Free A Gamble on Love by Blair Bancroft

remove yourselves from
Pevensey Park while we are gone. Lord Hubert, when we return from
our drive, I will give you the name of my solicitor so we may begin
the business of settling Miss Trevor’s trust.”
    After offering a regal nod to his noble, but
gaping, audience, Mr. Lanning gently turned his betrothed back
toward the door. They strolled leisurely across the tiled entry
hall, pausing only long enough to accept Aurelia’s shawl and bonnet
from Biddeford, who looked suspiciously moist about the eyes.
    Miss Trevor came to an abrupt halt on the
landing, some twelve stairsteps above the gracefully curved drive
where Mr. Lanning’s postchaise awaited him, the postilions snapping
to attention as they caught sight of their employer. Thomas, ever
polite, paused, raising one dark inquiring brow.
    “ I cannot ride with you in that !” Miss Trevor proclaimed, eyeing
the yellow postchaise and four lively horses with something akin to
horror.
    Thomas Lanning, who had far more experience
with the workings of the male mind than the female, could only
stare in amazement.
    “ It is a closed carriage,” Aurelia explained. “Ladies do
not ride with gentlemen in closed carriages. Alone,” she added when
he continued to stand there, looking, for all the world, as if she
had suddenly sprouted a second head.
    “ We are betrothed,” Thomas declared.
Sweeping his arm around her waist, he started for the
stairs.
    Miss Trevor dug in her heels.
“Nonetheless—”
    Thomas halted, thrust her from him. “Shall I
send you back then?” he demanded. “They’re in there, waiting, you
know—your precious family connections. Squabbling among themselves,
each blaming the other for whistling your fortune down the wind.
They will, no doubt, welcome you back with open arms.”
    Aurelia, unaccustomed to being
manhandled by anyone, most particularly a Cit who did not own his
own carriage, drew herself up to her full five feet three inches,
while searching frantically for a proper rebuttal. How dare he?
    “ This was your idea, was it not?” Mr.
Lanning persisted, his tone growing more aggrieved with each word.
“You sought a dragonslayer, and now that you have him, you object
because his charger is yellow instead of white?”
    Aurelia drew in a sharp breath. “I
object because his charg—because that vehicle is not proper !”
    Thomas raised his hat. “Good day, Miss
Trevor. Although I regret the waste of my valuable time, I find
myself greatly relieved that my services are no longer needed.” Mr.
Lanning clapped his tall beaver back onto his head, and loped down
the stone steps of Pevensey Park with all the alacrity of a
Frenchman escaping the guillotine.
    Aurelia stared after him. A postilion was
opening the bright yellow door, the steps were lowered. Mr. Lanning
was climbing in . . .
    Miss Trevor picked up her skirts and
flew down the stairs. She couldn’t— wouldn’t —lower herself to calling after him, but
. . .
    The door of the postchaise slammed shut. One
postilion was already mounted, the other about to join him. The
horses, sensing the imminent departure, snorted and stamped the
ground.
    No-o-o! Aurelia
reached the carriage, pounded on the door. Then, mortified, she
jumped back, head hanging, tears of humiliation rushing to her
eyes.
    The postchaise did not move. The door opened.
A shining pair of boots appeared, biscuit pantaloons, a corbeau
jacket . . . a hand reached out, tilting up her chin. “Was I
harsh?” Thomas said. “I come from several generations of bankers,
you know. Or perhaps you did not. We tend to be more at home with
numbers, ledgers, and other males than with the gentler sex. Tears,
Miss Trevor? I fear I am not at all what you had in mind.”
    Miss Trevor was forced to steady her
lower lip before she could reply. “And ’tis plain you do not like me. We are a sad
pair, are we not?”
    “ Truthfully,” Thomas said, suddenly
dropping his hand as he realized he was still cupping Miss Trevor’s
chin and