The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

It was a puzzle he was determined to solve.

“There’s no sign of Rose.” Miss Flint thrust her head out of the window and almost knocked off her bonnet. “I told her to stay close to the road.”

“We’ll stop at The Talbot Inn. Perhaps someone remembers seeing her there last night.” He saw little point searching so close to the manor. Ten hours had passed since Rose had escaped. On foot, a person could easily cover two miles per hour, which would place her much closer to London.

A sudden sense of trepidation swept over him. “You’re certain London is her destination?”

Miss Flint turned to him. The wind blew a few curls across her face, forcing her to blink and scrunch her nose so she could see. “These last six months, Rose has spoken of nothing but being reunited with Lord Cunningham. They’re in love, my lord. Where else would she go?”

“Lord Cunningham is an ass,” he said, repeating Miss Flint’s earlier phrase. It was true. If the fop loved Rose why hadn’t he called at Stanton House once he’d learned of Oliver’s return? Why was he not demanding to know where he could find her, ranting and cursing and threatening anyone who dared to get in his way? “But then some would argue that a lady cannot help who she falls in love with.”

Or lust with — as was more often the case.

Miss Flint pulled her head back through the window and fell into the padded seat. The loose strands of hair blown free by the wind danced seductively about her neck. Her cheeks were a rosy pink, and her breath came quickly. The sight caused the blood to pump through his veins. The muscles in his abdomen tightened, and he had to suppress the urge to drag her across the carriage and into his lap.

Good Lord.

Not since the first time he’d watched a woman undress had his cock sprang to life so quickly.

“It sounds as though you have a rather cynical view of love,” she said, oblivious to his lustful cravings.

“Me?” He tapped his chest. “I doubt you want to hear my theory on forming deep attachments.”

“On the contrary, I would be most interested to hear your thoughts regarding matters of the heart.” The lady sat up straight. “Have no fear,” she said with some amusement. “You may speak openly. I am not the judgemental type.”

Oliver considered her honest expression. “No, I don’t suppose you are.” To have a woman listen to the truth without lecturing would be a novelty. Ladies often berated him for his lack of commitment, even though a night of pleasure was the only thing he’d promised.

“And I am happy to share my views, too,” she said, “should you have any interest in listening to what a woman deems ideal.”

Oliver shivered. The comments Miss Flint had made about Rose and Lord Cunningham confirmed she was a hopeless romantic, on a quest to find that one person who made her heart sing. It was a mistake often made by those who had never experienced unadulterated passion. Innocent ladies dreamt of being rescued not ruined.

“Perhaps when you’ve heard what I have to say, Miss Flint, you’ll think twice about expressing your opinion.”

The corners of her mouth curled up just a fraction, more a smirk than a smile. “Are you suggesting I am shallow, my lord? Do you think I would alter my stance merely to agree with yours?”

Ladies in society accepted that a gentleman held the informed view. They nodded politely, agreed with everything said, feigned ignorance. Not that he appreciated the quality. He admired a woman who could think for herself. And Miss Flint certainly possessed a strong will and a sense of her own worth.

Oliver rubbed his chin. “No. You’re right, Miss Flint. I believe you enjoy contradicting me whenever the opportunity arises.”

“There you go again making certain assumptions.” Miss Flint sighed. “If I felt your words had merit, I would agree with you wholeheartedly. But do not ask me to support you when you’re mumbling like a fool.”

A chuckle burst from his lips. Never had he met a woman who spoke so openly, so bluntly. Damn. He found it rather charming. The initial stab of desire he’d felt upon witnessing her fetching countenance returned.

“Then I shall do my best to be succinct when speaking in your company,” he said, somewhat unnerved by this woman’s ability to affect his mood.

She gave a curt nod. “And I shall certainly appreciate your clarity. Now, you were about to tell me of your cynical view of love,” she reminded him.

Oliver had the sudden urge to be blunt, to wipe the smirk from her face, to shock with his cold-hearted opinion.

“The romantic love you speak of does not exist,” he began, his mind engaged in choosing the appropriate words for maximum effect. “Oh, there is such a thing as attraction, and lust, and a host of other carnal emotions that act merely as a way to encourage our species to procreate.”

Indeed, lust was a devil on his shoulder, whispering licentious things about the woman seated opposite.

Miss Flint’s eyes grew wide, and she blinked rapidly.

Excellent.

“Love is like opium,” he continued with some enthusiasm, for he was enjoying himself immensely. “Something taken to ease a pain or need. Something that people use as a crutch to help them cla