frowned at her. “If you think I have any intention of being found in a compromising position, you’re mistaken.”
She licked her lips. “I doubt society would think it proper for two men to keep me company,” she said, sitting upright. “Now, if you had thought to procure a woman as a companion, that would be another story.”
The man opposite her looked disgruntled.
“You’re a Scot,” he said.
“You’re an American although I’ve never heard an American who speaks like you,” she said. She laid her head back against the seat but found it didn’t help the burgeoning headache. “Yourwords sound stretched out and coated with honey. How very odd.”
“I’m from Virginia.”
“Virginia?”
“You don’t roll your R’s when you say Virginia.”
He was correcting her pronunciation? She might have had a rejoinder for him if she hadn’t felt so peculiar.
“Go ahead, Peter,” he said to the man at his side.
