Free Romantic Rebel by Joan Smith Page A

on my gothic, as that allowed me to put my daydreaming to use. There was much scratching out and substituting of black hair for blond, blue eyes for brown, which curiously, gleamed with interest, glowed and gazed lovingly as the story progressed. My villain, Mr. Jeffreys, remained a trifle unresolved, but the hero took solid shape and form. When I realized I had unwittingly given my villain the name of my scurrilous cousin, he, too, fell into sharp focus.
    After lunch I began my toilette for the drive. My curls, with last night’s bounce reduced to a jiggle, were pinned up behind in a basket. The contours of my face look best with only one frame, which my bonnet provided. With that sunny sky, there was no need for a pelisse over my worsted suit. To alleviate its severity, I wore a lacy fichu at the neck, with a cameo pin. The effect was somewhat akin to a governess, but not displeasing. With a memory of Lord Paton’s Angelina and my own questionable behavior regarding mourning, I wished to flaunt my respectability.
    The saloon in which I greeted Lord Paton certainly held nothing in the way of refinement, unless the presence of a chaperone can be called refined.
    “You must forgive this place,” I said as soon as Lord Paton entered. “It is not what you or Miss Potter and I are accustomed to, I fear.”
    His dark eyes darted hither and thither, trying not to exhibit the rampant curiosity he must surely have been feeling.
    “The saloon at Nesbitt Hall is so grand and spacious,” Annie mentioned. “Emma says she feels like a badger in its sett, cooped up here.”
    “It will take a little getting use to, I expect,” he said blandly.
    “Would you care for a glass of wine before we leave?” I inquired.
    “Thank you.”
    Annie darted for the sherry. We had replaced Mrs. Speers’s glasses with crystal stemmed goblets, and could serve the refreshment without blushing.
    We had only one glass before leaving. “Isn’t it a lovely day!” I exclaimed joyfully when we went out into the sunlight. It was made lovelier by the sudden appearance of Mr. Bellows and Millie Pilgrim, who were just alighting from a cab. They ogled us to death.
    “Fine weather for badgers.” Lord Paton smiled, and assisted me into a dashing yellow sporting curricle. “You will not feel cooped up in this rig, Miss Nesbitt.”
    It was certainly an elegant vehicle, in its own way. The team, too, were a prime pair of chestnut bloods. I was vain and foolish enough to wish it was his crested carriage, till it occurred to me that we would be more highly visible in the open rig. Heads would turn on Milsom Street when we darted along at the inevitable sixteen miles an hour that all drivers of prime bloods speak of.
    Lord Paton assisted me on to the seat and took his own place. “You had best move in an inch from the edge,” he suggested. “There is no danger on the straightaway, but the corners can be tricky.”
    “No doubt your nags are chomping to show off their speed. Sixteen miles an hour, I assume?”
    “I don’t like to boast, but they made it from Land’s End to John O’Groats in ten minutes.”
    On this facetious speech he reached out, put his arm around my waist, and pulled me closer to him. That surprising action set the tone for the drive. It bordered on improper behavior, yet there was a reason—or at least an excuse for it. The walls of the seat were somewhat low.
    “Ten minutes! Without bating the horses, and without losing any shoes, then, I assume?” I asked, trying to hide that I was flustered at being crushed up against his side. I shifted over till there were a few inches between us.
    He watched me with a smile. “There was no need of shoes. They flew,” he said, and flicked the whip over the nags’ heads.
    They were off, not quite flying, but with a lurch that gave my neck a sharp jar, and lifted my bonnet an inch. Had it not been for the ribbons, it would have left my head entirely. I had thought we would descend the downs