“That poor child,” he said. “Both of them. You did all you could.”
“Not enough,” she sobbed. “If I’d called another doctor—found a wet nurse— If we could have found a way to make him eat?—”
To her utter astonishment, Darien put his arms around her and drew her against his chest. “I’m going to ruin your cravat,” she muttered.
“Good,” he said. “My man needs practice tying them.”
She learned against his solid warmth and let the storm of grief toss her. He smelled lovely, like leather and tobacco and warm, pungent pine. His embrace was a safe, strong shield.
After a while, she drew a calming breath and laid her cheek on his shoulder. Her lips were close to his neck. His skin looked soft, with the barest hint of stubble.
Darien stood very still. His arms felt strong and delightfully heavy around her. A warm curl unfolded in her middle, telling her she wanted more of this, more from him.
She ignored it. He offered comfort only, a friendly gesture of support. A favor, like improving her gown.
And why he should offer friendship to her, when he had ruined swaths of girls, she could not fathom. She smoothed his wrinkled cravat and stepped away. His arms opened as if the muscles had frozen.
“Thank you,” she said, trying to wipe her nose on her handkerchief in the most discreet and ladylike manner possible. “I’m afraid I really am not at home today. I told Mary Ann I would arrange for services and have Elijah buried in our parish. She won’t need cards, and she doesn’t want mourners, but I need to find him a coffin, and clothes to be buried in, and mourning dress for her.”
She scrubbed the tear tracks from her face. “Then I mean to find a small locket for her, like the kind Lady Mama had made for Fanny, and after the undertaker, I shall need to talk to the vicar. And then I need to prepare for my debate.”
“Shall I go with you?”
“Why?” She gave up and blew her nose, loudly. “Don’t you have duties of your own today?”
“Frankly, no. And I regret what that says about me.”
She stared, catching the bleak expression that passed through his eyes. He was garbed for showing himself in the fashionable walks and promenades, as suited to his class. She, on the other hand, had things to do.
“I cannot think you should wish to be seen with me.” She gave him a watery smile. “I understand the satirists are howlingwith delight that you condescended to dine at a tradesman’s table.” What a relief the lampoons did not know how the evening had ended, with that kiss.
A trace of dull red touched his sculpted cheekbones, as if he were recalling that kiss too. “I suppose your family is furious at the ridicule. Lady Pomeroy seems a high stickler.”
Henrietta hunted about for a fresh handkerchief to tuck into her pocket. “On the contrary, Lady Mama had a round dozen callers this morning, all dying to know why she had entertained the notorious Lord Daring. Ten of them pledged support for the Sisters of Benevolence, and five signed my petition to Parliament calling for full abolition.”
She collected her shawl and gloves. “In addition, several of the gossip sheets mentioned my debate, which, if it is well attended, will guarantee my admittance to the Minerva Society. So you see, your infamy works to my advantage.” She tied on the enormous picture hat that Lady Mama had gifted her. “I must go.”
He regarded her German habit, shaking his head. “Did you learn nothing from my lesson?”
She had learned she was terrible at kissing. That he was bossy and high-handed with her but unmoved by desire. Heat singed her cheeks.
“This habit is excessively comfortable and allows me a free range of motion. I’m surprised women don’t wear them for all occasions.”
“That muddy color is appalling, and there is entirely too much fabric.” He followed her down the stairs. “You ought to accent your shape, not hide it.”
“I live in the north,” Henrietta said. “I like being warm.”
“You are in London for the Season,” he reminded her, “and no one says that learned females cannot be à la mode. We will run your errands, and then I will introduce you to a modisteI know. Fear not, Duprix will— Hey now, Jack o’ Legs!” They reached the street to find James stroking Darien’s matched blacks, whispering nonsensical words into their ears. “Don’t you be fashing my high-steppers. They’re nervy enough.”
“Drive you, milord?” James offered. The sweep boy Darien had employed held the ribbons, resentful to give over his post or his promised pay.
“If you could bring my gig around, James,” Henrietta said.
“Nonsense,” Darien said. “I will drive you. Since you do not have a maid to hold your packages, clearly the duty falls to me.”
He clamped those warm, strong hands to her waist and lifted her to the high step of the whisky as if she weighed no more than the yards of fabric in her habit. All the breath left Henrietta’s body.
Their embrace in her sitting room had scattered her wits if she thought it was safe to be seen about town with him. Or wise to sit so close to the big, splendid heat of him, hear his low rumbling voice near her ear, enjoy the attention of that dizzying blue gaze. Lord Daring broke hearts as casually as he destroyed reputations.
