Page 20 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

Chapter 7

Beneath the meager shelter of the eaves, Alistair stood overlooking the stable yard, his boots in one hand and greatcoat in the other, grateful for the second time that morning that he’d gone to sleep still decently clad in buckskin breeches and a shirt.

Some would surely quibble with the word decent. They would say it hardly applied to a gentleman wearing neither coat nor cravat. And regardless of his degree of dishabille, decent certainly did not comport with his behavior.

Well, almost decently, then.

Besides, no one need know about any of it. He had no intention of regaling his family and friends with the details of this journey. They need never hear how he had shared both a carriage and a bed with a woman he barely knew and did not trust. A woman he felt certain was something shy of respectable.

A woman against whose . . . person he had mindlessly rutted while she slept.

Good God.

Fortunately, nothing wilted an unwelcome cockstand like cold rain and self-recrimination. Effective even—perhaps especially—when one’s mind persisted in recalling the unexpected and undeniably pleasant plumpness of an otherwise slender woman’s bottom.

Shivering in the dawn air, he slipped his arms into his greatcoat and stepped into his boots. What ought he to do next? Return and apologize to Miss C. for his boorishness? Rouse the coachman and see what could be done to hurry the resumption of their travels?

If she were willing to continue, that was, or willing to continue with him. She might demand to be left in sole possession of the coach for which she had paid.

Jaw clenched, he descended the steps and crossed the yard. The horses had already been fed, and both the hostler and the coachman were also at their breakfast. Alistair hailed the latter. “What news about the repairs?”

“Good news, sir,” the man insisted with an encouraging nod, though Alistair heard a note of uncertainty in his voice. “’ Tweren’t the axle. Blacksmith says he can forge a new wheel pin that oughter last us the rest o’ the way. And th’ rest o’ th’ damage ain’t naught but what this chap”—he jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the hostler—“and me together oughter be able to fix.”

There were rather more oughters in that sentence than Alistair would have liked, but he nodded encouragingly. “That is good news. How long?”

One muscled shoulder rose. “Midday. Mebee.”

Each word rose slightly, like a question. A guess, then. But Alistair could only trust it was a guess borne of long experience. A midday departure would put them well behind schedule, and it might yet be delayed further by any number of things, particularly the weather. The sky, rather than growing lighter as the sun rose, had begun once more to darken. Nevertheless, the coachman’s words offered a spark of hope, and he would present it as such to Miss C.

When the time came, and he had no choice but to face her again.

“Very good, then. Keep me apprised of your progress. I’m going to stretch my legs.”

He was still not dressed for going out in public, but as the village streets were all but empty and he had no intention of doing more than walking down the main thoroughfare, he calculated that the state of his clothing was unlikely to matter to anyone.

Down the street a short distance and on the opposite side stood the village’s other pub. A shingle hung above the door, bearing a worn picture of a goose and some lettering he could not decipher at this distance. As he drew opposite of it, a young man with a shock of straw-colored hair and wearing an apron came out to sweep the step.

Alistair recalled Miss C.’s speculation that the rival barkeep had won the heart of the sister of the Coach and Cask’s proprietor. Before that moment, he had not suspected her of harboring romantic notions in her breast.

Then again, some degree of fantastical nonsense was to be expected from an artist.

The blond man paid him no attention and Alistair went on his way, up the street and past a few houses, a butcher’s shop, and a handsome stone church. When the buildings began to thin, he crossed to the other side and paused in front of a general store. Price’s Mercantile had been painted in gilt on the front window, which framed a display of gloves, ribbons, cologne in pretty cut-glass bottles, and a small wooden box containing an assortment of charcoal pencils and pastels, cunningly arranged beside a pad of heavy paper.

While he stood there, a young woman appeared behind the glass, feather duster in hand, and danced it over the items as she hummed some unfamiliar tune. He stood contemplating for a long moment, not really watching her, though it must have seemed so, he realized, when she finally saw him, gasped, and dropped the duster in the middle of the arrangement, just out of reach of her fingers.

There was nothing for it but to assist her.

He stepped to the door, found it still locked, and had to wait for the young woman to let him in. She turned the key with both hands, wearing an expression of suspicion.

She could not have been more than fifteen, his sister Harry’s age. “Did you want somethin’, sir?” She did not immediately step back from the door and make way for him to enter.

He gestured toward the window. “Your duster. You dropped it because I startled you. I thought perhaps I could assist you by retrieving it.”

“Oh!” She blinked up at him, stunned, then gestured him inside. “That’s awf’ly kind.”

With ease, he leaned over the modest display, fished the duster from the front of the window, and held it out to her.

She accepted it with a grateful curtsy and he turned to go.