Page 3 of Truly, Madly, Daring

“My lord?”

He frowned, momentarily disorientated.

“Lord Wrexham? Have you changed your mind?” she asked, anxiety lacing her voice.

“What? No. Why the devil would I do that?” he demanded irritably, and then cursed himself as he sensed her stiffen. “Miss Knight, I… I apologise. That was… I’m rather….”

She laughed, and his ill humour faded at the discovery she could do so in the light of his rudeness.

“I think we both are… rather,” she said dryly.

He huffed out a laugh and nodded. “I shall do better.”

“I certainly hope so, or this will be a horrifically long journey,” she replied, a tart and wonderfully teasing note to her reply.

“Ah, and there is my Miss Milly, scolding me already. How delightful.”

“You had best get used to it, my lord,” she advised him, a glimmer of something bright and defiant illuminating her voice so he was not entirely certain she was teasing him anymore. “I’m not half so biddable as you might like to imagine.”

Rex settled back against the squabs, trying to stifle a grin. He wished they did not need Humboldt and the young woman they had employed as her maidservant to travel in the carriage with them. But they must observe the proprieties, even during an elopement. Still, the journey might not be quite so horrific as he had feared after all.

Chapter 2

Lyall,

Of all the damned idiotic things to do! What in the blazes were you thinking, marrying that strumpet? How did she get her claws in you? If you were in trouble, why did you not come to me? I would have helped, surely you know that?

Lord, I want to rattle you until your teeth shake. I’ve half a mind to undertake that hellish journey just for the pleasure of doing so.

Explain yourself, man, for I cannot account for it.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Most Hon’ble Jules Adolphus, The Marquess of Blackstone (eldest son of Their Graces, Robert and Prunella Adolphus, The Duke and Duchess of Bedwin) to The Right Hon’ble Lyall Anderson, Viscount Buchanan (eldest son of Gordon and Ruth Anderson, Earl and Countess of Morven).

Night of the 14th of February 1845, on the road to Euston Station.

Emmeline stared out at a world that appeared dusted with icing sugar, sparkling in the moonlight. Thankfully, the snow had stopped some time ago, and the farther they got from Holbrook, the lighter the covering appeared to be. With luck, they would have a straightforward journey to the station.

Beside her, the young woman Humboldt had hired for her maidservant sat with her hands in her lap, eyes closed, looking quite unperturbed. She was a sturdy girl with thick dark hair, plaited and pinned to the nape of her neck, and was perhaps five or six years older than Emmeline. She wondered what the woman must think of her for setting off like she was. She swallowed down the sudden urge to tell the driver to stop so she could fling herself from the carriage. Her previous burst of confidence seemed to evaporate with each mile she put between herself and her family. Oh, what had she done?

“Are you well, Miss Knight?”

Wrexham’s voice cut through her distraction, making her jump, and she wondered how he had known she was agitated, for he was leaning towards her, his expression one of concern.

Emmeline glanced over at Humboldt, reading in his face his willingness to stop this journey and return her home the moment she gave the word. Instead, she looked at Wrexham. His face was mostly in shadow, but the moonlight touched his high cheekbones, turning his golden hair to platinum. If only he weren’t so beautiful, perhaps she could be sensible. Perhaps then she’d think of her own future, but her heart lurched as she considered telling him she wanted to go home. She couldn’t do it.

“Quite well,” she managed, though her voice trembled a little.

“Are you cold?” Wrexham asked, perhaps misinterpreting the quaver in her voice for shivering, though he’d been most solicitous, arranging for a hot brick for her feet and thick fur covers to keep her warm.

“No. I’m quite comfortable.”

She watched his face deepen into a scowl, a formidable sight in the shadowy interior of the carriage. Emmeline wondered, rather belatedly, if she ought to be afraid of him.

“Give me your hand.”

It was a demand rather than a request and she almost balked at his tone, but that was silly. Humboldt sat beside him, looking studiously out of the window. Wrexham would certainly not misbehave with an audience, though, and besides which, she trusted him to be a gentleman. He had promised her, and she had believed him.

Emmeline placed her hand in his, startled when he covered it with his own.