Absurd.
The duke may have agreed to escort her, but only grudgingly.
"We seem to be spending an awful lot of time in bed together, Your Grace. And on such a short acquaintance." She gave an uneasy laugh because she needed to break the tension, chase away the yearning to be held.
To be kissed.
"We'll be in Hounslow in less than two hours. I'll have the carriage converted back to a seat," he said gruffly.
Oh no, don't do that, she barely stopped herself from saying.
The carriage shook again and he held her closer.
He'd force the most virtuous lady's mind to wander the path of iniquity. Make her fingers itch to wander as well. Make her have . . . urges.
Stop that this instant. A lady never itches . . . and she most certainly never succumbs to urges.
But why was it that gentlemen were allowed, even expected, to act upon their urges and ladies must suppress theirs?
Goodness, Thea. What would the duke think if he could read your thoughts?
He'd think she wanted to lure him into a forced marriage.
And he wouldn't be more wrong.
She staunchly refused to be just another one of his silly, fluttering admirers, flinging themselves in his path in the vain hope of becoming his duchess.
She'd stepped in his path for a very clear purpose.
Escape. Freedom.
And the chance to study his art collection.
It had nothing to do with his sensual lips, or that alluring cleft in his chin . . . or the rock-solid arms that held her.
Nothing whatsoever.
Dalton settled Lady Dorothea more firmly against his chest as they traversed a rough stretch of cobblestones.
He couldn't let her rattle around the carriage collecting bruises and scrapes, now could he? They must be nearing Ludgate Hill. Soon the road would be better maintained.
Then he'd set her over on her side of the carriage.
Roll his greatcoat into a bolster and wedge between their bodies.
He touched her shoulder. "It's late. You may as well try to sleep. The journey will be easier once we reach the West Road."
Heavily fringed lashes fluttered onto pale cheeks.
Did she have to smell so delectable? A man couldn't sleep in a carriage scented with rose petals and warm woman.
Somehow just listening to the rhythm of her breathing was unbearably erotic.
Each inhale made her chest lift under the blanket. He was only a man. He couldn't help thinking about what lay beneath the plaid wool.
They wouldn't overflow his hands, her breasts. They'd shelter inside, perfectly filling the cup of his palms. And when he clasped her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers she would gasp with surprise and arch into him.
If he slid his hands down the curve of her hips he could easily drag her on top of him.
Hold her pinioned there while he pleasured her with his hands, his lips, his tongue, and his . . .
Dalton gave himself a swift mental kick.
Troublesome she may be, but she was an innocent.
Not one of his worldly widows.
Nor one of the wives he chose to bed whose husbands were notoriously unfaithful and cruel. Women who sought him for solace and revenge.
They received pleasure, and the reassurance that they were beautiful and meant to be treasured, while he listened to them talk of their husbands.
The powerful peers and corrupt men of business who ruled London's underworld.
He and the wives and widows used each other for mutual gain, and no one got hurt.
They understood he had no heart to give.
It would be far too easy to hurt Lady Dorothea.
"Your Grace, are you asleep?" she whispered drowsily.
"I was," he lied.
"You weren't. If you'd been asleep, you wouldn't have heard me ask you that question."
"I was attempting to sleep and I had nearly achieved success. I suggest you do the same."
She yawned, curling against him, one of her small fists settling near his earlobe.
A light touch along his neck.
One soft, tentative touch and he was hard and raw with need. He stopped breathing.
He always needed physical release after a night at the hells, when his blood still pulsed with danger and his mind pounded with the need for dominion.
Gently, he lifted her fingers, preparing to move her across the carriage. He had to create distance.
In direct contradiction to his movements, the carriage wheels jarred, shaking the planks beneath them and sinking Lady Dorothea more firmly into his arms.
"How did you receive this slash?" she murmured, glancing at his jaw. "Was it the possessive husband you're running from?"
So convenient, how the papers crowed about the duels he fought. The duels he manufactured from hints and well-placed rumors.
"Tavern accident. Shard of broken glass. Nothing as dramatic as a duel."
"Really," she said, clearly skeptical.
