Free Anne Barbour by Step in Time

you will be in for a severe hair-combing when you get back. Much better if you arrive at the old homestead in my company.” Without waiting for a response, he slid a hand under Amanda’s elbow and lifted her, without effort, to her feet. “By the by,” he continued, his tone all bland innocence, “was the treatment efficacious?”
    “Effica—Oh. No, of course it wasn’t. As you must know, I had barely sat down when you barged in. And, thank you, I do not wish to return home just yet. Oh, very well,” she conceded, noting the unpromising set of his jaw. “I can see that I shall get no peace here. I shall leave, but not with you, thank you. I—I want to do some shopping.”
    “Excellent. I shall accompany you.”
    Without giving her a chance to utter the protest that boiled visibly on her lips, Ash steered her out of the church and into his waiting curricle. Instructing Hutchings and the footman to return to the Bridge residence and to inform Mrs. Bridge that her daughter was in the unexceptionable hands of her betrothed, the earl set his horses in motion.
    “Where to?”he asked.
    “I haven’t the slightest idea,” responded Amanda with some asperity. “You know, of all the high-handed jerks I’ve ever known—and I’ve known quite a few—you really top the list, my lord.”
    “Jerks?” repeated Ash. “The term is unfamiliar to me, but I think I would be deluding myself to consider it in any way complimentary.”
    “You would,” said Amanda shortly.
    Having swung from North Audley Street into Oxford Street, Ash brought the curricle to a halt. “Since you have nothing specific in mind, I propose that we stroll for a bit. We shall peer in the windows like bumpkins just up from the country, and if you see anything that strikes your fancy, we can then consider a purchase or two.”
    “Fine.” responded Amanda dispiritedly. “Only, I have no money.”
    Ash eyed her languidly. “How can this be? The daughter of the Brass Bridge without funds?” He stopped abruptly in the act of assisting her from the curricle, so that her hands remained imprisoned in his. “Please forgive me,” he said, his voice harsh. “That was inexcusable. I do not know how I came to be so maladroit.”
    Ash realized that it was his own self-loathing that had given voice, but that did not make his words any less hurtful. To his surprise, she displayed no discomfiture, merely shrugging her shoulders as she attempted to disengage her hands from his tightly clenched fingers. With an exclamation, he released her.
    “Is that what they call him?” she asked, her voice a cool shower on his seething emotions. He nodded reluctantly.
    “How very apt,” was all she said, and Ash stared at her. The Amanda he knew would have been swooning at his feet by now in outraged indignation at this vulgar insult to her parent.
    He drew her toward a building that proclaimed itself to be Pickett’s Gold and Silversmith. “Not precisely a genteel establishment,” he said, “but perhaps you might see something to please you. At the risk,” he added, driven by a scarcely acknowledged desire to throw her off stride, “of further descending into gaucherie, I do have money with me—my own. I have so far not availed myself of your papa’s largesse.”
    Her eyes lifted to his, startled, before she relaxed into a warm chuckle in which he joined her a moment later. He noted with some bemusement that this was the first time he had been able to look at his predicament with even the faintest touch of humor.
    Inside Pickett’s establishment, after a judicious perusal of the wares, Amanda selected a necklet of beaten gold inlaid with pearls. They continued their stroll, and it was not until she found herself in additional possession of a charming porcelain shepherdess, an airy zephyr scarf, and a box of comfits that they made their way to the curricle, which had trailed behind them in the capable hands of Ash’s tiger.
    As Ash put out a hand to assist