Other than some pleasantries when the door closed on them both and the coach rolled, they spoke little. Miss Ingram’s half of the short conversation alerted Davina to the woman’s failed hearing, as well as her somewhat scattered perceptions. Davina suspected the old woman of having one foot into her second childhood. She doubted Sir Cornelius would agree, but it was something, in her experience, that family members were not quick to acknowledge.
Soon, the peculiar conversation, such as it was, ended, and Miss Ingram pulled one of those books from the valise. Spectacles perched low on her nose and her cap hiding most of her pale, wrinkled face, she tilted the book to the light of the window and immersed herself in a world Davina guessed still made good sense to her.
Davina had her own book but spent a good hour chewing on her brief visit home. Lady Ingram normally was not a stickler for propriety, especially with a woman of mature years. She believed the marriage laws must be changed, and that women were burdened with too many expectations set by men. Her insistence that Davina have a chaperone, therefore, was out of character.
If it had not been Brentworth, but some ordinary gentleman of little note, would Miss Ingram be sitting with her now? A duke would draw attention in ways other men did not. Perhaps Lady Ingram merely wanted to spare her from gossip should word spread about this journey.
She did not think it would, however. They had left town, heading west, and already the environs of the city thinned and the countryside asserted itself. Soon they would pass many more sheep than people.
She discarded Lady Ingram’s belief that Brentworth had an interest in her. He might have kissed her once, out of sympathy or—well, he might have done that, but an interest implied much more. She hardly needed some other woman to protect her from dastardly intentions on the duke’s part.
Miss Ingram chuckled at something she read. Davina considered how ineffective a chaperone this would be. Maybe that was Lady Ingram’s intention. To fulfill the letter of the propriety’s law, but in reality spare her from the full effects of it.
They stopped at an inn so Mr. Napier could rest and water the horses. Davina climbed out of the coach when he opened it. Miss Ingram remained inside with her book, unaware the coach no longer moved. Davina felt obliged to reach in and jostle her and say bluntly that now was a good time to use the necessary.
Together they found it, then Miss Ingram returned to the coach. Davina strolled around the inn’s yard, tucking her wrap close to warm her in the chilled weather. She inhaled deeply through her nose, so she could smell the Scotland she and her father had traveled so often.
“Is Miss Ingram as given to confusion as Sir Cornelius warned?”
She turned. Brentworth walked up behind her.
“He took me aside while the baggage was loaded,” he explained. “He apologized for burdening me with his aunt, because her mental condition is not the best. She was the only one they could find quickly, however.”
“She will not be trouble, if that is what you fear. I daresay you will not even notice she is with us.”
“The perfect chaperone, then.”
“For my purposes, she is. I feared I would have to entertain another woman, one I did not even know. I don’t think I could bear to make small talk for hours on end. Inside a carriage, one is thoroughly trapped.”
They continued their stroll around the inn’s yard.
“Did you request a chaperone?” he asked.
“Why would I do that? If I did not have one on a very public road from Newcastle, it would be strange if I decided I needed one for show now.”
“They are not only for show. They are supposed to be protection.”
“I need no protection besides Mr. Napier and you.”
“Do not pretend you don’t understand what I mean. You are not good at dissembling.”
They had reached where the walls of the yard met, far from the busy activities of carriages and guests. A tree grew in the corner, its leaves now gold and red. She pivoted to retrace her steps and found her nose almost in Brentworth’s waistcoat. She retreated a step, and her back rubbed the wall. She darted a look to her right, to see if she could slip away. His arm stretched and blocked her. He pressed his hand against the stones right next to her head.
“I ask again: Did you request that Lady Ingram find you a chaperone?” His voice, low and quiet, flowed over her like a caress.
He seemed very close, so near that his warmth affected the air between them. She dared not look up at him. Those eyes of his would probably turn her into a tongue-tied fool. She kept her gaze steady on his cravat, with its perfect creases.
“I did not. I said it was unnecessary. Silly, really, considering my age and my mission. Lady Ingram insisted, however.”
“She did not seem a woman bound by propriety, so her insistence is curious.” A light touch on her chin, dry and warm. He lifted it so she had to look at him. A mistake, that, just as she feared. Her senses swam under his gaze. A delicious shiver trembled down her body. “Did she think you were in danger from me?”
“Not danger. Not really. She just thought—that is, she did not trust—” She heard herself babbling on short breaths, like the fool she feared she would be.
“She did not trust me with you?”
“She did not imply you were dishonorable. Do not think that.”
“The lines defining honor can be very vague sometimes for some of us.” He still held her chin, and now grazed his thumb over her lips. “Perhaps she did not trust you with me, as much as me with you. Not so dishonorable on my part, then.”
