A CONFRONTATION IN THE COACH
Carlington House, Grand Hall
Feeling as if she was a thief as she quietly made her way out of the Carlington House library and down the main stairs, Dahlia breathed a sigh of relief when she made it to the Grand Hall without being seen.
Or at least, she hadn’t thought she’d been spotted.
“Allow me to get the door for you, my lady,” the butler said as he passed her on the way to the vestibule.
“Oh, thank you, Alfred,” Dahlia replied brightly, despite the sob that nearly robbed her of breath. When she noticed his look of concern, she allowed a shrug. “I didn’t wish to put a damper on the good cheer out in the gardens, so I had a cry up in the library.”
“Ah,” he replied, his brows furrowed. “I do hope her ladyship wasn’t the cause?” he ventured.
She shook her head. “Oh, never. Lady Morganfield is always the most gracious hostess,” she replied. “I fear it was over a marriage pro...” She stopped, just then realizing she was commiserating with a servant. “Well, never mind. It’s over.”
“Not for him, certainly?” Alfred countered, his head angling to one side.
Dahlia blinked. Had the butler overheard her and Anthony in the library?
Or the ghost of her father?
“Why do you say that?”
Alfred glanced towards the door. “Lord Breckinridge, my lady. He left here looking ever so... glum.”
Dahlia’s eyes rounded. “He did?”
The servant nodded as he opened the door. “I’m quite sure if you hurry, you might be able to set him to rights.”
Her gaze going to the pavers leading from the house to the street, Dahlia wondered if the butler’s comment was meant to be taken as a challenge. “Oh, I’ll set him to rights,” she replied with a prim grin.
Determined to marry the viscount, she marched out the front door and followed the pavers directly into the Norwick coach. She nearly screamed when she discovered who was already seated within. “Breckinridge?” she whispered. About to step back out of the equipage—for a moment she thought she might have entered the wrong coach—Dahlia finally took the seat opposite the one Anthony was in.
“Forgive me, my lady. Your driver insisted.” He moved to stand, but Dahlia shifted her legs to prevent him from departing the coach.
“Don’t go,” she said.
He stared down at her. “You’re sure?”
“Your life depends on it,” she replied, indicating he should be seated.
Anthony’s eyes rounded at the same moment the coach lurched into motion. “How so?” he asked as he carefully lowered himself onto the bench seat.
Dahlia remembered her father’s words. “It seems if you don’t marry me, you’ll end up with an insipid young miss, father an heir and a spare, and then take a mistress so you don’t have to listen to your wife complain about the cook and the housekeeper while she tups the footman.”
The words tumbled out before she could censor them, and at the last moment, a gloved hand went up to hide her mouth. When the ghost had said them, he had done so with all the seriousness of a man at a funeral. Now they sounded almost funny.
Apparently, they did to Anthony as well, for a grin lightened his face and he chuckled. “Let me guess. My mother told you that?”
Her eyes rounded. “No. Father did.”
Settling back into the velvet squabs, Anthony regarded Dahlia for a moment, now worried the ghost might have had a conversation or two with his mother. He sighed. “He had a long talk with me, too, although he didn’t mention the insipid miss.”
“When was this?” she asked in alarm.
“He left only a moment ago. Just... disappeared.”
She sighed. “He does that.”
