Evidently not. "There." Gresha
m peered through the rain, his expression intense. "Smithers, my driver has instructions to await me on that side street over there." He pointed. "Go and direct him to bring the carriage around. Tell him those are my orders. In the meantime, I'll collect whatever essentials you have in your coach, so that we can transfer them immediately and you can be on your way."
"My lord, I cannot ask that you—" Smitty protested.
"You didn't ask. I offered."
"Surely you did not intend to stay at this"—Smitty shuddered anew—"place."
One corner of Gresham's mouth lifted. "I'll have no trouble arranging for a ride home, I assure you. Tomorrow, I'll come by to collect my carriage . . . and to deliver yours." He waved Smitty off. "Now do as I say."
"But—"
"Yes, Smitty," Sammy interrupted. She had no intention of allowing her guardian's suffocating sense of protocol to undermine this rare opportunity to be alone with her hero. "Let's do as Lord Gresham says," she added pointedly.
Smitty grunted, but obeyed without further question. However, he paused once or twice to glower over his shoulder before walking off.
Knowing she hadn't a precious moment to waste, Sammy turned to gaze up at her hero. "Thank you for your coat," she whispered, hoping she'd inserted just the right sultry note in her voice.
"You're quite welcome. Keep it. Your gown is thin and offers little in the way of protection from the rain." Purposefully, he yanked open the carriage door. "Let's take only what you'll need—"
Before Gresham could finish his sentence, a small white ball of fur shot through the air and crashed into the hard wall of the earl's chest. Toppling to the ground, the tiny puppy began to whimper, trying to see through the wet strands of hair that hung in his eyes.
"Oh, Rascal, I'm sorry." Sammy bent to scoop up the wriggling pup, gathering his damp, shivering body inside the thick folds of Gresham's coat. "You must have been terrified alone in there. Forgive me."
"Is that a dog or a rodent of some kind?" Gresham inquired.
"A dog, of course!" Sammy replied, indignant. "He's a Maltese—bred for royalty, I'll have you know. Certainly not a rodent of any kind!"
Gresham cocked a brow. "Again, I beg your forgiveness, my lady. I did not mean to offend your pet."
Glancing at Rascal, Sammy's lips curved upward. "He does look a bit like a mouse," she admitted. "He's only three months old and still very tiny. But he'll grow to be hale and hardy."
"A veritable tiger, I'm certain." The earl's smile was infectious.
"I've read of you, my lord," Sammy blurted out.
"Have you? And what did your sources tell you?"
"That you're a hero; a brilliant leader—fearless and undefeated. You're also a terrible rogue, breaking hearts throughout England, leaving ruined women in your wake."
Gresham threw back his head and laughed. "So I'm both saint and sinner, am I?"
"So I've read."
"Tell me, imp," he touched his forefinger to the tip of her nose, "do you believe everything you read?"
"Only those things that are true." Her gaze fell on his strong, tanned finger. "And those things I will to be true."
"You're quite the romantic, are you not?"
"Quite." She licked raindrops from her lips.
Gresham watched the motion, his expression unreadable. Abruptly, he seized her arm, guiding her into the carriage. "We might as well amass things in here where it's dry. What else must go with you tonight?" He paused, staring amazedly at the stacks of books piled on the carriage seat. "What on earth . . . ?"
"My books." Sammy scooted past him, holding Rascal against her with one hand and gathering the novels with the other. "I must take them with me."
"Do you plan to read them all tonight?"