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Just then, the carriage gave a sickening lurch, sliding to the side. She started to slide too, pressing into Priscilla until Mr. Fitzroy’s large hand shot out, steadying her as the vehicle ground to a stop.
She reached for Mr. Fitzroy’s massive forearm, holding on to him as though he were a buoy in the ocean even though the carriage was now still.
“It’s the mud, my lord,” the driver called over the rain.
Wyatt snapped open the door and, stepping out into the muck, his foot audibly sank into the seeping liquid.
“Blast,” Mr. Fitzroy murmured as he slowly withdrew his hand from her arm. With a start, she realized she held him still, and she dropped her hands, her cheeks flaming with heat. He gave her a small smile as he stepped out too.
Wyatt returned a moment later. “There’s a small hill with a tree up ahead. We’re going to carry you ladies to its cover so that we can push the vehicle out.”
Carry?
But Wyatt was already reaching back inside. Priscilla moved to the door and he swept his wife into his arms, dashing toward the cover of the tree.
She partially stood, watching their progress.
“Clara,” Mr. Fitzroy called, holding out his hand toward her.
Had he just used her given name? Why did the single word shiver down her spine? Had his voice always been so deep?
She stepped toward him and in a blink, she found herself in his arms, pressed to his barrel chest.
How had he done that?
But the rain began to pelt her and she wrapped her arms about his neck as she burrowed her face against him.
The rain was cold but he was ridiculously warm, and as he dashed toward the cover, hardly jostling her, she had the sensation that this was the sort of man who might protect her from all the rain that life might pelt down.
Ralph hugged Clara closer.
He hadn’t meant to utter her given name. Miss Melby. That’s what he should have said.
But she was so lovely and she’d held his arm like a woman in need of a tether and then… He looked down at her, burrowed into his chest.
She fit against him like she was meant to be there, her soft curves molding to him. She’d clearly donned a short corset for travel and it allowed him…
He stopped. He might be an earl, but that did not mean that a woman like Clara could ever be his. He didn’t even wish for it to be so. She was part of the other…
The only person he cared for in the elite class was Wyatt. That was it. And now Priscilla. He swore under his breath. Priscilla and Wyatt were different. They’d both experienced real abuse. The sort that made a person understand what it meant to be downtrodden. Clara didn’t have that depth. Did she?
Not that it mattered. She already had a beau. A man who’d known he’d be an earl his entire life. A man who had been groomed to be an earl.
Ralph had been raised by a man who taught him early on that he was less for being a bastard, for having a common mother.
Wyatt didn’t treat him like less, his brother didn’t have to. Ralph knew that men like Wyatt and Kinross were more important than himself.
Clara belonged with those sorts of men.
Her arms tightened about his neck and he found himself pulling her closer as they reached the cover of the tree. He knew she would never be for him. Yesterday, he hadn’t even liked this woman, but as he held her tight, he realized that he wished to pretend for a moment. He wanted to be the man who cared for a woman such as this.
No wonder he’d been irritable at the start of the trip. He had to stare at a woman all day who reminded him that it didn’t matter what the queen did or didn’t give him, he’d never be one of the elite.
It was that thought that allowed him to swing her down and set her lightly on her feet.
Though she did not let go.
Her arms were still locked about his neck, her body now pressed to his from shoulder to hip, her face turned up to his.
He held her waist and as he looked down at her, an ache throbbed in his chest.
“The rain is already letting up,” Wyatt said, breaking the spell under which he’d found himself.
It must have been true for Clara as well because she unthreaded her arms from about him, taking a step back. He couldn’t seem to help holding her waist for a few moments longer, making certain she was steady.
But then, looking at Wyatt, he gave a nod. “Let’s go. That carriage won’t dislodge itself.”
