Matthew strode out of the inn without meeting anyone’s eye. If anyone else had information about Miss Shroud, he didn’t want to hear it. The walk home to his rented room took him only a few minutes, which wasn’t enough to clear his head. So, Miss Shroud had a man she was pining over. That didn’t affect him, not at all. His foolish pride might have convinced him she didn’tshow a total lack of interest in him. He’d caught her looking at him plenty while they rode together each day, but he didn’t speak to her much, so what else was she supposed to do?
He strode through the alley that led to his room at a thunderous pace, opening the nearly-rotted, old door at the end of it and staring into his small room, which contained nothing but a bed and books stacked on the homemade bookshelves he’d made from discarded bricks and scrap pieces of wood. He laughed out loud.
He ran a hand through his hair and his shoulders drooped. Had he really thought Miss Shroud might’ve had an interest in him? The man who lived in a room the size of a postage stamp? He only had two changes of clothes, for heaven's sake, and he had to launder them himself.
Why had he ever worried about her?
He washed his face in the basin that sat on the floor and laughed again.
He was such a fool.
CHAPTER 11
Lucy’s bonnetflopped against her face. Her stockings were already wet and cold from the steady drizzle of rain that had soaked her and Mr. Harrison all morning. Marge moved at a snail's pace on the outskirts of town. They were delivering parcels to another farm, and this errand could take upwards of an hour.
It had been nearly a week since she’d told Mrs. Tucker about her engagement, and every night Mrs. Tucker would ask for an update on her progress with her betrothed, but Lucy had no progress to report. He’d seemed a bit more relaxed around her the past few days, and nothing was disagreeable about Mr. Harrison. She enjoyed the time they spent together, but the man rarely spoke. She tried to remind herself that there could be worse things about a husband than not speaking. She’d imagined most of them when she’d agreed to marry a stranger. But still, she’d thought their time together would allow her to get to know him, and with only a week and a half left before she needed to return, she didn’t feel like she knew him much better than she did on the day she’d arrived.
Lucy turned her face to the angry sky. The long days of deliveries with Mr. Harrison hadn’t been kind to hercomplexion, so she should be happy for the clouds, even threatening as they were, but being soaked made it hard to be grateful.
She took a sidelong glance at Mr. Harrison. A bit of stubble had grown on the sharp angle of his jaw. A few droplets of rain ran down the side of his temple, and the triangle of white shirt exposed underneath his jacket stuck to his skin. She was fairly certain the rain had made her look like a half-drowned kitten, whereas he somehow managed to look captivating. When, and if, they eventually married and lived in his grand home with Lord and Lady Bridgewater, he would never look so rugged and casual.
A pity.
She needed to bring some sort of update to Mrs. Tucker. They were both tired of Lucy’s lackluster ability to befriend or get any sort of reaction from her fiancé. Maybe it was time she stopped waiting for him to talk to her and worked on another approach. Once again, a drop ran down Mr. Harrison’s cheek, through the rough stubble, until it ended up dancing its way along the curve of his jaw. What if she tried to touch him? As an experiment. She needed to do something. She could pull off her glove and wipe one of the droplets off of his cheek. She wouldn’t mind the exercise. Only in the interest of learning, of course. Besides, this could be her only chance. What if she only saw him clean-shaven when they lived in Bridgewater?
She reached for her glove, but she couldn’t make herself pull it off. The most likely outcome of her tracing the paths of the raindrops down his cheeks would be for him to demand she leave the cart and never come back.
She would have to tell him who she was, and without knowing whether he liked her at all, she wasn’t ready to reveal that. Nor was she ready to go home, and he would send her home either way.
She slipped her hands under her legs. They were warmer there, anyway. She had come here to spend time with her future husband and her time wasn’t up yet. The last thing she wanted was to go back to daily shopping trips with Lady Bridgewater. She would much rather sit in a cart, even in the rain, with her son. Besides, for all she knew, he was secretly a brute and it would take another week for him to show that side of himself.
She thought back to him giving Mandy the box of ribbons. He had bent down with it behind his back, and the smile on his face when her eyes lit up was almost…well, it wasn’talmostanything. It was downright attractive. If she’d learned nothing else from this week-and-a-half together, she knew she wouldn't mind looking at her husband for the rest of her life.
She sighed inwardly. And he probably wasn’t a brute.
Mr. Harrison glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “You really could have stayed back today. I’m certain your father wouldn’t want you to catch your death from a chill.”
“Do ye think me so fragile that I cannot handle some rain?”
Mr. Harrison snorted. “I don’t think that.”
“Well then—” The cart jolted to a stop and Lucy’s sentence was cut short. She grabbed the side of her seat to keep from pitching forward.
“Blast.” Mr. Harrison’s hand dashed to his face and wiped the rain from above his eyes. Then he stood so he could inspect the wheels of the cart.
Lucy followed his gaze. The front wheel of the cart was lodged in a deep rut. Mr. Harrison clicked his tongue and slapped the reins on Marge’s hindquarters. Marge tried to move forward, but her hooves could find no purchase. Instead they slid dangerously.
Mr. Harrison muttered a curse under his breath and hopped off the side of the cart. The rain, which had been a mere drizzle only a moment ago, now came down in sheets. Mr. Harrisonstrode over to Marge and placed his forehead on hers, stroking her neck to calm her. After a moment he pulled on her reins, trying, with no luck, to dislodge the stuck wheel. Even his well-earned strength made no difference in their situation.
Lucy hiked up her skirt and climbed down the side of the cart.
Mr. Harrison dropped Marge’s reins. “What do you think you are doing?”
“I’m goin’ to help ye.”
Mr. Harrison eyed her up and down. Her hat was limp, her dress soaked. She must have looked a complete disaster. For the briefest moment, she thought his gaze snagged on her locket. He shook his head, and just when she thought he would order her back into the cart, he pointed to the reins. “You give Marge a tug, and I’ll try pushing the cart from behind.”
Lucy nodded. Several times over the past week-and-a-half she and Mr. Harrison had worked together—loading the cart or carrying parcels—and those were the times she felt closest to him. She doubted he felt the same, but a smidgeon of excitement rose in her chest as she strode to Marge’s side.
