The boy in the starched collar took one look at Dalton's face, stammered his apologies, and made a hasty retreat back to his own table. As well he should.
Dalton took his place across from Lady Dorothea and accepted a cup of strong, black coffee. He could use a cup. Or five.
For the first time he noticed she must have borrowed a traveling writing desk, and appeared to be composing a note.
Dalton gulped his coffee down in two swallows. "Writing a letter to someone?"
"My mother." The nib of her pen scratched across the page.
Dalton's cup banged against the saucer. "No mention of me, I trust?"
"None whatsoever," she said breezily. "Not everything is about you, you know."
A stout man in a striped waistcoat glanced their way. Far too many people who might remember his face, the cut across his jaw.
Dalton ripped a roll in half and slathered it with butter. He'd give her two more minutes.
In the morning light, in the low-ceilinged room, Osborne was truly monolithic.
One glance from him and other men scurried away like terrified mice.
One glance at him and her mind simmered with forbidden desires.
She remembered the feel of his muscular arms embracing her, steadying her against his chest. The moment when he'd told her he thought she was beautiful.
Her hand shook and ink splotched across the paper.
Foolish girl. You mustn't let him seep into your thoughts and leave an indelible stain.
She'd woken hours before him and lain in the jostling carriage, watching him sleep. Watching morning light tease bronze from his hair and play across the rugged landscape of his face.
He reached for another roll. He ate in the same way he approached everything: swallowing it nearly whole, taking no time to savor, simply devouring as his due all that life laid before him.
She bent back over her letter. Only a few more lines.
The duke wiped his fingers on a napkin. "I was just contemplating removing my neck cloth, tying you up, and bundling you back to your mother. How about that instead of a letter?"
Thea's head snapped up. "You wouldn't do that."
"Oh, wouldn't I?" His fingers moved to his cravat, tugging the end just a bit, drawing her eye to the threat. "Don't tempt me," he said darkly. "I only want one more reason. One more minuscule reason."
"I'd only find another way to escape London."
"That what starched collar over there is? Another way to leave?" He turned that ferocious glare toward the man who had lent her his writing desk.
His glowering stare sent a naughty quiver through her. He was so clearly asserting his claim to be by her side.
"I'll have you know Mr. Cooper is a respectable clerk."
"Don't like the look of him. Too crimson about the ears. Like an underdone suckling pig."
"He blushes when he speaks to me. I think it's sweet. I required the means to write a letter. He loaned me this traveling desk. Very obliging of him."
Dark blue eyes narrowed. "Promise me you'll not accept favors from strangers. Under that earnest, starched collar could beat the charred heart of a hardened criminal. One with ulterior motives and nefarious designs."
Really, the gentleman had an overactive imagination. "I hardly think Mr. Cooper was contemplating anything too wicked."
"No, but he was contemplating your figure. Couldn't tear his gaze away from you."
"You're staring rather rudely yourself," she rejoined.
Of course his goal in all this rudeness was to goad her into an unbecoming fit of pique. He wanted her to act like a spoiled princess. Beg him to send her back to the comforts of London.
She would never give him that satisfaction.
Certain things had been expected of Thea.
To wed. To be a mother. To swim along with the inexorable tide of generations of women just like her moving toward the same destination.
Now here she was turning midstream and fighting her way against the current. It wouldn't be easy.
And there was a large, duke-sized obstruction currently blocking her path.
"Mr. Jones." She set down her quill. "Never say you're jealous of a poor clerk."
He backed away so quickly his chair nearly overturned. "Jealous of that pup? Preposterous. Finish your letter."
She hid a smile, finished the last sentence, signed her name, blotted the pen, and placed it carefully back in its case.
"I'll return that." The duke reassembled the case.
Thea rose, wiping away crumbs, and folded the letter.
When they reached the table of the poor, terrorized Mr. Cooper, she bent near him. "Thank you ever so much for lending me the writing kit, Mr. Cooper."
The man blushed, then trembled when Osborne glared at him, then blushed some more. Thea gave the clerk her brightest smile. "I pray you, pay no attention whatsoever to Mr. Jones. He ate a bad oyster last evening."
