No.
No, that wouldnotbe a good idea.
The carriage rocked as it rounded a bend and she adjusted her position, leaning her head against the wall beside her.
He nodded in approval. It would be wise for him to sleep too if he could. But he regretted that he was not sitting beside her. He could wrap his arms around her and join her in slumber.
Also, a very bad idea.
He sighed and stretched his legs out before him, letting his boots encroach on her side of the coach. He moved a little to the side, and his right ankle brushed the inside of her left. His left touched her right.
The leather of his boots was heavy and unyielding. He felt nothing more than a slight pressure. But it did not matter. They were touching and doing it in a way even a lax chaperone would not permit. A slight twitch and his foot disappeared beneath her skirts.
So wrong. And yet, so innocent. Not an intentional intimacy. More than an accident of travel. He should not be enjoying it as much as he was.
He closed his eyes, smiled and settled down to sleep.
As the carriage pulled to a stop, Louisa startled awake to find herself staring into the sleepy green eyes of the duke waking on the other side of the carriage.
For a moment, she convinced herself that this was still part of the dream she’d been having that had begun with him giving her a ring and ended with sweet words and caresses. The scent of his cologne enveloping her in a woodsy, spicy cloud as he kissed her.
She blinked and the dream faded, though a hint of cedar and bay carried in the breeze from the open window. The ring was still there. He had given it to her last night. She could feel the unfamiliar weight of it on her hand.
She looked down to see their feet tangled together, her skirts snagged on the toe of his boots. She straightened up and pulled back slowly, trying not to call attention to this lapse of decorum.
If the duke had noticed, he gave no sign. He was staring out the window at the sun, which was halfway to the horizon on the opposite side of the sky from where it had been when they’d set off.
‘It was a long day,’ he said with a yawn and a stretch of both arms. ‘I do not blame you for sleeping through it.’
‘I did not mean…’
To snore.
To drool.
She pulled her handkerchief out of her reticule and dabbed at the corner of her lip. She had been unconscious for hours, sprawled in her seat without a shred of decency. She could not have been more of a witless fool if she’d tried.
He was still smiling and shook his head dismissively. ‘Do not trouble yourself with apologising. I was not bothered.’ He grabbed the strap on the ceiling and pulled himself across to open the door and kick out the step.
She slid after him, but her legs were stiff from too much sitting and her slipper tangled in her skirt as she tried to climb down. And, as happened so often when she was desperate to make up for a faux pas, she made things worse by tripping down the steps and lurching into his arms.
He laughed and let her slide down his body, holding her until she could steady herself. One hand lingered on her arm. And suddenly, she could imagine them, fresh from bed, rubbing up against each other as a reminder of what they’d done before falling asleep.
She pulled away, desperate to escape lest he see the truth in her eyes.
Before she could form a sentence, he spoke. ‘You are about to apologise again, aren’t you? As I said before, you needn’t be sorry in the least. It is my pleasure to be of assistance to such a charming woman.’
‘If you will not allow me to be sorry, you are taking away half of my vocabulary,’ she replied, straightening her skirts.
He let out another startled laugh. ‘Why, Miss Skeffington, I believe that was a joke. Or perhaps a witticism. We are making progress. You never jested with me when we were in London.’
‘Things were different there,’ she said, still afraid to meet his eyes as they entered the inn.
Her embarrassment faded as the afternoon turned to evening. The nap had certainly improved her mood for she’d had very little sleep the night before. Her bed had been strange and uncomfortable, as inn beds often were. The conversation at the dinner table had replayed in her head, growing worse each time. She should not have snapped. A simple thank you for the ring would have been enough. Afterwards, she should have shut her mouth and let him say whatever he wished. He probably thought she was angling for a real proposal, after he’d made it clear they were only friends.
She’d kept twisting the ring on her finger and wondering if she might rest easier if she removed it. It was not tight. There was no real reason to take it off, other than that she’d never worn jewellery to bed.
If it had been a real engagement ring, she might have left it on, afraid to be parted from it. What would the duke do if she pulled it off her finger and left it on a table somewhere?
