Lord Dashwood Missed Out (Spindle Cove 4.5)

He stared at her with incredulity.

The nerve of her denial. The unmitigated cheek. He was almost impressed by it.

"Not at all," he said, playing along. "I understand completely."

"Oh." She exhaled. "I'm so glad."

"Obviously Dashwood and Ashwood are entirely different names."

"Well, I meant to say--"

"Just because you penned a petty, vindictive screed about a handsome young lord of your acquaintance . . . a lord whose title happens to be a mere consonant different from my own . . . it would be absurd of me to suppose I was the inspiration."

The rain pelting the carriage picked up strength, growing from a mere patter to a proper din. A gust of frigid wind swayed the coach on its springs.

She squared her shoulders and looked at his knee where it pressed against hers.

Was he intimidating her?

Good.

"Lord Dashwood, there's no need to be angry."

He leaned back, stretching his arm along the back of the seat. "Why would I be angry? Just because the name Dashwood--beg pardon, the name Ashwood--is now synonymous throughout England with 'vain, self-important jackass who can't observe what's beneath his own nose.' I can't imagine why that would inconvenience me. I mean, it's not as though that reputation might damage my standing in my chosen profession of cartography, in which a man's success rather stands or falls on his powers of observation."

Her head made a pensive tilt. "Has your career suffered?"

Dash couldn't believe the way she phrased that question. As if she cared.

He examined his fingernails from a distance. "I answer to Travers with my colleagues, and I hadn't any imminent plans for a Dashwood World Atlas. So no."

"Well, then. No harm done."

"To the contrary, Miss Browning. Harm has been done. Not to my career, perhaps. It's my other plans you've muddled."

"Which plans were those?"

"My plans to marry."

"You . . . You plan to marry?"

"Yes, naturally. It's what a man in my position must do. I have a title and an estate. Both require a legitimate heir. That means I need to marry. I'm surprised that I should have to connect these points for you. I always believed you were more clever than that."

Her chin lifted. "And I always believed you to be above cheap insults."

Oh, she had a lot of gall, upbraiding him about insults. She'd published an entire pamphlet that was one long, extended insult to his name. Then sold thousands of copies.

She said, "I'm not sure why anything I do would hamper your efforts to marry."

"Don't you?"

"No."

He decided to humor her. "Now that I've reached the age of five-and-twenty, my uncle no longer holds the estate in trust. It would be irresponsible of me to embark on my next expedition without starting on an heir. However, I have no time or inclination for a long campaign of courtship, and you've convinced the unwed ladies of London--even the aging, undesirable ones who might not otherwise be choosy--that they deserve wooing."

Her burst of laughter surprised him. He found it unexpectedly disarming. Something warm and familiar, in the midst of the storm.

"You can hardly expect me to apologize for that," she said.

"Then perhaps you'll apologize for this: If it weren't enough to have encouraged a trend of defiant spinsterhood, you have convinced all the eligible ladies that I, in particular, am a vain, doltish jackass."

"Dash, I am trying to explain. The pamphlet wasn't about you, it was--"

"The devil it wasn't. Enough of this prevarication. You think I don't know, Nora, that you harbored a silly little tendre for me all those years? Of course I did. It was obvious."

She went silent. A flush of red suffused her throat.

"You were infatuated. It's a common enough condition, but I thought girls were supposed to grow out of it."

"And I thought boys were supposed to grow out of cruelty. Apparently some still enjoy prodding harmless creatures with sticks." Her eyes flashed in the gloom.

Oh, he recalled those eyes. They worked like flint. Or gunpowder. They were a cool, bluish-gray by default--but when provoked, they shot sparks of green and amber.

He'd hurt her.

Well, and what if he had? Dash refused to feel guilty. He was the aggrieved party here, and he deserved answers.

"Lord Dashwood, please. It's clear you're not interested in listening to any of my explanations."

"You're wrong. I would be interested in your explanations, but I have no use for lies."

