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He made a choked sound as he doffed his coat. “My lair? Oh dear, you’ve caught me at my evil scheme. How could I resist three beautiful women? I could have my pick of who to ravish. Here.” With the last word, he unceremoniously held out his coat, revealing the trappings of a gentleman beneath. A matching waistcoat, a well-made linen shirt, the starched cravat wrapped around his collar.
Perdie looked away. She’d done a lot of unseemly things since taking up with the ladies at 48 Berkeley Square, but for some reason, sitting in the rain with a gentleman in his shirtsleeves seemed too much of a risk.
“Your coat is as wet as I am. It won’t do me a lick of good. Please keep it.”
“It’s warm. Warmer than the rain.” When she still didn’t look at him, his accent thickened. What she’d thought of as good, educated speech now held the hint of a wicked brogue. “Come on now, lass. Don’t make a cad of me. Take the coat.”
Not trusting herself to argue further, she took the coat from him and slipped it around her shoulders. It was warm and scarcely damp on the inside. It smelled of cedar and starch and something that made her insides quiver. It was a startling reaction, and one she’d never felt before. Perdie’s heart started another quadrille in her chest, but she endeavored to ignore it.
“Do not let Felicity hear you speak like that.”
He turned to her, a motion that she noticed out of the corner of her eye as the horses started plodding forward again. The rain was slowing to little more than a drizzle, bearable if not pleasant.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Ravishing beautiful women. You’ll give her palpitations.”
His sensual smile was too charming not to turn her head. It transformed his face; the wet strands of his dark brown hair clinging to his jaw in a way that made her fingers itch to push them back. She clasped her hands on her lap. What are these ridiculous urges?
“Not a one of you are married, are you?”
“Are you?” she countered with the raise of one eyebrow.
He tipped his hat to her in answer.
They drove on; the rain turning to a mist that clung like webs to the bushes on either side of the road. The horses picked their way carefully through the treacherous mud underfoot, and Thaddeus didn’t urge them to a greater pace. She turned, catching sight of the miserable-looking boy leading the horses behind them.
“You told those highwaymen you were the sister of a duke. Is it true?”
Perdie turned in her seat again. She didn’t look at him and kept her voice polite but frosty. She might have been in a London drawing room, for all the courtesy she gave him. Though if she were in a London drawing room, there would be tea. Oh, what she wouldn’t do for a cup of tea to warm her hands.
“You cannot expect me to own to my identity in a situation such as ours. It is highly irregular.”
His eyes raked boldly over her. “So you are a duke’s sister. Which one, I wonder?”
“You will be wondering in vain. I am but a simple lady.”
“One travelling alone.”
She sent him a smile. “What men can do, women can also do.”
The gaze that landed on her face was dark and unfathomable. “A very interesting turn of phrase.”
A wistful ache went through her at the thought of Theodosia. “A friend…taught it to me.”
“An interesting friend. Is there anyone likely to be looking for you, lass?”
His tone was disarming, inviting confidence, but it sent a spike of terror up her back. She had to be more careful. No doubt her brother had men out searching the countryside for her, hoping to drag her home.
“An odd question,” she said with a disarming smile, keeping her voice light and airy, hoping to distract. “Why would there be? “I’m a lady travelling on my own, as you’ve so usefully pointed out. I must have a story to protect myself.”
His eyes were a beautiful shade of amber and green, and they glowed with shrewdness when he glanced at her. “What am I to call you, then, if you will not own to your identity?”
“You need not call me anything.”
He raised one eyebrow, completely unperturbed at their teeth-gritting pace, the drizzle misting over his skin, or the incivility in her tone. “Come now, we’re set to spend at least the next twenty minutes together. I ought to call you something other than lass. Will Lady Perdie do?”
“Not lady.” At least, not outside a London ballroom. “Perdie is fine.”
