Tempting Mr. Townsend (Dashing Widows 2)

Not this again. Silly wench didn't know when she was beaten. "Now we know where they're headed, there's no reason for you to join me. I give you my word I'll find the lads."

The audible scoff was incongruous coming from such a refined creature. "As if I'd trust you with my son, Mr. Townsend. You're likely to coddle him into a beating."

When he'd learned her Christian name, just now, he'd thought it suited her. Now he wasn't so sure. A Fenella should be amiable and obedient, not a raging virago. Better she'd been called Boadicea.

At the top of the steps, the butler cleared his throat. "My lady, shall I take Mr. Harley into the kitchens for some refreshment after his long ride? And there's no need for the footmen to stand in the cold if you and the gentleman wish to continue chatting."

Anthony had lost all awareness of his surroundings, including the audience for his quarrel. An avidly listening, curious audience as one quick glance at Harley indicated.

This time, Lady Deerham flushed with chagrin. Never in his life had he met a female with such an expressive face. A quality he regretted now she glared at him with bitter dislike. She turned to Greaves. "Yes, of course take Mr. Harley. And please bring the gig around."

Anthony barely bit back a growl, but he had the sense to soften his voice. "Don't be a little fool. You don't know where my estate is."

"Outside Winchester, I believe you mentioned," she said with a poisonous sweetness that lifted the hairs on the back of his neck. "I'm sure even a little fool can manage to find her way from there."

She was right, blast her. The prospect of her trailing him all the way to the Beeches was insupportable. For the first time when he surveyed her, his impulse wasn't a mad urge to fall to his knees and worship her extraordinary beauty. Instead he fought the overpowering need to give her a good shake until she conceded he was in charge of the rescue mission. She should jolly well obey his instructions, and stay fiddling with her embroidery in her pretty jewel box of a townhouse, while he rode off to slay dragons.

He retained just enough self-awareness to recognize the essential absurdity of that thought. But only just.

So instead of flinging this troublesome female over his shoulder and marching inside to lock her in the attics, he did something almost as shocking.

"Oh, for pity's sake," he snarled, catching her firmly by the willowy waist and tossing her up into his curricle.

"Mr. Townsend!"

"Be quiet and hold on," he said curtly, rounding the carriage and leaping into the driving seat.

"Good luck, my lady," the butler said, stepping forward and sliding a valise into the back of the curricle. Right now Anthony might want to strangle Lady Deerham, but he had a suspicion he could come to like her butler.

"You're kidnapping me," she said under her breath as Anthony grabbed the reins. His two fine chestnuts shook their harness until it jingled. They were as impatient to be on their way as he was.

"You wanted to come," he grunted. "Now time is of the essence. We know the lads' destination, but they've got miles to cover first."

She directed a doubtful frown at his grip on the rei

ns. That pricked at his vanity. She clearly fancied herself as a whip, although he couldn't imagine this ethereal creature controlling much beyond a sleepy pony.

She's controlled you, hasn't she?

He ignored the snide voice in his mind and shouted to the footman holding his horses' heads. "Let them go."

"Godspeed, my lady," the butler called as Anthony clattered off at a punishing rate, two runaways to find, and a sulky fairy princess fuming by his side.

Chapter Three

* * *

As they sped through the freezing night toward Hampshire, Fenella was almost glad that Mr. Townsend gave her such good cause to dislike him. It helped to distract her from picturing what might happen to Brand and Carey. Every time she thought of her son alone and unprotected—and she couldn't think of much else—her stomach cramped with nausea.

Dear God, let Brand be safe.

At this hour, the roads were mostly empty, although farmers would soon be on their way into London with their produce. Winter hadn't yet stuck its claws into the year, but the wind whistling around her ears as they plunged through the night promised frosts ahead. With every shiver, she prayed that the boys were somewhere safe and warm.

Fenella wasn't by nature a sullen woman. Pique didn't come easily. With every mile they covered, the distance between her and her monumental companion became increasingly awkward.

Not, alas, the physical distance.

Mr. Townsend was such a…substantial figure that the cramped seat crushed her up against him, closer than she'd been to any man since Henry's death. Inevitably, as their bodies rubbed together in the jolting carriage, his radiating heat and the clean, salty scent of his skin became part of her landscape. She could believe that he'd docked today. He smelled like the sea.