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“Hark, fear not, fair maiden. Chivalry shall warm my unworthy flesh, and knowing my humble covering bringest thou a measure of comfort kindles a fire in my blood.”

“Fire in your blood? Sounds terribly painful to me.”

More physically miserable than she could ever recall, from whence she summoned her droll humor, she didn’t know. But his chivalry had earned him a high mark in her esteem.

Lowering her chin the merest bit, she touched her nose to the coat and inhaled. The garment smelled of his lordship—the aroma comforting and sensual at the same time. She ought to object to his forwardness. That would be the proper thing to do. At this juncture, honestly, she was so dratted cold and uncomfortable, she didn’t give a chicken’s tail feather about decorum.

Her earlier consternation about whether he was a knave or an honorable man had been answered, but she’d suspected as much all along.

“I don’t think you’ll need to polish your boots after all,” she quipped, boldly pressing into his body’s heat.

Wisdom decreed she continue on to Briar Knoll after delivering Lord Sterling to Perygrim. The impropriety of what he’d suggested hadn’t escaped her, even if he meant nothing untoward.

Quickly calculating how long it would take to deliver him home and then continue on in the dark—by herself—to the cottage in this ever-increasing foul weather, made her slump her shoulders.

Close to a half hour. Mayhap more.

She’d catch her death.

But was staying at Perygrim a lesser risk?

She forced her mind to a different topic.

“Just send a note round with the amount I owe you for your garments and boots.” Shuddering, she pressed her lips together and hunched deeper into his heavy coat.

Lord Sterling laughed, really laughed. The pleasant peal resounded in his chest.

“I most assuredly will not. On the other hand, your clothes might be ruined on account of our detour, and I must insist on replacing them.”

No. He would not.

The gossipmongers would swarm around that like flies on dead fish. She was flirting with ruin as it was.

Less than ten minutes later, night almost fully upon them, he guided the cart down the tidy stone drive to stop before the imposing manor.

Peony expressed her displeasure with a wicker and flick of her tail. She wanted her warm stall at Briar Knoll.

Craning her neck, Eden surveyed the stately house.

Perygrim seemed lonely, almost forlorn. The impressive entry door swung open, and a bland-faced majordomo appeared in the illumined entrance. His contempt palatable, he peered down his nose.

“I believe you are lost. We are not expecting guests, nor is his grace home to anyone.”

“Come now, Wynby. Have I truly changed that much?”

Lord Sterling handed her down and, keeping his fingers on her elbow, guided her toward the squinting butler.

“My lord?” A joyous smile transformed the fusty fellow in a trice. “It is truly you?”

“I said I’d be home for my birthday, and here I am.

A welcoming, almost boyish smile curving his mouth, his lordship gestured wide with both arms.

“It’s your birthday today?” This was even worse. She was intruding on a family celebration. She stopped and faced him. Voice lowered, she said, “I cannot possibly impose.”

Perhaps she could borrow a blanket and a lantern for her miserable trek home.

“Yes, it is,” Lord Sterling said, “and of course you can. You are my guest. I shall brook no refusal.”