“I shall manage.”
She dropped her gaze to the shadowy way ahead and marched on, attempting to ignore her freezing feet. He made no move to drive past her. The golden light from the lamps strung on the vehicle lighted her way down the drive. She cursed under her breath when a drop of rain splattered on her cheek.
“It’s raining,” Lord Montsimon said, stating the obvious.
“Merely a shower.” She grimaced. Her expensive evening cloak would be ruined, and she couldn’t afford to replace it.
The few drops were quickly followed by several more. Heavier, with the icy touch of sleet. Althea hesitated, seeing the sense of it. If seen riding off with him alone, she would be the subject of talk, but that hardly mattered. If Lady Crowthorne learned of her husband’s desires, a far bigger scandal would erupt. She stopped. “It might be best if you did drive me home.”
“A sensible decision.” He secured the reins and leapt down.
She backed away as he approached her.
“My, youarejumpy. I was merely going to assist you.”
“Very well. You may do so,” Althea said ungraciously.
Montsimon placed his hands at her waist and hoisted her up onto the high seat with astonishing ease. She arranged her skirts with a sidelong glance at his muscular shoulders as he climbed in beside her.
When Montsimon pulled up the hood, sudden doggy breath warmed her cheek. Althea glanced behind her. A rather ugly terrier sat scratching an ear. The ear looked slightly chewed.
“Do sit down, Spot,” Montsimon said with a grimace.
“So, this is Spot,” Althea said politely. Montsimon’s description of the dog was apt. It was hardly the progeny of careful breeding.
“Yes, that’s Spot,” Montsimon said heavily as he wrestled a fur-lined travel rug from where Spot had been sitting. He spread it over her knees. “I do hope this doesn’t have fleas.”
“It’s most welcome, nonetheless.” The thick blanket was warm, and she tamped down the urge to pull it up to her chest. Maybe the warmth would stop her infernal shivering, although, whether that was caused by the weather, Sir Horace’s proposition, or Montsimon’s proximity, she couldn’t be sure.
“We can’t have you getting ill, can we?” He slapped the reins and urged the horses to walk on. “Owltree Cottage, I believe?”
She stared at his profile in the lamplight, reluctantly admitting it was a fine one. “You know where I live?”
“Your husband once offered to sell Owltree Cottage to me.”
“He did what!”
Montsimon gazed at her apologetically before turning back to watch the road. “He was in his cups and losing at cards at the time.”
“Oh.” Surely he hadn’t meant it.
“Of course, the cottage would be of little use to me. I seldom come to this part of the world.”
“He couldn’t have sold it to you. It belongs to me.” She bit her lip, wondering if Sir Horace had been bluffing.
“Don’t all properties revert to the husband on marriage?”
Althea stiffened, overwhelmed by anger that as a female, she was subject to men’s outrageous whims. “It was not part of my dower. My uncle made sure of that in his will.” But it in no way protected the property from an unscrupulous husband.
At the bitter tone in her voice, Montsimon gave her a sidelong glance, but said nothing. The patter of rain increased on the hood and dripped down all around them.
She clutched the rug to her, glad of it in spite of possible bugs. “You’re a friend of Sir Horace’s?” she asked, suddenly curious.
“The evening was more business than pleasure.” He bit the words off with a ring of finality. She was not to ask more. He was an important diplomat. A man with powerful friends. Powerful enemies, too, perhaps.
She was grateful when he didn’t attempt to flirt with her. He seemed more thoughtful, and the excuse she gave the footman was now true, as her head ached intolerably.
Montsimon drove the dangerous high perch phaeton with skill, rounding bends at a clip. She hung on to the seat, glad of his expertise. “I believe your estate is in Ireland, my lord.”