She shook her head and looked down at her hands. "It's useless. You will never understand. At Hastings, I will disembark to change coaches, and you will continue to Portsmouth. We will go our separate ways, and we need never speak again. Can we please simply suffer the remainder of this journey in peace?"

"Fine," he replied tersely.

"How much further do you think we have? You are the cartographer."

He peered out the window, but he couldn't see anything beyond the gray wall of rain and fog. "An hour. Perhaps two at the most."

"Surely we can endure that much in silence. An hour, or two at most? That's not so very long. It could be wor--"

The carriage made a jolt, cutting her off mid-sentence and giving her bosom an enticing bounce.

Before either of them could recover their breath, the entire coach skidded sideways, careening off the road before lurching to a sudden stop.

She cried out as the momentum flung her forward.

Acting on instinct, Dash moved to catch her. He slid an arm under her torso, just as her forehead set a course to collide with the door latch.

"Nora!"

CHAPTER THREE

Damn, but this afternoon was a frigid witch.

Griff dismounted his horse, tipped the freezing rain from his hat, and cast a glance toward the tavern, with its promises of beefsteak, ale, and a roaring blaze. Instead, he turned toward a tiny shop with a cheery red door.

More than a meal or a drink or a toasty fire--more than anything, really--he needed to see his wife.

A bell chimed as he entered the small, attractive shopfront. "Pauline?"

No Pauline at first glance, but he did spy a most welcome face--that of his sister-in-law, Daniela.

"Don't move, Duke."

"Good afternoon to you too, Daniela."

"Don't move," she repeated, pointing with the mop she held. "Your boots."

Griff looked down at his muddy Hessians with regret. "Ah, yes. Far be it from me to undo your hard work. I shall remain here. But that means you must come to greet me."

Daniela put aside her mop and crossed to him, curtseying and presenting her hand for his customary kiss. Pauline had tried to explain that Daniela and Griff were brother and sister by marriage now, and this ceremony was no longer required. But Daniela thrived on routine, and Griff rather enjoyed their little ritual. He'd never had a younger sister of his own to spoil.

Pauline emerged from the storeroom, wearing a dusty apron and looking frazzled from her cleaning efforts. Much the way he'd first seen her, on the day they'd met.

He was dazzled, once again.

God, he'd missed her.

For her part, she looked at him with horror. "For God's sake, don't move an inch."

"I've no intention. Daniela has already put me in my place."

"You've brought in the sherry, I hope?"

He frowned. The sherry?

"I-I, er . . ."

Stalling for time, he turned to look about the place. It wasn't merely that the floor was freshly mopped. Chairs and benches were arranged in neat, semicircular rows. Every shelf of crimson-bound books had been dusted and tidied.

A sign on the counter announced:

The Two Sisters welcomes Miss Elinora Browning, author Join us on the eighth of December, at two o'clock

for an afternoon of conversation, teacakes, and. . .

And sherry.

The sherry Griff was supp

osed to bring from Town.

Damn it.

"Daniela," his wife said, her eyes never leaving Griff. "Please go find that lace tablecloth I keep in the back room."

As soon as Daniela was safely out of earshot, Pauline crossed her arms. "Griffin York. You forgot the sherry."

He rubbed his face with one hand, groaning. "I forgot the sherry."

"How could you? I even wrote you a letter to remind you."

"We've Madeira at the house. Or some very fine port. Surely one of those will do."

"No, no. It must be sherry. It's sherry in the pamphlet."

"I can ride over to Hastings," he suggested.

She shook her head. "There isn't time. Not in this weather, this late in the day. We expected you hours ago."

"I know. I was late leaving Town. I-I stopped in to see a friend."

"A friend." Her brow arched. "Does this friend have a name?"

"Naturally."

"But you don't want to share it."

Griff sighed to himself. He couldn't.

He stepped forward and took her by the waist, swaying her side to side. "Come now," he teased. "Don't tell me you've become a jealous wife."

"Am I allowed to be a frustrated one? We've been planning this event for months."

"I know, darling."

"Daniela's worked so hard."

"I know, I know."

