Lord Perfect (The Dressmakers 3)

He felt her relax, her gaze coming back to his face. “You are roasting me,” she said. “You make it sound as though finding a bride was the same as choosing a horse at—What is the name of the auction house? Taver—”

“Tattersall’s,” he said.

“Tattersall’s, then. Is that how men view the famous Almack’s assemblies? Do you take no account of the girls’ characters or their personalities?”

“If they were not girls of good character, they would not be on the Marriage Mart,” he said. “And they most certainly would not be admitted to Almack’s.”

He would not have dreamt of seeking a girl who was not admitted. Not being obliged to marry for money hadn’t meant Lord Hargate’s heir could marry where he pleased. Or when he pleased. Benedict knew the rules, knew what was expected of him.

And Ada? Had she followed rules or her heart? He had no idea—and that said everything, didn’t it?

“In other words, they were virgins of good family, and that was all you needed to know about their character,” Mrs. Wingate said. “Good bloodstock—”

“I’m the Earl of Hargate’s heir,” he cut in tightly. “I hadn’t the luxury of being swept off my feet, if that is what you are getting at.”

“That is not what I meant,” she said. “You speak of marriage, a lifelong commitment, yet love does not come into the picture.”

“How absurd,” he said. “I could not wander the world like one of Byron’s heroes, looking for the love of my life, if there is such a thing.”

“What about the like of your life?” she said. “What about a friend and companion? Good grief, Rathbourne, how did you choose?”

“I fail to see how the matter can be of any import to you,” he said in the glacial tone he had learnt from his father. It was famous for leaving its victims bereft not only of speech but, in some cases, of the will to live.

She waved it away with one slim, gloved hand. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “It is vastly interesting. I feel like a visitor to an exotic land, trying to understand the ways of the natives. I didn’t choose. I was only sixteen, and I simply fell over head and ears in love. But it is wrong of me to quiz you. Clearly, the subject is too painful for you to talk about.” Her tone softened. “I forgot that you have not been widowed for very long.”

Benedict’s heart was pounding, and it wanted all his self-control not to relay his agitation to the horses via the ribbons. Luckily, they’d finally reached the Kensington tollgate. Fuming, he waited for the gatekeeper to collect the money and open the gate.

At last it opened. As he drove through it, Benedict belatedly recalled Thomas. He’d completely forgotten about the footman, riding in the back. Benedict’s ears burned as he recalled his revelations about his younger brothers.

It didn’t matter that the footman could not possibly hear their conversation over the constant rumble of wheels and clatter of hooves on the cobblestones, the horses’ snorts and whinnies, and the drivers’ complaints and curses. Benedict was too upset to be reasonable.

“I ought not be required to remind you,” he growled, “that we are not alone.”

“I told you not to bring the servant,” she said coolly.

“I wish I had not brought you,” he said. “You—Devil take it! You made me forget to ask the tollgate keeper about the children.” He brought the carriage to a halt. Before he could summon Thomas to take charge of it, she jumped down.

“I shall ask,” she said. “You are too agitated.”

Without being told, Thomas leapt down to tend the horses.

Meanwhile, without a backward glance, Mrs. Wingate walked on toward the tollgate, hips swaying in the most blatantly provocative manner—much to the delight of the mob of men, who performed torturous maneuvers with their vehicles to make way for her.

Benedict did not wait to see how many collisions she caused—nor did he drag down any of the men from their vehicles and throw them into any walls, because this would be undignified and precisely the sort of thing Rupert would do—but caught up with her in a few swift strides.

“I am not agitated,” he said. “I am perfectly capable of—”

“I should not have mentioned Lady Rathbourne in that thoughtless, light way,” she said. “I beg your pardon.”

“There is no need to become maudlin,” he said. “Ada died two years ago and she—and she . . .” He let out an angry sigh. “Oh, very well. She was a stranger to me. There, is your tender heart comforted?”

BATHSHEBA WISHED SHE had not answered her door this evening. Rathbourne was proving even more troublesome than she had feared. She might have borne the physical proximity with some degree of composure. The mental proximity was making dangerous cracks in her defenses.

“No, I am not at all comforted, because you are talking nonsense,” she said. “For how long were you wed?”

“Six years,” he said.

“Then your wife could not be a stranger.” She stopped walking. “I must insist you return to the carriage. You are attracting too much attention.”

He glanced about them at the vehicles emerging from the tollgate. “So far as I can ascertain, the onlookers are all men,” he said, “and they are all looking at you.”

“I am merely a handsome piece of goods to them,” she said. “While they stare at me, their brains are not engaged. Do you want them to start thinking—and wonder which aristocrat that is, dogging my footsteps and glowering at me?”

He glowered at her some more, bowed curtly, turned away, and strode back to the carriage.

He was waiting by the carriage, pocket watch in hand, when she returned not many minutes later.

“Well?” he said.

“We’re still headed in the right direction,” she said. She hurriedly climbed into the carriage before he could throw her in. It was not that she minded being flung about in that imperious way. It was rather that she liked it too much: the ease with which he lifted her, the power and heat she felt radiating from him, and above all, the feel of his hands upon her.

Much too dangerous. As it was, she’d been unable to banish the memory of that kiss weeks ago. She remembered too well the feel of his hand at the back of her neck and what that simple touch did to her, melting will and morals and muscles simultaneously.

A moment later, she had positioned herself as close to her side of the vehicle as she could without being obvious about it, and they were once more on their way. This time they traveled at a speedier pace, the road having grown less congested. While he focused on driving, she told what she’d learnt from the tollgate keeper.

It turned out that he knew the farmer she’d described. His name was Jarvis, and he traveled from Brentford to London and back regularly. Though the tollgate keeper could not say precisely when he’d arrived, he reckoned it was between one and two hours earlier. He vaguely remembered children in the cart, but had not paid close attention. Jarvis often had his own or neighbors’ children with him.

“If that is the case, it makes no sense to continue stopping to inquire about them until we reach Brentford,” Rathbourne said. “If the road remains reasonably clear of drovers, carts, and wagons, we might easily get there by eight o’clock. They might be as little as an hour ahead of us at this point. We have an excellent chance of finding them before they can negotiate another ride—a task they’ll find a good deal more difficult in a hamlet like Brentford than at busy Hyde Park Corner. If my nephew has failed to persuade your daughter to turn back, he’ll be aware that I must soon be after him, in which case he will exercise his ingenuity to slow their progress.”

“That sounds reasonable enough,” she said. “The trouble is, Olivia is not reasonable.”

“She is twelve years old,” Rathbourne said. “She has no money, and her companion objects to the journey. Even if she were in more promising circumstances than these, she can only go so far in a few hours.”

PEREGRINE SOON DISCOVERED he’d have better success in slowing Olivia Wingate down if the rest of

the world were not so gullible.

The farmer had suggested they stop at the Pigeons Inn in Brentford and mention his name to the landlord, who would look after them and help them find a ride west.

Peregrine decided he would insist they pause there to eat. This would give him time to find a way to leave a message for Uncle Benedict.