Free Clandestine by Nichole van

rude. Particularly not to her.
    Just so . . . out of his depth. The sooner he found Arthur and had a crash course in nineteenth century etiquette, the better.
    She shifted on the carriage seat. “Well, as you are a friend . . . ” She lingered on the word, rendering it so very, very dry.
    “Marc,” he said without thinking.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “If we are to be friends, call me Marc. All my friends do.”
    Miss Ashton stilled, giving him a puzzled look. So maybe that hadn’t been the best idea after all. Women probably didn’t call unknown men by their first names. Ouch. What a terrible faux pas—
    “I am so sorry. I did not mean to . . . give offense—”
    “No, no need to apologize.” Miss Ashton waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “I am not so missish as to stand by ceremony. I was just . . . surprised, is all. I do believe I heard a certain gentleman declare just moments ago that he never raises a white flag.” She raised both eyebrows. Challenging.
    “Perhaps this certain . . . gentleman is willing to make an exception for a friend .” Marc matched her challenging look.
    “Perhaps.” The lovely Miss Ashton tapped a gloved finger against her lips. “Though such turnabout smacks of a fickle nature. Not something I should wish in a friend.”
    Ah. Clever. She would be clever.
    “Not even two minutes into our friendship, and you are already taking me in hand, trying to reform me. Change my very nature—”
    “Precisely. How fortunate for you to recognize early on the value of our friendship.” Miss Ashton smiled, her expression a heady mixture of charm and wicked delight. “But if you are to be Marc to me, then I must be Kit to you.”
    “Kit.” Marc tried out her name, liking how it captured her. Bold and strong.
    “Marc,” she responded, tipping her head at him as if in greeting. Which he supposed they were finally doing.
    She paused and then continued. “Is that short for Marcus, perhaps?”
    She asked the question innocently enough, but there was a hesitancy in it. How could his given name mean anything to her?
    “Why, yes, in fact it is.”
    She nodded. “May I ask how you happened to be along the lane to Haldon Manor? I thought I had been introduced to all the gentlemen in Marfield.”
    Right. How to explain his presence here?
    Wait. How nineteenth century-ish did his language need to be in order for him to blend in? Damn . . . or, er, drat. He needed to pay more attention to the words leaving his mouth.
    He had been thinking about it as adopting a character, like he was doing research for an upcoming film project. Something suitably Jane Austen-ish, using his most posh British accent.
    So far she hadn’t seemed too surprised by his language.
    He could do this. He had read Pride and Prejudice and Zombies after all. He just needed to keep using fancy words. Lots of them.
    “I do not hail from Marfield, so it would be unlikely for us to have formed a prior acquaintance.”
    What a mouthful. Though he was quite proud of himself for it. Did it sound stuffy enough?
    He assessed her. She sat coolly composed in the carriage, pulling her cloak more tightly around herself.
    No reaction. That was good, right?
    “Naturally, I had surmised as much,” she said. “Yet how does a gentleman find himself upon a private lane without carriage or horse?”
    Yeah. That was an excellent question. How does a gentleman end up on a private lane without a carriage or horse? What logical explanation could he possibly give?
    Trust Miss Katharine Ashton—Kit, he mentally corrected—to be stunning, feisty and intelligent.
    Things he generally loved in a woman . . . under different circumstances. But for the moment . . .
    She stared at him intently, as if seeing right through his bumbling facade. Politely waiting for his reply.
    And then Marc hit upon the perfect explanation.
    “I fear I was robbed.”
    Kit looked gratifyingly shocked.
    “Robbed? Heavens! How terrifying!”
    “Yes, indeed it