Page 4 of Truly, Madly, Daring

“Just as I thought,” he grumbled. He tugged his own gloves off and then turned her hand over to undo the button at her wrist. With a swift pull, he removed the fine leather and placed it in his lap before taking her hand in his again.

“My lord!” Emmeline protested, hot with embarrassment.

“Oh, hush,” he said, his tone impatient. “We’re eloping. Holding hands is hardly scandalous by comparison and your fingers are icy. Why did you not say so? How can I account for your comfort and well-being if you do not tell me you’re frozen to the bone?”

“But I’m not,” she retorted. “I’m perfectly cosy under the blankets, it’s just that my hands are always cold.”

He made a sound of amusement and Emmeline tried to gather her wits as he chafed her cold hand between his, but it seemed a lost cause. His hands were warm and strong and engulfed her own and she was quite certain her heart would beat out of her chest.

“Cold hands, warm heart. It seems the old saying is true, Miss Milly.”

Emmeline glared at him before remembering that was pointless. “My lord, this is most inappropriate.”

He snorted. “How I love to hear you scold me, little governess.”

Emmeline’s stomach leapt, uncertain how she felt about his playful tone.

“Wrexham, we are not alone,” she whispered, praying the maid really was sleeping, but still mortified that Humboldt was listening in.

“I’m blind, not dim-witted,” he replied, though there was no animosity in his words. “I heard them get in and I am aware of Humboldt’s disapproval. It burns,” he added, lips quirking.

Humboldt sighed and folded his arms.

“I am a great trial to him,” Wrexham whispered to her. Emmeline told her stupid heart not to be utterly charmed by the devil and avoided Humboldt’s considering gaze.

“How long until we reach Euston Station?” she asked, viscerally aware of Wrexham still holding her hand. He had stopped chafing it now, and merely held it between his own, his thumb rubbing slow circles over her skin in the most distracting manner.

“Humboldt? How far have we come?” he asked.

“We are making excellent time. I believe we are approaching Wych Cross. If all goes well, I estimate we may be less than four hours away.”

“How long do you think we have until you’re missed?” Wrexham asked Emmeline.

She dragged her gaze reluctantly from the sight of his big hands engulfing her far smaller one and then blushed, relieved he couldn’t see her. Unfortunately, Humboldt could. She put up her chin. “If all goes well, not until late tomorrow morning. I feigned a megrim. They usually knock me out, so my parents would not expect to see me much before midday.”

“You suffer from such an affliction?” he asked, the concern in his voice warming her as much as his hands were doing.

“Occasionally. Lemons are my nemesis. I adore them, but they often set me off, especially if I’m tired.”

“Humboldt. Inform Mrs Tweedy. No lemons.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Oh, but there’s no need for you to—” Emmeline began.

“Hush. Give me the other one,” he demanded.

She huffed at him, torn between thanking him for his kindness and irritated at his imperiousness. “You might say please.”

“Please, Miss Milly, won’t you give me your cold little hand to warm?” he murmured, and with such a seductive tone she regretted opening her mouth at all. Silently, she tugged off her glove and exchanged one hand for the other. “Tuck the other one under the blanket.”

“Yes, my lord,” she said, not disguising the impatient edge to her voice.

Wrexham grinned at her, his white teeth glinting in the moonlight, giving his beautiful features a dangerous, feral aspect that made her shiver.

“Oh, now that wasn’t the cold,” he remarked, sounding far too pleased with himself.

Emmeline decided there was safety in silence and held her tongue.