Her head made a pensive tilt. “Has your career suffered?”
Dash couldn’t believe the way she phrased that question. As if she cared.
He examined his fingernails from a distance. “I answer to Travers with my colleagues, and I hadn’t any imminent plans for a Dashwood World Atlas. So no.”
“Well, then. No harm done.”
“To the contrary, Miss Browning. Harm has been done. Not to my career, perhaps. It’s my other plans you’ve muddled.”
“Which plans were those?”
“My plans to marry.”
“You . . . You plan to marry?”
“Yes, naturally. It’s what a man in my position must do. I have a title and an estate. Both require a legitimate heir. That means I need to marry. I’m surprised that I should have to connect these points for you. I always believed you were more clever than that.”
Her chin lifted. “And I always believed you to be above cheap insults.”
Oh, she had a lot of gall, upbraiding him about insults. She’d published an entire pamphlet that was one long, extended insult to his name. Then sold thousands of copies.
She said, “I’m not sure why anything I do would hamper your efforts to marry.”
“Don’t you?”
“No.”
He decided to humor her. “Now that I’ve reached the age of five-and-twenty, my uncle no longer holds the estate in trust. It would be irresponsible of me to embark on my next expedition without starting on an heir. However, I have no time or inclination for a long campaign of courtship, and you’ve convinced the unwed ladies of London—even the aging, undesirable ones who might not otherwise be choosy—that they deserve wooing.”
Her burst of laughter surprised him. He found it unexpectedly disarming. Something warm and familiar, in the midst of the storm.
“You can hardly expect me to apologize for that,” she said.
“Then perhaps you’ll apologize for this: If it weren’t enough to have encouraged a trend of defiant spinsterhood, you have convinced all the eligible ladies that I, in particular, am a vain, doltish jackass.”
“Dash, I am trying to explain. The pamphlet wasn’t about you, it was—”
“The devil it wasn’t. Enough of this prevarication. You think I don’t know, Nora, that you harbored a silly little tendre for me all those years? Of course I did. It was obvious.”
She went silent. A flush of red suffused her throat.
“You were infatuated. It’s a common enough condition, but I thought girls were supposed to grow out of it.”
“And I thought boys were supposed to grow out of cruelty. Apparently some still enjoy prodding harmless creatures with sticks.” Her eyes flashed in the gloom.
Oh, he recalled those eyes. They worked like flint. Or gunpowder. They were a cool, bluish-gray by default—but when provoked, they shot sparks of green and amber.
He’d hurt her.
Well, and what if he had? Dash refused to feel guilty. He was the aggrieved party here, and he deserved answers.
“Lord Dashwood, please. It’s clear you’re not interested in listening to any of my explanations.”
“You’re wrong. I would be interested in your explanations, but I have no use for lies.”
She shook her head and looked down at her hands. “It’s useless. You will never understand. At Hastings, I will disembark to change coaches, and you will continue to Portsmouth. We will go our separate ways, and we need never speak again. Can we please simply suffer the remainder of this journey in peace?”
“Fine,” he replied tersely.
“How much further do you think we have? You are the cartographer.”
He peered out the window, but he couldn’t see anything beyond the gray wall of rain and fog. “An hour. Perhaps two at the most.”
“Surely we can endure that much in silence. An hour, or two at most? That’s not so very long. It could be wor—”
The carriage made a jolt, cutting her off mid-sentence and giving her bosom an enticing bounce.
Before either of them could recover their breath, the entire coach skidded sideways, careening off the road before lurching to a sudden stop.
She cried out as the momentum flung her forward.
Acting on instinct, Dash moved to catch her. He slid an arm under her torso, just as her forehead set a course to collide with the door latch.
“Nora!”
CHAPTER THREE
Damn, but this afternoon was a frigid witch.
Griff dismounted his horse, tipped the freezing rain from his hat, and cast a glance toward the tavern, with its promises of beefsteak, ale, and a roaring blaze. Instead, he turned toward a tiny shop with a cheery red door.
