Читать книгу Lady Drusilla's Road to Ruin - Christine Merrill, Christine Merrill - Страница 10

When she woke the next morning, she was stiff with discomfort and not all the pain she felt could be blamed on the stress of travelling. She had slept with her arms folded tightly across her chest, fearing that the least movement would rouse her companion.

But he had not seemed at all bothered by her presence. His even snoring was a demonstration of that. It had roused her several times during the night. Of course, he was quiet enough now that it was almost light and time to be getting up again. She grumbled to herself at the unfairness of it, tossing to lie on her other side.

He was silent because he was awake. Only inches from her nose he lay facing her, watching.

And why she had thought him a parson on the previous day she had no idea. So close like this, his eyes were reminiscent of some great cat. His body reminded her of that as well, for there was a stillness in it now that did not seem so much immobility, as the gathering of energy that came, right before the pounce.

And that attention was focused on her. Like a rabbit, she responded to it by freezing. Unable to turn away from him, she lay there, paralysed, waiting for the eventual assault, yet was unable to fear it. While she’d not thought further than the desperate effort to save her sister’s reputation, she’d put her own honour at stake. And that particular commodity was so shelf worn as to be practically useless. While it was foolish to put it at risk, she sometimes wondered if anyone even cared that she possessed it.

But in this moment, she was sure that Mr Hendricks had noticed, was giving the matter some thought and would divest her of it with efficiency and discretion, should she ask him to.

Then the man next to her sat up, yawned, stretched and reached for his glasses. He put them on; when he looked at her again, it was as if the great cat she feared was safely encased behind a thick, protective window. It watched her for a moment, then lost interest, retreating slowly back into its cage and out of sight, leaving the somewhat owlish parson she had noted on the previous day.

‘You slept well, I trust?’ he asked.

‘As well as can be expected,’ she admitted.

‘Very good.’ He swung his legs out of the bed and to the floor, reaching for his socks and boots. ‘I will leave you to prepare yourself for the day, and will be returning in …’ he reached for his watch and checked the time ‘… approximately fifteen minutes. Will that be sufficient?’

‘Certainly. I will go down to the common room for breakfast, so that you will know when the room is empty.’

He nodded, then left her.

In his place was a strange feeling, almost of bereavement. It was hardly appropriate. She had only just met the man and should be relieved that he was allowing her some privacy so that she could have a wash. And she had best get about it, for she was willing to wager that when he’d said fifteen minutes, he had meant exactly that and would be measuring it on a watch that was both properly maintained and more than usually accurate. He would be an efficient task master, well aware of the schedule and the need to adhere to it, if she wished to reach her goal.

She should be pleased. Had this not been exactly what she needed? But as she sat up and reached for her valise and prepared to refresh herself, she sighed.

Less than an hour later, they were side by side again in the carriage and travelling north. The man who had bothered her yesterday was there again today, watching her closely from the other seat. He eyed Mr Hendricks as well, as though looking for some resemblance between them or some sign that the night had been spent in more than sleep.

Mr Hendricks noticed it as well and gave the man a dark look. ‘I trust you slept well, sir.’

Drusilla smiled to herself as the man coloured from guilt.

‘I expect the day’s travel to be equally uncomfortable,’ he said, this time to Dru. ‘The driver was in the parlour when I took my breakfast; he has got word that the roads grow more difficult the farther north we travel. They may become impassable.’

‘I prefer not to invoke disaster by discussing it,’ she said uneasily.

Mr Hendricks shrugged. ‘It is better to be prepared against the eventuality of it. Then one can posit likely alternatives, should the worst occur and the coach fail us. Now, if you will forgive me, Sister, I mean to rest. It was a beastly night and I got little sleep.’ He glared at the man opposite them, making it clear who was to blame for his bad humour.

The merchant answered with a similar glare, as though to say, even if they were siblings, he did not care.

‘But if you need anything, my dear, do not hesitate to wake me.’ Although he said it mildly, there was an underlying tone of menace in the words. Yesterday’s troubles would not be repeated. If her harasser gave so much as a glance in her direction, he would pay dearly for it. Then Mr Hendricks closed his eyes and tipped his hat forwards to shield his face as he napped.

Drusilla reached for the book in her reticule and tried to hide the strange thrill that it gave her to be protected. When Priss was in attendance, Dru’s life was largely without such courtesies. If required to, the men who flocked around her sister might come to her aid, but it would be done as an afterthought, in an effort to curry favour with the daughter that actually interested them.

