The carriage didn't bear his crest, Thea noted.
Perhaps the sober clothing and unmarked carriage meant he wished to remain incognito to evade more possessive husbands.
Could be scores of jealous rivals to elude.
Everyone knew he burned through mistresses as if they were kindling and he aimed to start a bonfire large enough to incinerate London.
"Last opportunity to change your mind, Lady Dorothea." Osborne slapped a pair of black leather riding gloves against his open palm. "I'll have a groom escort you safely home to your doting mother and your safe featherbed."
Hardly doting, her mother. Not when Thea had turned out to be such a disappointment.
She wouldn't let the duke intimidate her with those mocking midnight eyes.
And he most certainly wasn't going to make any decisions on her behalf.
Thea lifted her shoulders higher. "I'm afraid you're saddled with me for the journey, Your Grace."
"And I was afraid you'd say that, Lady Dorothea." He crumpled his gloves in one fist. "Then let's be off. I've no time to waste."
Con offered his hand. "Up you go, my lady."
Thea mounted the carriage step, but where there should have been a floor to receive her there was only a . . .
"Bed," she said in bewilderment, staring at the striped blue-and-cream-silk cushions plumped cozily together atop a flat, angled wooden surface. "It's a bed."
She balanced atop the step, not quite certain what she was meant to do. Surely it wouldn't be proper to mount into a traveling . . . bed . . . with a duke.
There's nothing proper about any of this, she reminded herself. You're leaving proper far, far behind.
"What's all this, then?" the duke asked in an exasperated tone.
His huge presence loomed behind her as he bent to survey the inside of the carriage.
"In you go, my lady." Con gave her hand a quick tug, setting her off balance, and she lurched unceremoniously into the carriage. "Aren't these traveling chariots ingenious?" He slapped the wall of the carriage. "Fold-down panels for nighttime journeys."
It was difficult to tell under those whiskers, but Thea was certain that was a sly smile on Con's face.
The duke surveyed Thea as she righted her bonnet and reordered her skirts after the precipitous entry.
Abruptly, he backed away. "Change it back to a seat," he barked at Con.
"Too late. No time. We must leave immediately."
"I'll ride out, then."
"Can't. Someone might recognize you."
The duke swore under his breath and flung himself into the carriage, landing beside Thea with a thump that shook the entire wood-and-steel structure.
Con winked at Thea and slammed the door shut.
By the ominous furrowing of his brow, she could tell the duke was in no mood for further provocation.
He could only be described as thunderous. With a strong chance of lightning and torrential floods.
But nothing was going to drown the exhilarating surge of hope Thea experienced as the horses began to trot and the wheels to turn.
Back to Ballybrack Cottage.
Where the humming of the bees in her aunt's woven dome basket hives filled the air, and pots of orange-and-honey marmalade bubbled on the range, filling the air with spice.
She'd wasted enough time attempting to be perfect and then castigating herself when she fell short. In Ireland she'd have the liberty to determine who she was, not who her mother ordained her to be.
And Thea already knew she'd choose to be flawed and tart and imperfect, like the coarse orange marmalade with only a touch of honey to temper the bitter fruit peel.
Thea settled onto the cushions in as dignified a manner as possible, tucking a red plaid woolen blanket around her legs and untying her bonnet.
The duke sprawled on the cushions, his long legs stretching all the way into the hollow boot of the carriage.
The swaying of the carriage over the city streets nudged them closer together, and Thea had to hold on to the curtains in order to stay firmly on her side.
He could still decide to pitch her out on her ear.
Best to give him some breathing space, at least until they left London. Then she could renew her campaign to persuade him to unveil his art collection.
There had to be another painting by Artemisia somewhere in that attic, she just knew it.
A lost work of genius.
A painting so heart-wrenching and lush that historians would be forced to grant Artemisia a more prominent place in the canon of art history.
And if it turned out to be a self-portrait, Thea would finally be able to meet her favorite painter, in a fashion.
