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He considered the fire. “No, this should last long enough for our needs.”

“In that case, I just need to slip into the field opposite.” She did not meet his eye, and he guessed her meaning.

Damn it, maybe he should have bought a chamber pot too. He’d never had to contend with maidenly modesty before. “Don’t go far.” When she returned, he had a pot of water hung over the fire and was spreading a piece of sacking over the damp ground. “Come and sit here with me,” he said. “While we wait for this to boil. I’ve something here for you.”

Lizzie joined him, sinking down beside him. “What is it?” He retrieved the packet of tea from his pocket and tossed it into her lap. “Tea leaves?” She sounded pleased.

“There’s no milk, but I got the other things you’ll need,” he gestured toward the blue enamel tea set he had bought that morning while she still slept.

“And cups!” Lizzie picked up the pieces, turning them over. “They’re made of metal,” she exclaimed with surprise.

“Not what you’re used to,” he said wryly. “But bone china doesn’t fare well in a moving wagon.”

“I’m sure this is much more functional,” she agreed inspecting the tea-strainer and spoons with interest. “Thank you.” She looked up. “And I always prefer lemon to milk, in any case.”

“I haven’t got lemon either.”

“Well no,” she conceded. “But what I meant was that I’m used to drinking it black.”

Once the first lot of water was boiled, she set about brewing the tea, and Benedict refilled the pot. By the time their beverage was ready, they drank it with their shoulders touching to guard against the decided nip in the air.

“What is the horse’s name?” she asked. “You never told me.”

“Florence.”

“She’s very large. What kind of horse is she?”

“An Irish cob. You should turn in after this. It’s getting cold.”

She gave a murmur of agreement. “Do you have such a thing as a hot water bottle?” she asked. “My aunt kept stoneware ones for the winter months. There were most effective, I always found.”

“No,” he answered after a moment, giving her a meaningful look. “You won’t need one now, Lizzie. You’ve got me instead.”

She cleared her throat. “Well, yes, there is that, I suppose,” she agreed in a stifled voice.

“Get along inside,” he recommended. “I’ll bring in the water for your wash once it’s hot enough. Take these matches,” he said passing her a box. “To light the lamp so you can see what you’re doing in there.”

She took the matches from him and clambered to her feet, hurrying over to the wagon and shutting the door behind her. Sitting alone, he found himself running over her words from earlier. What was that comment she had made about her legs, he wondered mystified. It did not do to let your mind wander when it came to conversing with Lizzie, as she tended to go haring off in another direction.

With a shrug, Benedict added another branch to the fire and rested his forearms against his knees. It was good he had a few moments now to collect himself, for in truth he felt over-keen to join her and needed some breathing space to pull himself together.

His heart had nearly leaped out of his chest when Lizzie had said they should come back early tonight. It was her boldness he liked, he told himself, that was all, and he’d always enjoyed a challenge. That had to account for it. He shifted uneasily and peered beneath the lid of the pot. It needed another five minutes at least.

Breathing out slowly, he went over all the reasons why tonight’s consummation was bound to be a disappointment. She was a strait-laced virgin, and she had about twenty years of a puritan upbringing to shrug off before she’d make him a halfway decent bedpartner.

When that did not dampen his enthusiasm as it ought, Benedict had a strange realization. A good deal of his excitement was simply the prospect of getting his hands on her. Added to that was the heady prospect of her hands on him. God, he actually wanted that, he realized, feeling dumbfounded.

All those weeks of seeing Lizzie’s sour face during his tiresome courtship should not have wrought this effect on him. Back then he had imagined her disapproving eye had all the warmth of a fish on the slab. He had found Betsy’s spinster cousin about as appealing as a dunk in a cold trough of water. Yet here he was slavering after her.

Betsy, he thought with a start. He had not even thought of her once in the last day or so. And yet he had been so close to marrying her. It wasn’t until that god-awful dinner at Sitwell Place that he had realized he absolutely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, could not go through with it. Perhaps he should thank providence or that light-fingered vicar for showing him a way out. No, he amended with a faint smile, it was Lizzie’s gimlet eye which had spared him an awful fate.

The lid of the pot rattled, letting him know it was boiling. He poured the water into the large wash jug and knocked on the door of the wagon. Lizzie opened it swathed in her white cotton nightgown and shawl and took it from him with thanks.

Benedict kicked earth over the remains of the campfire and went to relieve himself in the wooded area behind them. Then he smoked a cigarillo, giving her time to ready herself before his return. When he knocked on the door again, she yanked it open at once.

“Where have you been? I thought you’d changed your mind or got lost.”

“Changed my mind?” he echoed as he climbed in and pulled the door shut behind him. “I was being considerate and giving you time to wash and undress.”