Page 7 of Too Wicked for Heaven

“Yes, my lord. But I think you should know there’s a woman waiting for you inside.”

Neville scowled. “A woman?”

“Aye. Said she wanted to talk to you.”

He groaned. That was the last thing he needed, some overly forward female with a penchant to see if “The Fox” was as good in bed as his reputation warranted.

Opening the door, he tried to keep his temper in check. The woman’s face was in shadow, so he couldn’t tell who she was.

“I believe you’ve stumbled into the wrong carriage, madam,” he said through gritted teeth.

“No, my lord, I have not. I must talk to you.”

He recognized the anxious voice instantly. And couldn’t believe his ears. “Lady Althea?”

“Aye. This was the only way I could manage to speak with you alone. I knew you could send your carriage to take me home when we are done.”

He made a quick decision. Climbing into the carriage, he knocked on the roof to tell the coachman to drive on. The carriage shuddered into a start.

As he stared at his unexpected guest, her face shielded from him by the darkness, he murmured, “Where is your angry uncle?”

“He sent me home, but I persuaded our coachman to let me out at the corner and keep silent about it.”

“Your coachman must be a fool.”

“He merely thinks it wise to placate me since one word to my uncle about his dalliance with my maid would lose him his position. He’ll keep silent. And if Uncle Winston asks for me, my maid will make my excuses.”

The sudden steely tone in her voice reminded him that Althea was no ordinary eighteen-year-old. She’d lost her parents at eleven, then been entrusted to a young bachelor who’d doubtless been unhappy to be saddled with a child to raise. By all accounts, Kensingham’s method of child-rearing had been to stash Althea at his newly inherited country estate and then go on about his business as if she didn’t exist. She’d been forced to take charge of her life earlier than most.

Still, it was a wonder Kensingham didn’t fight duels over his niece’s honor every day. “Now that you’ve gone to all this trouble, do tell me why you’re here.”

She straightened against the cushioned seat. “To ask you not to duel with my uncle.”

No surprise there. He settled back to cross his arms over his chest. “I suppose it was too much to hope you were here to give me a kiss for good luck.”

Although he couldn’t see her face, he knew his words had probably made her blush, which pleased him inordinately.

“I care for Uncle Winston, Lord Foxworth. I don’t want to see him die.”

Stung by her concern for a hothead like Kensingham, he quipped, “What makes you think he’d be the one to die?”

Her tone grew bitter. “You know quite well my uncle is no match for you. He’s a poor shot and a terrible swordsman. If you fight him, he’ll lose.”

That had been Neville’s own assessment, but it surprised him coming from her. Few women were so objective about the men they cared for. “Losing and dying aren’t the same.”

“You know as well as I that duels are unpredictable. Even a crack shot like you can’t determine the outcome.” When he remained silent, she went on, “I know I’m asking a great deal. Refusing Uncle Winston’s challenge would brand you a coward.”

“Yes, it would.”

“But if you don’t refuse, he could die, and I wouldn’t wish to have that on my conscience. I-I’m afraid I’ve been enough of a trial to my uncle without adding that to my account.”

They passed a manor with gas lamps ablaze which lit her face long enough for him to glimpse her pain before darkness shielded her once more.

Then the implications of the situation hit him. Lady Althea was alone with him in his carriage. They had the same dilemma--how to keep Kensingham from getting hurt. And there was a logical solution. A quick word to the coachman, and they would be off to Gretna Green, where he could make her his wife and solve all their problems. No one could stop him.

Except her. She’d said earlier she would never marry him. And while he thought she’d more readily accept the idea once she got used to it, if he carried her off against her will, something told him she’d dig in her heels, determined to fight him.

He thought of how she’d melted in his arms, how sweetly she’d whispered his nickname. Obviously, her memories of him weren’t as bad as the rumors she’d heard. She was more kindly disposed to him than she would admit.