More than a meal or a drink or a toasty fire—more than anything, really—he needed to see his wife.
A bell chimed as he entered the small, attractive shopfront. “Pauline?”
No Pauline at first glance, but he did spy a most welcome face—that of his sister-in-law, Daniela.
“Don’t move, Duke.”
“Good afternoon to you too, Daniela.”
“Don’t move,” she repeated, pointing with the mop she held. “Your boots.”
Griff looked down at his muddy Hessians with regret. “Ah, yes. Far be it from me to undo your hard work. I shall remain here. But that means you must come to greet me.”
Daniela put aside her mop and crossed to him, curtseying and presenting her hand for his customary kiss. Pauline had tried to explain that Daniela and Griff were brother and sister by marriage now, and this ceremony was no longer required. But Daniela thrived on routine, and Griff rather enjoyed their little ritual. He’d never had a younger sister of his own to spoil.
Pauline emerged from the storeroom, wearing a dusty apron and looking frazzled from her cleaning efforts. Much the way he’d first seen her, on the day they’d met.
He was dazzled, once again.
God, he’d missed her.
For her part, she looked at him with horror. “For God’s sake, don’t move an inch.”
“I’ve no intention. Daniela has already put me in my place.”
“You’ve brought in the sherry, I hope?”
He frowned. The sherry?
“I–I, er . . .”
Stalling for time, he turned to look about the place. It wasn’t merely that the floor was freshly mopped. Chairs and benches were arranged in neat, semicircular rows. Every shelf of crimson-bound books had been dusted and tidied.
A sign on the counter announced:
The Two Sisters welcomes Miss Elinora Browning, author
Join us on the eighth of December, at two o’clock
for an afternoon of conversation, teacakes, and. . .
And sherry.
The sherry Griff was supposed to bring from Town.
Damn it.
“Daniela,” his wife said, her eyes never leaving Griff. “Please go find that lace tablecloth I keep in the back room.”
As soon as Daniela was safely out of earshot, Pauline crossed her arms. “Griffin York. You forgot the sherry.”
He rubbed his face with one hand, groaning. “I forgot the sherry.”
“How could you? I even wrote you a letter to remind you.”
“We’ve Madeira at the house. Or some very fine port. Surely one of those will do.”
“No, no. It must be sherry. It’s sherry in the pamphlet.”
“I can ride over to Hastings,” he suggested.
She shook her head. “There isn’t time. Not in this weather, this late in the day. We expected you hours ago.”
“I know. I was late leaving Town. I–I stopped in to see a friend.”
“A friend.” Her brow arched. “Does this friend have a name?”
“Naturally.”
“But you don’t want to share it.”
Griff sighed to himself. He couldn’t.
He stepped forward and took her by the waist, swaying her side to side. “Come now,” he teased. “Don’t tell me you’ve become a jealous wife.”
“Am I allowed to be a frustrated one? We’ve been planning this event for months.”
“I know, darling.”
“Daniela’s worked so hard.”
“I know, I know.”
“I have eight dozen teacakes on order from Mr. Fosbury. Mrs. Nichols has her finest suite prepared at the Queen’s Ruby, and all the other rooms are filled with visitors eager to hear Miss Browning speak. The tradespeople are expecting a much-needed day of brisk business, right before the holidays. They’re all expecting a grand success, and now”—her voice cracked—“the weather is bad, the roads are worse . . .”
“And some unforgivable bastard forgot the sherry.”
“I just hate to disappoint everyone.”
And Griff hated to disappoint his wife. But he had.
He gathered her into a hug and pressed a kiss to her crown. “I’m sorry.”
She sighed, leaning into his embrace. “It doesn’t even matter. Miss Browning’s coach was supposed to arrive two hours ago. In all likelihood, she won’t make it at all.”
He pulled back and slid his hands to cup her face, willing those troubled eyes to clear. “I’m certain Miss Browning will arrive on time.”
“No one can control the weather. You can’t promise that.”
“I can,” he insisted. “I’m promising you now. Finish your preparations. Miss Browning will arrive on time.”