Free The Marriage Ring by Cathy Maxwell Page A

side of the coach to rest feet on in comfort like a footstool. Hooks were built in to the silk lined wall for hats and other personal items.
    And then Mr. Lynsted climbed into the coach.
    For the briefest moment, his gaze flicked over her and she sensed he was both surprised by her conservative dress and approving. Men always developed a certain intensity in their eyes when they liked what they saw and Mr. Lynsted was no different, although he quickly looked away.
    His body took up more than its share of the coach. He settled in, hanging his hat on a hook. Grace moved over, all too aware of his thigh resting alongside hers and how broad his shoulders were. The air filled with the spicy, crisp scent of his shaving soap. Grace approved. She didn’t like the sweet, occasionally flowery scents many men wore. She liked a man to smell like a man.
    “Excuse me,” he murmured as if uncomfortably aware of her, too. He leaned into his corner but he couldn’t move his legs. They were too long for the footrest to be of service.
    “I’ll angle this way and you can stretch out,” she offered.
    “I’m fine,” he said, not looking at her. Instead, he reached up and knocked on the roof. “We’re ready to go, Dawson.”
    There was a crack of a whip and the grating sound of wheels rolling over cobbles. They were off. Grace looked out the glass window at all the people staring as they drove by, envy in their eyes. At least she was leaving London in style.
    “This is a nice rig,” she said.
    He grunted an answer and reached under the seat to pull out a thick black leather satchel. He opened it and pulled out several ledger books and a pair of spectacles. Ignoring her, he settled the spectacles on his nose, opened the ledger and began reading.
    Grace watched him for a moment. The glasses surprised her. Most people she knew avoided their use out of vanity. Perhaps the reason Mr. Lynsted was so surly was because he felt self-conscious about spectacles.
    She considered the matter as she watched the passing scenery. Inside an hour, the city gave way to countryside. All was very green because of the good rains they’d been having.
    Besides, if he could ignore her, she could ignore him.
    Or so she thought.
    The dirk strapped to her leg began to irritate her. Using her cape as a cover for modesty’s sake, not that Mr. Lynsted would have noticed, she un-strapped it and stashed it under the seat.
    For a good three hours, Grace was a dutiful traveling companion. She contemplated the passing scenery, daydreamed the scene when she would see her father again, and then grew silly with boredom and composed limericks in her head about Mr. Lynsted. She hadn’t brought a book. She didn’t own any. Nor did she have any needlework. She’d been working for her living, not indulging herself in pleasure pursuits.
    But her temper was alive and well.
    He was deliberately treating her poorly, his behavior contrary to what it had been last night. He was setting her in her place and she wasn’t pleased.
    “I like your spectacles,” she said, deciding to interject herself into his life.
    He flicked over a ledger page. At some point, he’d taken pen and ink from another case. He held the ink bottle in one hand and pen in another as he made annotations to his reports. He was right-handed and looked like a prissy puss. A big man holding a little bottle.
    “They give you an air of distinction,” she continued.
    Mr. Lynsted frowned as if something on the ledger page puzzled him.
    Grace wondered what he’d do if she tipped his hand holding the ink bottle toward his lap. It would be a shame to ruin such a handsome pair of breeches, but if he continued behaving this way, she might not have a choice.
    With a loud sigh, she slipped her feet out of her kid leather slippers and tucked them under the hem of her dress on the seat, pushing his thigh with her knees…the closest she dared come to acting on her ink tipping impulse. Of course, one bump in the road and