Of course, Mr Hendricks was doing so because she had agreed to pay him—and he was worth every penny. At each change of horses, he was up and out the door in one smooth movement, even if the coach was not fully stopped. It was strange to think of his movements as graceful, but there was a kind of economy to them that rivalled anything Mr Gervaise could demonstrate on the dance floor. And the sun glinting off his short blond hair was every bit as attractive as Gervaise’s dark handsomeness.

He would ignore the coachman’s cautions to ‘Have a care!’ and the shouts from the guard that there would be no time for passengers to alight, then go straight to the innkeeper. She could watch from the window as he described their quarry in succinct terms: a tall dark man, nattily dressed, travelling with a petite blonde in a black carriage with a crest upon the door. He would take in the innkeeper’s response, toss the man a coin for his troubles and be back in his seat before the horses were fully harnessed.

He was organised, efficient, left nothing to chance and seemed totally focused on her comfort. He would adjust curtains to make sure her seat was shaded from the sun, but not too gloomy to read. He got her food and refreshments almost before she could request them.

If she was the sort of woman prone to flights of fancy, she would come to enjoy it all a bit too much and imagine that it was anything other than a job to him.

A particularly vicious bump sent her sliding across the seat into him. Without waking, he reached out an arm to steady her.

To maintain their fictional relationship, she tried to take the sudden contact without flinching, but his hand on her arm was strangely unsettling. And for that, she had only herself to blame. She had been too much out of the society, if she could not even manage to accept a little help without reading things into it. Though it was hardly gentlemanly to touch a lady without permission, he could not very well let her slide off the seat.

Yet this felt like somewhat more. Almost as if he had been her brother, or a very close friend, and cared what happened to her, even without opening his eyes.

Because you employ him, said a voice in her head that was as cold and rational as her father would have been. It is in his best interest to keep you intact, if he wishes the favour of the Duke of Benbridge.

But more than that, his touch had been innocent, yet strangely familiar. Sure of itself. And sure of her. It had made her want to reach out and clasp his hand in thanks.

She took a firmer grip on the binding of her book, to make sure that the temptation was not acted upon.

It appeared, as they travelled, that Mr Hendricks would be proven right about the difficulties that lay before them. The carriage had been slowing for the better part of the morning, and Mr Hendricks had removed his watch from his pocket on several occasions, glancing at the time, comparing it to the schedule and making little tutting noises of disapproval. When she raised a questioning eyebrow, he said, ‘The recent rains have spoiled the roads. I doubt we will be able to go much farther today.’

‘Oh dear.’ There was little more to be said, other than to voice her disappointment. It was not as if arguing with Mr Hendricks would change the quality of the road, after all.

Half an hour later, the coach gave a final lurch and ground to a stop in the mud. The drivers called to the passengers to exit and for any men strong enough to assist in pushing.

As Mr Hendricks shrugged out of his coat and rolled up his sleeves, Drusilla looked in dismay at the puddle in front of the door. As she started down the steps, her companion held up a hand to stay her. ‘Allow me.’ Then he hopped lightly to the ground, and held out his arms to her.

‘You cannot mean to carry me,’ she said, taking a half-step back.

‘Why not?’

‘I am too heavy for you.’

He gave her an odd look. ‘I hardly think it will be a problem. Now hurry. My feet are getting wet.’

Gingerly, she sat on the edge and lowered herself towards him. Then he took her in his arms, turned and walked a little way up the hill to a dry place. He proved himself right, for he carried her easily. His body was warm against hers; suddenly and unreasonably, she regretted that she had not lain closer to him in the night. It felt delightful to have his arms about her and she allowed her own arms to creep about his neck, pretending it was only to aid in balance and had nothing to do with the desire to touch him.

Too soon he arrived at the safe place and set her down on the ground. ‘Wait for me here, Sister.’

Was the last word a reminder of her role? she wondered. As he laboured behind the coach, she could not manage to think of him thus. His broad shoulders strained, outlining themselves against the linen of his shirt. She could see muscle, bone and sinew in the strength of his arms and his legs as well, his lower anatomy well defined by the tightness of his mud-splattered trousers.

