Free The Marriage Ring by Cathy Maxwell

she was safe. At first she’d been suspicious. However, when she’d turned in for the night, she’d slept better because he chased all the dangerous possibilities away.
    And now she was going to be spending the next few days with him.
    It had been a long time since Grace had been attracted to a man. A fluttering of anticipation at the prospect of seeing him kept her on edge. She wanted to tell herself it was only nerves over the trip and what it signified. Some of that was true.
    But a larger portion of it was that Mr. Lynsted was a well-built man whose muscles were his own and not the result of padding.
    The day was damp and chilly but there was some hope for sun and a hint of spring in the air. A good day for travel. The mood on the street was lively. People bustled around after morning errands. An orange girl on the corner called out her wares while a gaggle of gossiping maids in mobcaps hurried toward the market street to do the shopping.
    The whinny of a horse caught her attention.
    Graced turned in the direction of the sound. Carts and wagons often went up and down her narrow street, but the horses pulling them were a dispirited, quiet lot. She noticed people on the corner halt mid-step and then move back on the curb, their necks craning to look down the intersecting street. Even the orange girl went silent, still holding a piece of fruit.
    A moment later, the handsomest team of prancing grays Grace had ever seen came around the corner pulling a lacquered red coach with green spokes and yellow wheels. The brass fittings on the harnessing were so new and shiny they brightened the day. Sitting on the box were two coachmen dressed in black-and-gold-braided livery and wearing cocked hats on their heads.
    Grace could only stare, too. She’d never seen a rig so well tricked out. No wonder people stopped and noticed.
    And then the coach pulled right up in front of her.
    The door opened.
    Mr. Lynsted unfolded his big self and stepped out on the street. He was dressed for travel in buff-colored breeches and Hessian tall boots polished so shiny Grace could almost see her face in them. He wore the same black greatcoat of the night before draped over the shoulders of a very handsome hunter green jacket and brown vest.
    All in all, especially standing in front of such a fine coach, he was the very model of a wealthy and fashionable gentleman.
    “It’s good to see you are punctual, Miss MacEachin,” he said by way of greeting.
    “Good morning to you, too, sir,” she replied, reminding him of the civilities.
    He had the good grace to appear momentarily embarrassed, but then he barged on. “This is Dawson,” he said, introducing the driver, “and up with him in the box will be Herbert, my valet.”
    Herbert had climbed down and picked up her valise and trunk, wrinkling his nose in distaste as he did so. Grace wanted to snatch them back from him, noticing how shabby they were against the magnificence of the coach.
    Instead, she put on her own mantle of hauteur and warned, “Be careful with that.”
    The valet raised an eyebrow.
    She raised one right back.
    “Yes, miss,” he murmured, barely polite.
    “Are you ready?” Mr. Lynsted asked, sounding impatient and slightly bored.
    So. This was to be the tenor of the trip.
    Grace experienced a stab of disappointment. The letdown was her own fault. She’d started to build Mr. Lynsted in her imagination into a better man than what he obviously was. She realized she’d begun to romanticize the trip. ’Twas her nature, a foolish side of her that life experience should have eradicated by now.
    Apparently it hadn’t.
    No matter. She was made of stern stuff. They’d make this trip cold shoulder to cold shoulder.
    “Of course I am,” she said briskly and removing her cape from her shoulders, climbed into the cab.
    The interior was close quarters, albeit comfortable ones. The leather of the seat was as deliciously soft as her kid slippers and there was a wooden bar on the other