“Simpkin’sPrognostications of the Weather. Not always reliable, of course, but I’ve found it to be quite accurate.”
“You’re a very prepared young lady. Well done.”
“I do hope so.”
“Goodness, I suppose we’ve yet to introduce ourselves. I am Jane Wilson, and this is my sister, Maribel.”
“Lucy Westmont.” They exchanged a round of genuine smiles and nods, then fell silent again.
“You do look warm, Miss Westmont. I brought a folding fan.” Miss Maribel Wilson offered up apretty dark wood fan with floral muslin stretched across its ribs.
“I’ll cool down soon enough, I’m sure.”
The air did have a pleasant autumn bite to it. Unfortunately, the heat in her cheeks had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with a man whose smile had turned her knees to melted butter.
And those eyes. No one had sapphire eyes. Novelists and poets may rhapsodize about ladies with gemstones gazes, but that particular shade of deep, rich blue was extraordinary. She’d certainly never had a man with eyes in that shade look her way, his gaze full of mirth and warmth.
He’d seemed as caught up in staring at her as she had been in studying him, andthathad certainly never happened before. Men’s attention didn’t linger on her.
But his had. Brazenly. Downright impudently.
The man was definitely a scoundrel of some ilk. And then he’d turned imperious and accused her of being the one to barrel into him. As ifheowned the train car platform, and the rules of propriety and the demands of politeness simply didn’t apply to him.
Imagine having such a man bossing one around every day? Insufferable.
She lifted her gloves from her lap and aligned them neatly to store them in her pocket, but a scent stopped her. Rich and clean. Pine perhaps and a hint of spice. His scent.
Gracious, she’d touched him—gripped him, actually. What had possessed her? She recalled the moment she’d noticed they were still connected after the collision, and it was becausesheheld on to him. There’d been such an odd comfort in feeling the firm muscles shifting beneath her palm, knowing, somehow, that he wouldn’t let her fall.
But she wasn’t certain of that at all, of course. The man was a stranger, and a far too handsome one.
Forget him.Lucy needed to put the whole thing out of her mind. Good grief, Papa would roll his eyes to the heavens if he knew she’d overheated like a boiling teapot the minute she’d clapped eyes on a fine-looking man.
The door of the train carriage slid open, and Lucy snapped her head up.
A wiry, bespectacled man stepped inside. “Number Five, is it?”
“It is indeed, sir,” the younger Miss Wilson told him.
Lucy realized she’d been holding her breath, hoping like a fool that it might behimwho’d entered their train car.
“Nichols,” the thin gentleman said as he settled on the bench across from Lucy. “Traveling to Edinburgh, as I’d guess you three are.”
“You are correct, Mr. Nichols. At least, that’s true of my sister and myself.” Miss Jane Wilson turned her gaze on Lucy. “And you, young lady?”
“Oh yes, I’m going to Scotland too,” Lucy told the trio of passengers. “My first visit.”
The two ladies nodded and offered a kind smile, while Mr. Nichols subjected all three of them to an oddly brazen perusal. Lucy watched him assess the sisters from the toes of their boots to the tops of their heads. When his gaze reached Lucy’s face, she expected the man to blush or turn away, to acknowledge that she’d caught him staring rudely.
Instead, he offered her the tiniest of smirks. A flash and then it was gone.
The two sisters were still debating the weather and took no notice of the man, but something about him set Lucy’s nerves on edge. Or perhaps it had been that odd encounter on the platform with a tall, handsome stranger that still had her rattled.
Two hours into the journey, Lucy found herself grateful to her past self for remembering to pack books. And thankfully none seemed damaged from the debacle on the platform. She’d chosen Wilkie Collins to start, and getting lost inThe Law and the Ladywas almost enough for her to ignore the way Mr. Nichols made her skin crawl.
After reading a newspaper for nearly an hour, he’d settled his head against the upholstered bench and feigned sleeping. Every so often, an odd sense came over her, and Lucy would glance up to find his squint-eyed gaze on her.
“Oh, look at the time, Maribel. The dining carshould be serving lunch now.” The older Miss Wilson, a tall, regal lady, was clearly the decision maker of the two.
