Page 15 of How to Seduce a Viscount
Beneath the lap robes she felt Luce’s gloved hand squeeze hers. His voice was low at her ear. ‘Yes, I see it. And today you and I shall be part of it.’ Part of it. Belonging to it. Not just a guardian watching from the outside, but a participant.
At the livery, Luce made arrangements for the horse. ‘Keep him warm,’ Luce instructed the ostler. ‘We’ll be a while.’ Then he grinned at her and it seemed the sun had come out in full force. ‘We’re going to make a day of it. Starting with the bakery, then the inn to drop off my letter for the mail and then we have shopping to do.’
‘Again, I must protest.’ She wouldn’t be here long enough to make the effort of new dresses worthwhile. She appreciated the thought, though not the collateral images it conjured of Luce walking down the high street not with her but with the wife that would follow. These considerations, these kindnesses, were how Luce would care for his wife. He would see to her needs, anticipate them before she could even ask. There would be no secrets between them. His wife would want for nothing. What a luxury that would be. To not have to be self-sufficient every second of every day and to know that someone had her back.
Wren reminded herself that luxury was expensive. It came at the price of her freedom, something she was long used to having. She was entirely autonomous. She consulted no one. She did as she pleased when she pleased. She was not interested in being any man’s wife. But this was not any man. This was Luce Parkhurst who could make a woman swoon with a smile and who made her feel like a partner, not a possession.
Luce tucked her arm through his. ‘Don’t argue. You have one dress, borrowed from the housekeeper’s sister. Be reasonable. Tillingbourne is a work in progress and very much a bachelor residence at present. I am woefully unprepared to host a femaleguest. You’ll need some things of your own while you’re here. Combs, brushes, tooth powder, hair pins, stockings. I have a younger sister, I know these things,’ Luce laughed away her protest.
But to her it was no laughing matter. ‘Exactly how long do you think I’ll be here? When the snow melts, I’ll be gone. The roads should be passable within a week.’ She’d be off to find his brother.
‘The roads may be but not you. Your timetable is not the weather but your own health. The doctor says it will be at least three more weeks until you have recovered from the loss of blood.’
‘Three weeks? Impossible. That will make it nearly the end of February.’ She could not stay that long, not with the possibility of finding Stepan still weighing in the balance and the enemy on the move. Her mission was only half done. If Stepan was truly out there, he would be in danger.
‘Do you have somewhere else to be?’ Luce joked. ‘I am sure Grandfather can do without you for a while. He knows you’re recovering. I sent a note out that first night to let him know you’d arrived and that you’d been hurt. He’ll not expect you for a bit and he knows you’re in good hands.’
Hands that were too good. That worried her. It would be easy to put off departing, easy to make the excuse that she stayed to heal, when in reality she simply didn’t want to leave. Luce Parkhurst was addicting that way with his gaze and his gifts, his quick wit and intelligence. The longer she stayed, the harder it would be to leave. Among other things. The longer she stayed, the greater the risk she’d give up her secrets.
Luce held open the door of the small bakery and she was saved from answering his question by the scents of cinnamon and sugar.
‘Lord Waring.’
The baker, a heavy-set fellow with thick forearms wearing a wide apron, greeted Luce jovially from behind the counter.
‘Good day, Lepley,’ Luce returned the greeting.
Wren was impressed that Luce knew the baker’s name. Perhaps she shouldn’t be. Luce was good with information. It stood to reason he’d know everyone in his milieu. Knowing names was a valuable commodity, a security measure among other things. It was a way to protect one’s personal perimeter and note when a stranger entered it.
‘And who is this? A guest of yours, Lord Waring?’ The baker’s gaze went to her and Wren was glad for the protection of the cloak’s deep hood. She was used to being part of a crowd. Here in the bakery or walking the streets with Luce, the recognisable and popular viscount, she’d stand out by association.
‘This is Miss Audley, a friend of my grandfather’s,’ Luce made the introductions. ‘She was visiting when the snow fell and delayed her travel plans.’
Oh, he was smooth. It was all true although it certainly created a far different understanding of her visit—one with fewer knives and dead bodies in it.
‘Welcome to Little Albury, Miss.’ The baker wiped his hands on a towel. ‘You’re not the only one, stranded. The inn is full of travellers caught between coaches. Only the mail coach is running for a bit. Vicar Paterson even put two gentlemen up at the vicarage. Can’t complain though, the extra traffic has been good for business.’ He gave a wink. ‘Now, what can I get for you today, milord?’
Luce waved off the formality. ‘Waring is fine. But no milord. Until six months ago, I was a normal fellow.’
That made Wren want to laugh. Title aside, Luce was not normal. ‘We’ll take two of your wife’s delectable, iced cinnamon buns. Miss Audley could smell them from the street and insisted we stop here first.’ Luce made small talk with the baker ashe wrapped their buns and she noted how at ease he put the man. One would not guess their status differences from the conversation. Hmmm. How useful that might be. The baker was an informant although she doubted the baker knew it.
Outside, Luce passed her a bun and she gave him a knowing look. ‘Shame on you,’ she scolded with a laugh. ‘You’re pumping that poor man for information and he doesn’t even know it.’
Luce chuckled and took a bite of his own bun. ‘Maybe I am or maybe it’s just habit.’ He gave a sly look. ‘Like protesting new dresses because you’re used to travelling light or not letting anyone assist you because you’re used to being alone,’ he added pointedly.
She couldn’t argue with that, so she finished her iced bun in silence. The bun was still deliciously warm and the icing left her hands sticky by the time they’d dropped off Luce’s letter and reached the dressmaker’s. She surreptitiously reached beneath her cloak to discreetly wipe them on her skirts.
‘You can use my handkerchief,’ Luce said quietly, reaching into the deep pocket of his greatcoat for a pristine white square. He arched a playful brow that made her laugh before he handed it over. ‘On one condition. You must promise not to tell Cook we stopped for buns. She’s been trying to duplicate the recipe ever since I arrived and has been, shall we say, unsuccessful? I think there’s a secret ingredient only the baker’s wife knows.’
‘It sounds like you have a new code to crack.’ She gratefully took the handkerchief and wiped her fingers. ‘Your turn, you’ve bit of icing, just there.’ She pointed to the corner of her own mouth to illustrate.
‘Could you get it for me?’ It was said sincerely, but she’d have bet her last pound there was mischief in his eyes. He was teasing her, daring her. The arrogant man likely knew there was no chance she could objectively look at his mouth after last night. The moment shehadlooked, she’d wanted nothing more than tolick the icing from his lips, to taste its sweetness on his tongue. Well, she had a little mischief in her as well.
‘I certainly could get it for you. Step aside with me for a moment.’ Wren tugged him into a short alley between shops and pushed him up against the brick wall while she had him off balance. She reached up on tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his, her tongue dispensing of the icing in a wicked flick.
His hands were at her waist and laughter, low and masculine, rumbled in his chest. ‘I did not see that coming.’
She laughed up at him, her arms about his neck. ‘Maybe you should have. It was exactly what you asked for.’
