In Bed with the Duke(11)

‘Thank you,’ she said, with as much penitence as she could muster, and then pushed her arms gratefully into sleeves that were still warm from his body. Which reflection made her feel a bit peculiar. It was like having his arms around her again. The way they’d been before she’d woken up.

Fortunately he shot her a rather withering look, which brought her back to her senses, then bent to retrieve the coat that had fallen into the road when she’d pushed him off the seat just a short while since.

‘To think I was concerned about my name being dragged through the mud,’ he muttered, giving it a shake. ‘You managed to pitch me into the only puddle for miles around.’

She felt a pang of guilt. Just a small one. Because now not only was his eye turning black around the swelling he’d already had the night before, but he also had a nasty gash from the stone she’d thrown, spatters of blood on his neckcloth, and a damp, muddy smear down one side of his coat.

She braced herself for a stream of recrimination as he clambered back into the driving seat. But he merely released the brake, took up the reins, and set the gig in motion.

His face was set in a fierce scowl, but he didn’t take his foul mood out on her. At least she presumed he was in a foul mood. Any man who’d just been accused of indecency when he’d only been trying to see to a lady’s comfort, and then been cut over what must already be a sore eye, was bound to be in a foul mood.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, after they’d been going for a bit. Because she felt that one of them ought to say something.

‘For what, exactly?’

Oh. So he was the sort of man who sulked when he was angry, then, rather than one who ranted.

‘For throwing the rock. For hitting you when normally I couldn’t hit a barn door.’

‘You are in the habit of throwing rocks at barn doors?’

‘Of course not! I just meant... I was trying to apologise. Do you have to be so...so...?’

‘You cannot think of the word you want?’

‘No need to mock me.’

‘I didn’t mean to. It was an observation. I have already told you that I am struggling to find the words I want myself this morning. And, like you, none of this seems real. I suspect that when whatever drug we have both been given wears off I shall be rather more angry about the rock and your assumptions about me. But right now all I can think about is getting something to drink.’

‘A cup of tea...’ She sighed. ‘That would be heavenly.’

‘A pint of ale.’

‘Some bread and butter.’

‘A steak. With onions.’

‘At breakfast?’

‘Steak with onions is always good.’

She shuddered. ‘I don’t know about that. My stomach doesn’t usually wake up first thing. I don’t normally eat much before noon.’

‘I don’t bother with a break at noon. I’m usually out and about. Busy with estate business when I’m in the country. Or in my office with my secretary when I’m in town.’

‘You have a secretary? What kind of business are you in?’

Did she imagine it, or did he look a little hunted?

‘Never mind what business I’m in,’ he said, rather defensively.

Oh, dear. Last night Aunt Charity had remarked that he was just the kind of disreputable person she’d been afraid they might encounter in such an out-of-the-way tavern. That he was probably a highwayman. Or a housebreaker. Though surely housebreakers didn’t have secretaries? Still, the fact that he didn’t want to answer any questions about his background made it more than likely that he was some sort of scoundrel.

But not a complete scoundrel. A complete scoundrel wouldn’t have given her his jacket. Wouldn’t have rescued her from the ostler or offered to buy her breakfast, either. No—a complete scoundrel would have left her to fend for herself. Climbed into the gig and driven away. If not the first time then definitely the second time, after she’d thrown a rock at him.

She rubbed at her forehead. He looked so villainous, and yet he wasn’t acting like a villain. Whereas her aunt, who made a great display of piety at every opportunity... Oh, nothing made sense today! Nothing at all.

‘I have just realised,’ he said, ‘that I don’t even know your name. What is it?’

‘Prudence Carstairs,’ she said. ‘Miss.’

‘Prudence?’ He gave her one sidelong glance before bursting out laughing.

‘I don’t see what’s so funny about my being called Prudence,’ she objected.

‘P...Prudence?’ he repeated. ‘I cannot imagine a name less suited to a girl whom I met naked in bed, who gets chased around horse troughs by lecherous ostlers and throws rocks at her rescuer. Why on earth,’ he said, wiping what looked like a tear from one eye, ‘did they call you Prudence? Good God,’ he said, looking at her in sudden horror as a thought apparently struck him. ‘Are you a Quaker?’