She had a day in the carriage to Bristol, and then another day on a ship bound for Ireland, to make the duke change his mind. At least she could convince him to see the Sleeping Venus for himself, before he absolutely forbade further discovery.
It should be sufficient time to crack his resolve.
It would have to be.
Thea glanced at the duke from the corner of her eyes. If the force of his presence was overwhelming from across a ballroom, it was devastating in this tiny space.
Thea shivered.
"Cold, Lady Dorothea?"
Thea met his hooded gaze in the gloom of the carriage. "A bit." She wrapped her blanket tighter. "I was just thinking about your manservant. He's quite . . . singular."
"I'd choose another adjective." Osborne glared out the window, obviously imagining several slow, torturous deaths for Con. "He does enjoy his little pranks."
"Has he been properly trained as a gentleman's gentleman?"
"There's nothing remotely gentlemanly about him. I would think you could have discerned that by now."
"Where on earth did you find him?"
"He's . . ." The duke shifted toward her, propping himself up on one elbow. "He's really none of your concern."
"I'm sure there's no hope of making you see why I'm doing this, why I need to leave London. Why I won't submit to my grandmother's governance and marry a man of my family's choosing."
"I thought you were doing this to plague me."
Not a hint of a smile. Where had all that famous charm gone? At least he could pretend to be gallant, to make her feel more at ease.
"It's not my fault I'm here." She couldn't help the accusatory tone. Surely he must guess how difficult this was for her.
"Not your fault?" He made a disbelieving sound. "Not your fault? Who climbed into my bed this evening and stomped on me? Who practically blackmailed their way into this carriage?"
Thea reminded herself to breathe, to smile graciously.
Ladies never lose their tempers, her mother admonished in her mind. If you must give in to pique, do so in private. Then reemerge with a tranquil smile upon your face.
"Ah, but who ruined all my plans, Your Grace?" she asked lightly. "Who filled my house with roses from lascivious old peers?"
"Surely there were a few flowers from less objectionable gentlemen. No doubt you could take your pick of many."
"My grandmother is set on Foxford or Marwood. Which is not a choice she will make on my behalf."
He regarded her for a moment, his hair glinting with copper in the passing glow from streetlamps. "This is a rash impulse. You're going to regret this when you're older."
Spoken as if he were her father's age, when he couldn't be much more than nine and twenty. "You think me incapable of making my own decisions."
"I think you haven't thought the consequences through."
A typical male, freely gifting his opinion without truly listening to anyone else.
Her father was the same. From time to time he made some blustery command to appease his ego, when everyone knew the running of the London household, and of his entire holdings, was overseen by her mother's iron control.
"Why should I not be free to choose my own destiny?" Thea asked. "If I want to become a spinster, I won't let a duke stop me."
A smile played over his lips. "You'll never be a spinster, Lady Dorothea." His eyes flicked to her lips. "You're not made for the role." His gaze slid lower, as if he could see through the blanket. "Trust me."
Oh dear. There was the captivating smile that had landed her in this predicament in the first place.
"It's just that I don't fit with your view of the world. I don't occupy a neat niche for you to place me in and then forget all about me," she persisted.
"Niches." He smiled wolfishly. "I like niches."
His ungloved fingers slid over the fringe of the blanket, inches above her arm.
His smile wrapped her in heat, dispelling the chill more swiftly than the woolen blanket.
She couldn't decide whether the glowering or the smiling was worse for her mental equilibrium.
Just then, the carriage wheels rattled over a bump in the road, ripping the drapery from her grip and flinging her against a solid wall of duke.
One couldn't be faulted if a carriage jostled one against a duke, now could one?
His strong arms surrounded her, holding her against his chest.
"Gracious," she said.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." But she wasn't. A sudden urge to nestle closer attacked her defenses. Slide her hands under his coat, under all that wool and linen, seek the smooth, muscled flesh she knew awaited her there.
Dorothea Beaumont. Stop that immediately. Refined young ladies never allow their minds to wander down ribald paths.
Maybe she just needed to be held. To be reassured that these uncharted waters might be rough but she didn't have to negotiate them alone.