A Duke in Shining Armor

That, at least, was what he assumed she was doing.

The view he had—and a prime one it was, though brief—was of stockinged leg and garter. Then white satin and petticoats and the scent of a woman filled the world about his head. He barely retained the presence of mind to grasp her ankles to steady her.

“Up,” she said. “It’s still too high for me to get there. Up, up! Hurry!”

The voices neared.

Grasping her feet, he pushed her up, over his head. He felt her weight leave him as she found purchase at the top of the wall. He saw the backs of her legs as she scrambled onto the top of the wall and into a sitting position. An instant later, she dropped out of sight.

The voices were very near now.

He hadn’t stopped to think a moment ago and he didn’t think now. As she disappeared over the wall, he caught hold of a tangle of ivy and climbed up and over.

He looked right, then left.

The cloud of white satin and lace was moving swiftly down Horton Street.

He ran after her.

Chapter 2

Ripley caught up with the bride in Kensington’s High Street. She’d slowed her pace, but she didn’t stop.

“Hackney,” she said, nodding toward the hackney stand ahead. “Do you have any money?”

“First it was help over the wall,” he said. “Now it’s money.”

“And here you are,” she said. “Still. Again.”

“Yes. Because—”

“I,” she said, drawing out the single syllable. “Need. Money. For. The. Hackney.”

She waved at the vehicles and called, “Here!”

The driver of the first hackney cab in the line regarded her with interest but offered no sign of moving.

Why should he? She looked like a Bedlam escapee.

Not that Ripley didn’t appear more than a little eccentric himself, with no hat, gloves, or walking stick.

Still, he was a duke, and one of England’s most notorious and easily recognized noblemen.

Furthermore, here he was, as she’d said. Ashmont ought to be here but he wasn’t, and somebody had to look after her. One did not let a gently bred young female roam on her own, especially a young female belonging to one of his stupid friends who couldn’t hold on to her.

It was all well and good to be wild and reckless and not give a damn for Society. But when a fellow asked a girl to marry him, he oughtn’t to give her any reason not to show up for the nuptials.

It was damned carelessness, was what it was. But Ashmont was spoiled, that was the trouble. He never had to exert himself with women.

Long past time he started.

Ripley clamped a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s stop and think.”

“I am thinking,” she said. “What I’m thinking about is, where is the blasted hackney? Why don’t they come?”

“Let’s think about what you look like,” he said. “You know. Wedding dress. Veil and all. Creates an odd impression, don’t you think?”

“I don’t care,” she said.

“I daresay,” he said. “But let’s try to appear calmer and in our right minds.”

“I am in my right mind.” She clenched her hands. “I’m perfectly calm.”

“Good. Very good. Now let’s take this in steps. Where do you propose to go?”

She made a sweeping gesture. “Away.”

“Away,” he said.

She nodded, and the mound of hair and lace and whatnot shifted farther to the side of her head.

“Very well,” he said. “It’s a start.”

He would simply have to do the thinking for both of them, a daunting prospect. He didn’t like doing the thinking for himself.

He raised his hand and beckoned.

The first hackney coach lumbered out of line and toward them while she all but danced with impatience.

When the vehicle had drawn up alongside them, Ripley pulled the door open.

As she climbed onto the step, she struggled for balance and started to tip backward.

He gave her a light push forward, and she toppled into the straw on the coach floor. He watched her hoist herself up—bottom uppermost for a riveting moment—and fall onto the seat. She smoothed out her skirts, straightened her spectacles, and glared at him.

For some reason, his mood brightened.

“Where to, Yer Honor?” the driver said.

“Your Grace,” she corrected. “Don’t you recognize more than the usual lordly arrogance? Isn’t it obvious he’s a duke?”

Ripley’s mood improved another degree.

If the driver heard her, he gave no sign.

“Battersea Bridge,” said Ripley. He climbed into the coach.

The bridge lay a distance southward. This would give him time. To decide what he wished to do. But it wasn’t too far to prevent his returning her in a reasonable amount of time, if that was what he decided.

The advantage was, Battersea Bridge wasn’t the first place his friends would think to look.

“Or did you have a particular ‘away’ in mind?” he said.

“Don’t talk,” she said. “I’m thinking.”

The coach rumbled into motion.

“That’s odd,” Ripley said. “Mind you, our communications have been brief, but from what I can see, thinking and you are two different countries. At war.”

She shook her head and wagged a finger at him in the manner of the inebriated everywhere.

“That’s not going to stop me talking,” he said. “If you must think, maybe you’d be so good as to think about explaining.”

“Explaining what?”

He gestured at her dirty bridal attire and the coach’s dirty interior. “This. The running away. Because I’m still rather muddled and not at all sure this is the best idea. I’m debating whether to tell the coachman to take us back.”

“No,” she said.

“But you can understand how tempting the idea is,” he said.

“No,” she said.

“Here’s the thing,” he said. “I’ve had rather a trying morning, you see.”

“You!”

“Yes. It’s not going the way it was supposed to.”

“Join the club,” she said.

“You see, I wasn’t expecting to be traveling at a snail’s pace in a dilapidated hackney coach to Battersea Bridge,” he said. “Or any bridge. I feel reasonably certain I wasn’t supposed to be helping a drunken bride who chooses the very last minute to flee her wedding.”

“I am not drunk,” she said. “And you’re not the only one who’s had a trying morning. If you don’t want to help me, you’re at liberty to stop the coach and disembark.”

“I’m not at liberty,” he said. “I’m the—the something. The bridegroom’s special envoy. Or his keeper. For all I know, I’m the bridesmaid. The point is, he gave me the job, and maybe he has to take his chances of my bungling it. But one thing I do know is, you can’t be let to gad about on your own. If you could, I should have gone back and got my hat. Or not. I might have simply gone back and left you to somebody else. But I couldn’t, as I’ve explained, because of the job. No point in bringing the ring and the license and the money and all the rest when the bride’s gone off who knows where.”

Her gaze lifted to his head. “Your hair is wet.”

He did not turn a wet hair. He was used to drunken non sequiturs. “Everything is wet,” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t melt.”