It made her feel strange, rather like she had first thing in the morning, when he had been staring at her. She put a hand to her forehead, wondering if she had taken ill, and then let it fall to her side in defeat. It was getting harder and harder to pretend that her reactions to Mr Hendricks were related to heat or indigestion. It excited her to have his attention, if she fluttered at every glance and touch.

Perhaps her sister’s foolishness was contagious. She was normally far too sensible to be looking at a man and thinking the things she was. More importantly, she should not be looking at this particular man. She had hired him, for heaven’s sake. He was her inferior. Not a suitor. Not a lover. Not even a friend. It was no different than Priscilla and her dancing master.

Except in one thing. Mr Hendricks had shown no interest in seducing her. Last night, with the candour brought on by too much alcohol, he had admitted that his heart was already bruised. He had been eager to withdraw from civilisation, particularly the company of women. If he had even the slightest idea what was going on in her head, he would depart from her at the first opportunity, leaving her to face this calamity alone.

As if to punish her for her lapse, the horses gave a tug and the body of the coach overbalanced still further. And then, with a horrible splintering, the mired wheel gave way. She covered her eyes with her hands, wishing she could reject the reality of the destroyed transport and the attractiveness of her companion. It was all ruined, as was her Priss.

And she could not help but think that it was all her fault. If she had behaved with more foresight while they were still in London, been more strict … Or perhaps less so … If she had been a better example, or listened with more compassion to her sister’s problems … then Priss would not have run away. And she would not be sitting beside a broken coach, staring at a man’s shoulders and thinking nonsense.

She felt the shadow of him cross her face, before he spoke. ‘Well, then. That’s done for.’

‘It’s over.’ Because it was. She could not walk to Scotland. By the time they could find another carriage, the couple would be even farther ahead of them. She might as well adjust to the idea of Mr Gervaise for a brother-in-law, and a father so angry that she would never see polite society again, lest she follow the path of her younger sister and humiliate him.

He gave a short laugh. ‘Then you will be glad that I am here. For while the coach is done, the journey is hardly over. If you wish to continue, that is.’

‘Continue? Of course.’ Her eyes flew to the coach. ‘Can they get us a post-chaise?’

‘They’ll do it for two passengers, but not for three.’

‘There are only two of us,’ she said.

Mr Hendricks cocked his head in the direction of their companion who was leaning against the broken axle. ‘After the way we have treated him, it is unlikely that he will yield his place to us. And do not think for a moment that you will change partners as though you were waltzing at Almack’s and go on with him instead,’ Hendricks said firmly. ‘I hesitate to think what might happen to you if he gets you alone.’

A variety of responses occurred to her. She should have told him that she was not that foolish, that he had no right to talk to her in that tone. Instead, she announced, ‘I have never been waltzing at Almack’s, and, if I had, I certainly would not leave you in the middle of a dance.’ It was true. She had procured the vouchers with Priss in mind. She had not needed Father to tell her that the girl would not show to best advantage if both of them were on the floor. But it made her look like a looby to announce the fact now. It was bad enough to be thought foolish, but worse to be seen as exactly what she was: a wallflower spinster, too busy watching over the virtue of others to get the benefit of a Season.

Mr Hendricks was staring at her as though she has sprouted feathers. ‘Go and speak to the driver. See what else can be done,’ she commanded in her most aristocratic tone. ‘I wish to be in Scotland before tomorrow, Hendricks. There is no time to waste.’ He did not need to be told his job. She hated people who solved their problems by tongue-lashing the nearest servant, but at least it made him turn from her so she could no longer see his look of pity.

He came back a short time later, holding out a hand to her as though there was nothing strange between them. ‘The coachman tells me that southbound drivers claim it is this bad and worse for quite some way. Not fit for coach or wagon even if we could get one. But two horses, keeping to dry ground and travelling cross country, will have more success. I’ve bribed the driver to give us the wheelers and let us go on alone.’

‘You want us to continue on horseback?’ As though that was not obvious, without her chattering like a parrot at the poor man.

He answered with a nod; if he thought her dull witted, he was kind enough to ignore it. He produced a compass from his pocket, glancing up at the sun for confirmation. ‘We will travel north and hope for drier roads when we reach Lancashire.’ Then, as though remembering that it was not he who led, said, ‘Does this meet with your approval, my lady?’

She blinked, wondering if she would have managed to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat in such a handy way had she not found him. ‘I think I am most fortunate to have taken you on, Mr Hendricks.’

‘Thank you, Lady Drusilla.’