"I have eight dozen teacakes on order from Mr. Fosbury. Mrs. Nichols has her finest suite prepared at the Queen's Ruby, and all the other rooms are filled with visitors eager to hear Miss Browning speak. The tradespeople are expecting a much-needed day of brisk business, right before the holidays. They're all expecting a grand success, and now"--her voice cracked--"the weather is bad, the roads are worse . . ."

"And some unforgivable bastard forgot the sherry."

"I just hate to disappoint everyone."

And Griff hated to disappoint his wife. But he had.

He gathered her into a hug and pressed a kiss to her crown. "I'm sorry."

She sighed, leaning into his embrace. "It doesn't even matter. Miss Browning's coach was supposed to arrive two hours ago. In all likelihood, she won't make it at all."

He pulled back and slid his hands to cup her face, willing those troubled eyes to clear. "I'm certain Miss Browning will arrive on time."

"No one can control the weather. You can't promise that."

"I can," he insisted. "I'm promising you now. Finish your preparations. Miss Browning will arrive on time."

He would get that scribbling spinster here if he had to cart her from Canterbury himself.

And someway, somehow, Griff would procure some goddamned sherry.

All was silent.

Sickeningly, torturously silent.

Nora's shaken mind groped for understanding. The carriage had come to rest. Not quite on its side, but at a steep slant. The two of them had landed in a tangled heap of limbs on the carriage floor.

Dash.

She wanted to speak to him, call out--but panic had seized her tongue. Her voice refused to work.

"Nora?"

Relief flooded her. She felt ashamed of all those stupid prayers she'd sent heavenward earlier that afternoon. This was the only answer that mattered.

He roused and twisted, as if trying to get a glimpse of her face. His fingers brushed a lock of loosened hair from her brow, and an idiotic frisson of pleasure chased through her.

He'd never touched her so tenderly. No man had.

"Nora," he echoed, his voice hoarse. "For God's sake, answer. Tell me you're well."

She managed a nod. Her whole body trembled. No doubt he was anxious to have her weight off him, but no part of her wanted to move. Lord, this was so embarrassing.

"S-sorry," she forced out. "I-I . . ."

"Hush." His strong arms gathered around her, easing her trembling. "All is well. The coach took a skid off the road, that's all. You're unharmed."

"And you? Dash, you're not--"

He shushed her. "I'm unharmed, as well. It's over."

She closed her eyes. His heartbeat pounded against her cheek, strong and steady. His arms held her tight.

All too soon, those powerful arms flexed, lifting her onto the cushioned carriage seat. He kicked the carriage door open and made his way through.

"I'll just look in on the driver," he told her.

She nodded again.

The door fell closed with a bang.

Alone, Nora collapsed onto the seat cushion and curled into a ball. No matter how tightly she held her knees, she couldn't seem to stop shaking. She closed her eyes and tried to recall the feeling of safety.

And her mind ran straight back to his embrace.

How powerful and unyielding his arms had felt. And well she supposed they would be, after four years of sea voyages. Dash would not be the sort of explorer to remain in his cabin, poring over charts. No, he would be hauling on rigging and battening hatches with the crew--honing his arms to nothing but sculpted muscle and cords of sinew, covered by taut, bronzed skin.

She really shouldn't be thinking of him thus. She'd promised herself she wouldn't entertain foolish dreams like this, ever again. But this wasn't quite a dream, was it? It was a memory.

He treated you so poorly, she reminded herself sternly. He humiliated you before a crowd of onlookers. He left you and never looked back.

But then he'd held her, right in this coach. She could still hear his heartbeat echoing in her ears.

The door opened.

She startled, jumped on the seat, and tried not to look as though she'd been recently thinking of muscles. Not muscles in general, and most especially not his.

Snowflakes fringed his eyelashes and dusted his dark, curling hair. "I have bad news, and worse news."

"Oh."

"This damnable storm. The temperature dropped so suddenly, the road is a sheet of ice. We ran into a rut. It's a miracle none of the horses were lamed."

Nora sat up. "I can get out. That will lighten the load. I can even help push us back on the road. I'm strong."

