The Cheer in Charming an Earl(4)
She expelled a frustrated breath. “Is there one soon, then? A post house?”
“Oh, no, miss. Not for hours.”
“Hours?” She scrambled toward the window. “Mr. Conley may not want me set upon by thieves, but I am quite sure he’ll be displeased if he learns his carriage has been returned to him in less than pristine condition.”
“Likely it will pass his notice,” Mr. James called back, “as ’ta hack stinks of piss as ’tis.”
Elinor groaned at the truth of that. “Please, sir, have pity. I won’t tell Mr. Conley, I promise.”
Mr. James didn’t respond. Not long after, however, she felt the carriage pull to a halt.
“I am in your debt!” she cried as she jerked the door latch, attempting to act as needy as possible.
It gave suddenly and she tumbled out. Mr. James caught her against one arm, then set her on the ground. She didn’t spare the grizzled man a second glance. Thorny brambles tore at her skirt, but she reasoned such desperate-looking slashes would only aid her appeal for succor when she arrived at Chelford. “You’re an angel, Mr. James!”
His answering laugh came from far away. “I’ll just be on ’ta other side, miss. When yer ready, I’ll take us off again.”
After waiting a few heartbeats in the overgrowth, she fought her way silently back through the bare, thorny branches to reach the carriage again.
Mr. James was nowhere in sight.
She’d counted on his taking advantage of the stop, too. She felt under her skirts for the dull blade nestled snugly in her boot. It was warm from being pressed against her woolen stocking. Slipping the edge between the iron plate and the wagon wheel, she pried at several small nails tacking the assembly together. As she’d intended, the nails popped out easily. An excited breath hissed between her lips. She’d done it! Within half a mile, the wheel would come apart entirely, and the fracture would disable the carriage.
She sent up a silent prayer that no danger would come to Mr. James, or the horses. Though why would it? The carriage had three good wheels left.
After climbing back into the hack, she called through the open door, “Mr. James! We may continue.”
The carriage rocked as he returned and hefted himself into the driver’s seat. Acrid pipe smoke wafted through the open carriage door, ajar only because Mr. James had neglected to close it like a proper servant. “Did you need me to see to that, miss?” he asked of the door.
She eyed it, then her own threadbare clothing. Even Mr. James didn’t see her as a lady. “No, Mr. James,” she said with no small amount of resignation. “I am perfectly capable.”
“Mr. Conley’s brood,” he replied appreciatively. “Them’s the girls ye take to wife.”
She barely heard the crack of the reins before the horses leapt into motion. With a heartfelt sigh, she reached forward and pulled the door closed.
Grantham would never, ever treat her with anything less than perfect chivalry. He was an earl.
Chapter Two
GRANTHAM WENDELL, the Earl of Chelford, drew a bored look across the fine bosom of the Cyprian attempting to interest him in an early bout of yuletide cheer. He was fiendishly tired of this party. Half-naked women or no, high stakes gaming or no, he still associated Christmas with the beloved hobgoblin who had been his fifteen-year-old sister. If only he could pass the holiday alone with his guilt, he’d never agree to host this annual bacchanalia again.
“Have you seen enough buxom women, Chelford?” Lord de Winter dumped his snifter of brandy into an empty glass at Grantham’s elbow, perhaps thinking Grantham unaware of what was occurring just out of sight behind him.
So the earl was bored, too. Grantham rolled his eyes heavenward. Why did they pretend they enjoyed this? Why spare the energy when these women, and his self-indulgent friends who’d all but invited themselves to Chelford, could never replace the feminine faces missing in their lives?
Ohh.
He glanced at the slender hand cupping his manhood. While such a distraction was no match for the sorrow eating at him, he couldn’t fault the woman’s attempt to gain his attention. And at least now he was thinking about whether he appreciated her hand on his nether regions, rather than anything else.
That was, after all, the reason she was here.
He reached for his snifter, now conveniently filled with brandy, and sipped the finest liquor France had to offer. “There shall never be enough cleavage for me,” he lied. “Especially not at Christmas.”
De Winter chuckled, but when Grantham turned to look over his shoulder at his dissolute friend, de Winter was being straddled by some dark strumpet who was undoubtedly costing Grantham a small fortune. May as well let the man have his fun. Grantham sank lower in his chair. It seemed he, too, was about to be…distracted.