People drew their own conclusions about his bruises and cuts. Of course he wasn't marked often. He was too swift for that. He'd been careless with Trent. He'd let his guard down.
It would never happen again.
"Can I ask you one thing, Your Grace?"
"No, you cannot." But even as his lips remonstrated, his hands encouraged her boldness.
He realized with consternation that he'd been stroking her hair. Running those strands of honey through his fingers.
"Go to sleep, Lady Dorothea."
"I only want to know this. What is it about amorous dalliances that justifies every risk?"
Don't answer that, Dalton. Don't-"Some things are worth any cost, any price."
Your spun red-gold curls for example. Priceless.
The way you fit in my arms, tucking your head beneath my chin.
Jesus. What was wrong with him?
It was the darkness. And the bed.
And the warm, sleepy bundle of woman in his arms.
"But what exactly is it about conquest, about claiming a woman, making her yours, and then discarding her and moving to the next, that compels you so? Is it the power? The pleasure?"
Hellfire. "That's not a conversation we'll have. Ever."
"I'm genuinely curious. Pretend I'm a man. Pretend we're having a conversation over a pint in a pub."
There was no way he'd ever be able to pretend that. Not with her soft curves pressed against him.
"I'm your best friend," she continued, lowering her speech to an adorably husky baritone. "I say, Osborne, time for a new mistress, then? Tired of that Renwick bird? Who's it going to be next?"
He choked back laughter. What did she know about mistresses, anyway?
And then he remembered. Her father, the Earl of Desmond, was a notorious profligate. His by-blows were scattered the length and breadth of England.
Dalton's friend James had married one.
Was she equating Dalton with her father?
The thought heated his blood with anger. He wasn't anything like Desmond.
But of course he could never explain that to her. He'd cultivated his dissipated reputation with diligence over the years.
The gossip about his amours kept gazes turned away from his other nocturnal activities.
He owed her some explanation, though.
"Men aren't complicated. We like smashing things, drinking to oblivion, and pleasuring women. It's that simple."
It wasn't that simple, of course. The need for revenge was stronger than the need for love. And he'd do well to remind himself of that truth right now, in this carriage, with Lady Dorothea tucked into his arms.
He never should have agreed to escort her to Ireland. She'd only been bluffing. She wouldn't have told Trent where to find him.
An image of Foxford's withered hands pawing at her roiled through his mind like last night's brandy still souring his stomach.
He fisted one hand against her waist. She'd never marry Foxford. Dalton would never let that happen.
His ruthless mission continued but she was under his protection now until she reached her aunt's house. He was strong enough to accomplish both tasks.
She tilted her head. "Are you saying that men are compelled by primitive needs . . . animal urges . . . and perish the consequences?"
"Something like that."
She nestled closer, burying her chin in his neck. "You don't feel those urges . . . right now?" she whispered softly.
Oh, he felt them. He felt them and drowned in them and longed to unleash the ferocity of them. "Please go to sleep," he said desperately.
"You don't desire . . . me?"
He'd explode soon.
They'd find bits of him all the way back to London.
"It doesn't matter if I desire you or not. Now go to sleep or I'll tie this cravat around your mouth."
"Humph." She rolled onto her side, away from him. "I'm only trying to comprehend the male mind."
"Women generally want more from men than we're willing to give," he said more gently.
"I know."
Such bleakness. He nearly shivered.
"My father taught me that lesson," she said. "He's never taken the slightest interest in me. He probably won't even notice I'm gone."
"But your mother, won't she be worried?"
"Furious, more like. She's wrapped all her hopes and dreams in me, instead of living her own life. I realized that some time ago."
"And so you're running away."
"I hope to make something of my life. Be useful in some more meaningful way."
Ah yes . . . here it came. She wanted something from him.
Something he could never give her.
"Why won't you allow me to unwrap those paintings in your attic? Where's the harm? There could be priceless lost treasures hiding there. Did your father purchase them at art auctions in Europe?"
"They weren't purchased. They were settlement for gambling debts. Sometimes he won entire estates, other times ancestral art collections."