Page 23 of The Baronet’s Bartered Bride

CHAPTER SIX

“Where did you find a horse?”

She had never known Joseph to ride, and this was the first question that seemed safe as Inez guided them across the square to the stables that lodged the neighborhood horses and occasional carriage of a patron. Visitors to Dark Lane ranged from every social class and background, and no one with solid coin and good manners was turned away.

“The Blue Posts,” Joseph answered, naming the pub that stood at the end of George Court, on the busier Rupert Street. The pub took its name from the ubiquitous blue posts where a traveler could hire a sedan chair, but the place also kept a horse or two for hire. “Myers let me borrow one of his Norfolk Trotters, but I must be back with it quickly lest I lose him custom.”

Inez regarded the tall horse with its deep chest and short legs, made for covering distance. “I did not know you rode.”

“Up with you.” He set his hands to her waist and swung her into the air as easily as she lifted her bag. He was strong for a man whose typical labor was hefting nothing heavier than a book.

His was not a practiced move, and there was some fumbling as he helped her find her seat in the flat saddle. She was all the more pleased with this bit of clumsiness; his was not a rehearsed charm. He did not sweep ladies away upon horseback with regularity.

She let her legs dangle on either side, the way she as a child had ridden the Garrano pony their neighbor in Portugal used to take to market. Only when Joseph fit his foot into the stirrup and swung up behind her did she recall that ladies rose with both legs to one side.

“Every English gentleman’s son can ride, and every baronet’s grandson,” he said.

Joseph reached on either side of her to take the reins, and Inez sucked in her breath as his body fitted around hers. Her bottom was cradled against his groin, the front of his thighs snugging the backs of hers. His shoulder brushed her back as he shook out the ribbons. He was so large and warm and solid.

Her head felt light, as if the air were not moving properly upward, though no fingers were obstructing her windpipe this time.

“But where was I to stable a horse in Oxford, and on my income?” he said as he nudged the animal out of doors. “Or in London, for that matter, when it would cost more to house an animal than it would to keep a roof over my head.”

There was no rancor in his tone, no scolding. No impatience that he’d had to come fetch her, nor anger that she’d left him. No cutting inflection noting her ignorance about him and his life.

“My thanks,” he said to the boy who had tended the horse, and tossed the lad a silver coin as they stepped out onto the square.

She, Inez da Costa Shirodkar, being led out on a horse as if she were a fine lady, and worth the rescue.

“You came for me. Did you know I was in trouble?”

“Amaranthe did. She came to the house soon after you left.”

All the melting going on about inside Inez seized to a stop as if she were a candle snuffed out. He hadn’t come for her of his own volition. He’d obeyed the directive of his sister.

“And where are you taking me now?” She forced out the words.

“As I said. Home.”

He turned the horse onto Bishopgate Street, heading away from Dark Lane, and she wondered if she would ever see this place again. If she dared come back.

Her throat still felt as if she were choking. Could she return to George Court with him and go about their business as if nothing had changed?

She’d kissed him. She could not pretend everything was as it had been.

“Are you going to tell me?”

His voice was low, falling into her ear and raising a shiver. The press of his chest was there against her back, through the thick leather and twill padding of her stays. Joseph didn’t wear padding in his coats the way some men did to give themselves a proper silhouette. His coats and waistcoats were wool tabby or broadcloth, inexpensive fabrics but cut well. And they smelled of him, of cassia and rosewood oil, as she knew from the stolen moments she rubbed his garments across her cheek when they came downstairs for cleaning.

“Tell you what?” she breathed. His scent filled her head, along with base notes of musk, his own scent beneath the cologne. He steered them deftly through the traffic on the street, carts and carriages and chairs and pedestrians, as if riding came naturally to him. The horse had a smooth gait, brisk and even, yet each rolling stride tucked her more closely to him. But not close enough.

“Why you left.”

She tried casting her mind back to the substance of their argument, the high-handedness, that particular steely tone as he demanded she explain her comings and goings. He deserved that, didn’t he, as her employer?

But she couldn’t go back to bringing him trays when he never lifted his head from his studies, just cleared a corner of his desk and muttered a thanks, then didn’t notice when she came later to take away the crumbs. She couldn’t bear bringing dishes to set on the small folding table where he took the dinner Mrs. Frost had made for him, alone with his book and his candle, and no companion.

She hated seeing him dine alone almost as much as she hated the many nights he was away dining at Hunsdon House or at some entertainment where he was invited by the duke and duchess. The house lay empty and hollow on those nights until he returned, the fixed smile on his mouth relaxing as soon as he was in his own domain, among his books and studies.