Jason didn’t stop to think.
He swung halfway down from the saddle before his horse had fully stopped.
She saw him at the last moment, her eyes widening as he reached her, her lips parting to speak.
But he didn’t give her the chance. One arm looped around her waist, he lifted her clean off her feet as she let out a startled gasp.
He swung her up and into the saddle in front of him in one smooth motion, her skirts tangling with his boots as she clutched at the reins in surprise.
“Jason—!” she began, breathless.
But he was back up into the saddle behind her, gathering her firmly against his chest with one arm while his other hand gripped the reins.
He could feel her heartbeat hammering through the thin fabric of her gown, her breath warm against his jaw as she twisted to glare at him.
“What do you think you’re?—”
“Quiet,” he growled.
And then he turned the horse and kicked it into motion, galloping away from the station just as the driver of the black coach and a few bystanders began to shout after them.
They tore through the streets of London again, hooves ringing over stone and dust kicking up behind them, Georgiana’s skirts fluttering wildly in the wind.
Jason didn’t look back.
He didn’t dare.
He just held her steady in front of him, her body pressed against his, her scent—something faintly floral, maddeningly warm—filling his senses as they flew through the city streets.
And for the first time all morning, perhaps all damn week, he stopped telling himself he wasn’t involved.
Because, clearly, he was.
And there was no turning back now.
Chapter Seventeen
Georgie sat stiff-backed in a chair near the window of an unfamiliar upstairs room, her skirts still rumpled from the ride, her gloves askew, and her demeanor filled with rage.
She’d been too stunned to speak at first when Pembroke had all but carried her through the front door of his town house, barking something about privacy and propriety to his butler before hauling her up the stairs and shutting them both in this room.
But she’d found her tongue soon enough.
“What exactly,” she began icily, “is your plan here, Lord Pembroke?”
He stood by the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back like some absurdly self-satisfied general who had just captured an enemy fort.
“My…plan?” he repeated slowly, as though the word itself were foreign.
“Yes,” she said, rising to her feet and glaring at him. “Because it seems to me you’ve gone to considerable trouble to…to abduct me, so surely you must have some notion of what comes next.”
He turned to face her, scandalized. “Abduct you? That’s preposterous,” he said flatly.
“Oh?” she shot back. “What would you call it then? You can’t have been working for my brother or you would have taken me back to the church.”
“I…” he faltered, running a hand roughly over his jaw. “I’m just…”
She planted her hands on her hips. “You’re just what precisely?”
