Heavens, he was striking. And she hated herself for noticing it.
“Would you prefer a carriage accident?” His voice was low, almost gentle even. “Scared horses are dangerous, Lady Cressida. They could overturn us, or bolt, or?—”
“I know what frightened horses can do,” she snapped, but her protest lacked force, because he was right.
Again.
She’d grown up around horses; she knew the risks.
Thunder rumbled overhead, punctuating his point.
Cressida wrenched her hand away and crossed her arms, glaring at the rain-streaked window. “You’ve compromised me. Do you understand that? No one will believe that nothing untoward happened. My reputation?—”
“Will remain intact,” the Duke said firmly, “because no one will know you stayed at Ashmere. The moment this storm clears, I’ll have you back in London. Your parents will think you’ve been safely tucked in your room all this time.”
She turned to stare at him. “You cannot possibly believe it will be that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Because my aunt will have already sent word to my parents that I’ve gone missing. By now, she’ll have composed the most damning letter imaginable, probably in her best handwriting.”
“By the time her letter reaches London, you’ll already be home.” He said it as though she were being deliberately obtuse. “There will be nothing to confirm. Nothing to explain.”
“And your servants?” she pressed. “You think they won’t talk? That’s how I learned about the wedding in the first place. One whisper is all it takes?—”
“My servants are loyal.” He settled back against his seat, all ducal authority. “And discreet. This storm will pass, you’ll return home, and no one ever needs to know about our brief… association.”
“Association,” she repeated, scoffing.
As though they were mere acquaintances taking tea, not two people trapped in an increasingly compromising situation.
Cressida studied him in the dim carriage light. He was handsome—she couldn’t deny that, much as she wished to. Strong features, dark hair that was longer than fashionable, yet suited his brutish demeanor. Broad shoulders that filled his coat admirably.
And those eyes… dark brown, knowing, and altogether too perceptive.
She shouldn’t notice such things, nor feel this strange flutter in her stomach when he looked at her.
“Why?” she asked suddenly.
“Why what?”
“Why do you care about Lord Whitebrook’s wedding? You still haven’t answered me.”
The Duke’s expression shuttered. “Whitebrook is my friend. He needs—” He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. “He needs stability… purpose, and marriage to Miss Barnes will provide both.”
“How convenient for him,” Cressida said acidly.
How like a man to think foisting an irresponsible partner on an unsuspecting woman and expecting her to pick up the slack constitutes “stability.”
“And what of Harriet? What does she need?” she pressed.
“Security. A title. A fortune,” he replied almost offhandedly, as though she ought to be satisfied with the usual run-of-the-mill list of things society decided that a woman needed.
“She needs to be loved!” The words burst out of Cressida before she could stop them. “She deserves someone who will cherish her wit and intelligence, not some rake who sees her as a convenient solution to his problems! Problems, might I add, that he brought upon himself.”
He studied her idly. “You assume much about a man you’ve never met.”
Cressida could not resist a snort, propriety be damned. “I have heard plenty about him. I know his reputation.”