Thea patted the duke on the shoulder. "Poor man is suffering dreadfully. Turns him into an uncivil beast."
Oh, how she enjoyed the murderous look on Osborne's face.
Vexing dukes might just be her new favorite pastime.
Thea thrust her letter into his great paws. "Be a dear and post this for me, won't you, Mr. Jones? There's an obliging fellow."
Chapter 8
The Great Wall of Duke sprawled next to Thea, the crown of his black hat brushing against the blue-striped silk ceiling, his sheer physical bulk relegating her to a thin wedge of carriage seat.
Thea did her best to concentrate on the rolling hills and quaint stone farmhouses of the passing countryside but found it impossible.
He was too near. And there was that distracting possibility of their bodies meeting . . . conversing . . . while they remained silent.
He hadn't said more than two words to her since they left the White Hart Inn. Probably still sore about her sending him on a menial errand such as posting her letter.
Ordering him about in front of a clerk had gone against her entire upbringing. She'd almost gone back and apologized on the spot.
Dukes take precedence unless a member of the Royal Family is present. Etiquette rules etched into her mind since birth, much like the Ten Commandments.
But Thea had been apologizing for one thing or another her entire life, and being here in this carriage marked a declaration of independence of sorts. So maybe the rules didn't apply anymore.
In this brave new motherless world maybe dukes did not take precedence.
Maybe they were simply men. Maybe they didn't deserve her respect or adulation based solely on their birthright.
He'd lectured her on the impropriety of speaking with a respectable clerk, in a public dining room, for heaven's sake, when he'd dallied with half the widows and a goodly portion of the wives in London.
The enormity of the unfairness of that galled her.
She'd watched him during her first two seasons, as a hen watched a fox circling its sturdy enclosure, aware of the dangerous charm, but safe behind the barrier of her own drabness.
In the ballrooms of London he'd exuded charisma that seduced every female in his path. But he'd never even spared the wallflowers one glance. He was the king of intrigues, scandals, and careless arrogance.
A far cry from the brooding man beside her. What was he thinking about? Something vexing, judging by the way he furrowed his brow and tapped his foot.
Tap, tap, tap. Three times for displeasure.
Probably plotting how to get rid of her at the next posting inn. He'd said he wanted to tie her up and send her back to London.
Obviously he cared nothing for her good opinion. She was a temporary problem for him. Another day and a half and he could wash his hands of her.
She stole a glance at those hands where they rested on his thighs, ungloved and interestingly unpolished.
Who ever heard of a duke with roughened hands and a hint of dirt under his nails? And that jagged cut along his jaw gave him a dastardly look, exacerbated by the brown stubble of beard he was allowing to grow unchecked.
He was too . . . well, he was simply too everything. Too large, too distracting, and too accustomed to having his way in all matters.
He glanced up and caught her staring. "I didn't post your letter, you know," he remarked nonchalantly.
"I beg your pardon? Not post my letter? Why ever not? It was a very simple task. Even a duke could perform it."
He gave her a tight half smile. "You don't truly want to send that letter."
"How do you know what I want? Did you read my private correspondence?"
"Of course I read it," he scoffed. "You wanted me to read it."
"I most certainly did not." Thea didn't even attempt to modulate her tones to a ladylike volume. "And please stop presuming to know my mind better than I know it myself."
"If you didn't want me to read it you would have posted it yourself."
"I only gave you the letter because you were Mr. Jones. I've always imagined that's what a solicitous gentleman might do for his paramour, small acts of kindness, to show he cared."
His eyes narrowed. "May I remind you, madam, that I did not seek your company on this journey? The moment you set foot inside my carriage you became my responsibility."
"Your carriage was merely convenient." Thea kept her gaze steady, even though she wanted to shrink away from him. "I don't need your protection, or your censure, or you obstructing my mail. Now give me back my letter." She held out her hand.
He loomed closer, inches from her now.
Let him advance. She would never retreat. Never cede victory.