He didn’t know how to reply. Especially not when confronted with the depths of her emotions. He thought she fancied Rupert because Rupert was charming, but glancing at her now, he realized she seemed actually heartbroken at the thought of him with another woman. Worst of all, he knew what he knew about Rupert and couldn’t say his brother wasn’t interested in any woman.
Darcy, being either diplomatic or cowardly, changed the subject.
“What are you reading?”
“It is Amelia’s guidebook to London,” she replied, and he felt vastly relieved. “I found it while snooping through her room because I am the sort of person who will snoop through someone’s rooms. You probably disapprove.”
“In this instance, I think it’s a laudable activity,” he said, noting an expression of slight surprise on her face. “In other circumstances, less so.”
“We shall never suit, Darcy. For I would snoop through all your things while you were at Parliament or your club or wherever you go to be lordly all day.”
“You wouldn’t find anything of interest.”
She leaned in and peered up at him. “Oh, Darcy, you don’t have any deep, dark secrets?”
He glanced down at her. At her breasts. At the wicked smile on her lips and the spark in her eye. His deep, dark secret was how much he fantasized about tasting those lips, caressing those breasts . . .
“If I had any secrets, I wouldn’t be so foolish as to leave them about where any snoop could find them,” he said stiffly.
“You would make an excellent spy.”
“Yes, in all my free time,” he remarked dryly, and she laughed.
“I suppose one could trust you not to snoop through their private belongings. Why, I bet I could leave my diary lying around and you wouldn’t read it.”
Ah, again with that diary of hers. He would rather read parliamentary reports on taxation and agricultural treatises on the latest technological advances in drainage ditches than the intimate ramblings of a young woman. She probably had pages with nothing but Rupert and Bridget written on them. And he knew she had a list of things she disliked about him, the Dreadful Darcy. No, he did not need to read all that.
“You could be assured that I would respect your privacy,” he said. “Anyway, are there any indications in that book of where your sister might have gone?”
“She has circled a few things, including Hyde Park, so we might as well carry on with our original plan. Besides, she is a country girl at heart and loves nature more than cities. I bet she misses it.”
“There are people who prey on country girls who are innocent to the ways of the city,” he said grimly.
“She is not innocent to the ways of the city, but do tell me all the dangers a young lady faces in London. I’m imagining packs of roving marauders with murderous intent. Don’t the words ‘murderous intent’ just send shivers up and down your spine?”
“No. Men do not get shivers,” he informed her. “On their spine or otherwise.”
“Oh.”
She seemed deflated. Was it the lack of marauders with murderous intent or the fact that men did not feel ridiculous shivers and thrills? Probably both.
“There are pickpockets,” he said, indulging her in listing the dangers that might befall a maiden and trying to, oh, amuse her.
“This dress—most dresses—do not have pockets,” Bridget pointed out. “It ruins the line of the gown.”
“To think I have lived my whole life without knowing that,” he said dryly. “They might snatch your reticule, then. It’s easy enough and happens often. There are also men who have little regard for a woman’s virtue.”
She grinned. Oh bloody hell, he thought, mentally kicking himself. He had to introduce that line of conversation.
“Yes, young ladies are warned from an early age to protect our virtue. It is apparently in constant peril and we must protect it at all costs. We are under strict orders to avoid finding ourselves alone with a man. And yet . . .” Her voice trailed off. He glanced over and caught her gazing at him. God, he felt something like a shiver. She dropped her voice to a deliberately dramatic low tone. “Here we are. Alone.”
“You needn’t fear for your virtue now. We are in an open carriage.”
Even if they were married one wouldn’t act intimately in an open carriage. Public displays of affection or emotion were high on the list of things that were Not Done.
“And if we were in a closed carriage? Alone?”
If they were alone in a closed carriage he would find himself in a torturous internal battle, wanting to kiss her senseless and touch her everywhere until she begged for him to take her.