He shook his head. "The splinter bar is damaged. The team can't pull on a broken hitch. And even if that could be repaired, the coachman tells me he's just spoken with a rider forced to turn back before Rye. A bridge is out. Cracked under the weight of the ice."

"Oh, no. What does he plan to do?"

"Unhitch the team. Leave the coach here and head back north to the nearest inn. There's just enough daylight left."

"But you can't mean to suggest we'll walk back."

"No. We don't mean to walk, Nora." He looked her in the eye. "We'll ride."

Ride?

Nora closed her eyes. The very suggestion of riding on horseback made her stomach turn.

"Dash, I can't. I just can't. Not tonight. I haven't ridden on horseback since . . . since we lost Andrew."

She remembered it all too clearly. The mare's frightened whinny. The sick crunch of bone.

The breathless terror.

"You won't even try?"

"I don't think I'm able." She cast a desperate look out at the swirling snow. "If this were the Kentish countryside on a warm summer's morn, perhaps. But to ride a strange horse through a snowstorm, in rapidly failing daylight? And after such a scare."

Surely he must understand. He'd been there, too. No matter what malice he believed her to have committed, he had to have sympathy for this.

"I'd rather stay here in the coach," she said.

"Don't be absurd. You don't even have a cloak."

"I have some woolen stockings in my trunk. With the doors shut up tight I'll stay warm enough."

He stared at her for a moment, eyes dark and intense as midnight. Then he muttered a curse and banged the door closed.

For the next several minutes, she remained still, listening to the noises of the coachman unhitching the team. Then all was silent.

Except for the thudding, frantic beat of her heart.

What had she been thinking, le

tting them leave without her? Was it too late to run after them? If they kept the horses at a walk, perhaps she could manage to keep up on foot. She had to try.

She'd just finished checking her bootlaces when the door banged open.

Again, she startled, pressing a hand to her chest. "Dash. I thought you'd gone."

"You truly believe I'm capable of such villainy? Abandoning you alone in a snowstorm to fend for yourself?"

"Well. You did leave me without a word once before."

He made a gruff noise. "I thought your little pamphlet wasn't about me."

Nora didn't reply.

"Don't worry, you needn't count this as chivalry on my part," he said. "I could say I'm acting out of long-held esteem for your family. But mostly, I'll be damned if I'll leave you here to scribble the sequel: Lord Ashwood Left Me for Dead." He thrust a big, gloved hand in her direction and made an impatient motion. "Come along."

She regarded him, wary. "Where are we going?"

"There's a cottage some distance off the road. Not really a cottage. I believe it's some sort of gamekeeper's shelter."

"A cottage?"

"Perhaps you'd call it a hut."

"A hut."

"It seems to be uninhabited at the moment. Probably barren inside."

"Well, that's lucky," she said, taking his hand. "One wouldn't want for this abandoned hut to be too comfortable. We might be tempted to stay for a holiday."

He grasped her by the wrist and yanked her to him. Their bodies collided as she stumbled into the snow.

Despite the chill, parts of Nora melted. Oh. Those muscles again.

"It's a structure," he said. "One with walls and a roof, and it will keep us alive until the coachman returns in the morning." He looked down and gave her a cold, strange smile. "Assuming we don't kill each other first."

CHAPTER FOUR

Griff was a duke with a mission.

Immediately after leaving the library, he strode across the green to the Bull and Blossom tavern.

"I don't suppose you've a cask of good sherry?" he asked the tavern keeper.

Fosbury answered in the negative, and Griff thanked him anyway.

"Halford," a familiar voice called to him. "Come sit down and have a hand of cards."

Griff crossed to the other side of the room, where three men sat near the hearth, nursing tankards of ale. His old friend Colin Sandhurst, Lord Payne; Colin's cousin Lord General Victor Bramwell, the Earl of Rycliff; and Rycliff's right-hand man--the hulking, taciturn Captain Samuel Thorne.

Each man held a hand of tattered playing cards, and in the middle of the table were a pile of . . .