Page 42

Ian idly regarded the raindrops scampering after one another on the foggy carriage window. Only one more night of posting houses remained before they reached his home. Late this afternoon, the weather had turned beastly, reflecting his dismal mood. A passing storm drenched the roads, forcing him to forsake the saddle he preferred, and seek the dry, lamp-lit interior of the luxurious coach.

He’d climbed in, dripping wet. Sitting, he lifted off his hat and removed his gloves before unfastening his greatcoat. Once his sodden garments lay beside him, he relaxed against the seat, arms folded.

Vangie’s bewilderment fairly radiated off her. He recognized her confusion in her soulful eyes and sad smile. He called himself a hundred kinds of fool. She’d not complained an iota, but instead, had been amiable and sweet-tempered the entire journey.

He’d neglected her miserably, leaving her alone every day in the coach-and-four. Truth to tell, he wanted her desperately and didn’t trust himself to be in such close proximity. One kind word, one soft touch or yearning look, and he’d be undone, no doubt lifting her skirts and taking her right there in the coach.

On the floor. On the seat. In his lap—

Blast it all, cease man.

Thoughts of claiming her once more heated his pulse and caused a predictable reaction in his nether regions. Shifting on the buttoned leather, he rearranged his legs, carefully keeping his face concealed in the shadows the lamp’s meager glow didn’t reach. He didn’t want her to notice him studying her, afraid she’d see the desire he couldn’t conceal.

Or insistently bulging in my pantaloons.

Ian had hurt her once. He’d not do so again; not intentionally leastways. Retreating into the controlled, impersonal shell he’d adopted as a child, where he didn’t permit himself to feel anything, served his purpose well.

Only he did feel. Something elusive, mystifying, and consuming. Drivel.

Something that haunted his increasingly distracted waking moments and his evermore restless nights.

Rubbish and balderdash.

His heart skipped a beat and turned over in an unfamiliar manner.

Dunderheadeddolt.

From across the coach, a muffled sigh sounded, and he cursed inwardly. Through half-lowered lids he watched Vangie. The lamp’s dim light cast moving patterns across her delicate, downcast features, and he berated himself. His guilt had created a great, gaping chasm between them.

He roamed his gaze over her, taking in each refined feature, each supple curve. He permitted his eyes what he denied his hands and mouth and body.

As if sensing his perusal, she shifted her worn boots a bit further beneath her faded skirt. Her humble attire embarrassed her and also made no sense. He’d seen her in quality clothing; the yellow frock and the filmy silvery gown. Eyebrows scrunched together, he frowned. Why she now wore scarcely more than rags when Stapleton’s pockets overflowed remained an enigma.

She removed her bonnet—if the sad thing could be called a bonnet—and patting her hair, placed it on the seat beside her. After wedging it into the corner, she folded the ribbons into a neat pile.

“You’ll need a new wardrobe, of course,” he blurted.

Vangie stopped fussing with the satin strips and stared at him, her expression unreadable. What went on in that keen mind of hers?

Feeling uncharacteristically gauche, he picked a piece of imaginary lint off his sleeve. “My housekeeper, Mrs. Tannsen, can take your measurements. She used to be a seamstress.” Decades ago, but Vangie didn’t have a lady’s maid. Yet. Still, he wasn’t asking Lucinda or Charlotte for any favors. Unfortunately, Charlotte was becoming more like her spiteful mother every day.

Vangie remained mute, and to fill the awkward silence, he said, “You may order whatever you like. Gowns, under things, bonnets, boots, slippers, fallalls, fripperies—” He waved his hand in a circle. “And whatever other whatnots you women find necessary.”

A vision of her in that revealing pink confection sprang to mind, and a smile tugged the corners of his mouth upward. Several more of those tempting, filmy nightgowns too.

That idea cheered him enormously. More than it ought, given the current circumstances. If he’d buffered himself behind his battlements of indifference, why did tantalizing visions of his wife in scanty nightclothes keep bumping around in his mind? He shifted on the seat once more, cursing the rain and his ardor.

Vangie remained silent as he pressed into the dim corner.

He sent her what he intended as an encouraging smile. Although in his current uncomfortably aroused state, it may have been a lecherous grimace. “I’ll arrange to have the order sent straightaway to London. New garments should begin to arrive within a fortnight.”

“I have clothing, Ian.”

“Not befitting your new station.”

She flinched and shrinking against the squab, averted her gaze. Smoothing her skirt, she lifted a shoulder. “As you wish.” Even in the subdued light, he couldn’t miss the rosy color blooming across her cheeks.

Curse his loose tongue, he’d embarrassed her.