Page 60 of Beyond Scandal and Desire
“Very good.”
The footmen wandered away, and she breathed a little easier, not certain why she was relieved to have fewer witnesses to her day’s adventures. Perhaps because she feared she might embarrass herself with her cowardice once she was actually aboard the train and rattling along the tracks.
“If you’ll come with me, ladies,” Mick said.
He didn’t offer her his arm, and she realized that in public, away from his hotel, he was as aware of the social divide between them as she was. It was possible, but very unlikely, she’d run into someone she knew at this terminus. If those with whom she associated were going to the seaside for the day, they’d no doubt take a coach. “We’ve yet to purchase passage.”
“It’s been taken care of,” he told her. “I see you brought your parasol.”
“I might wish to communicate with you.”
“You have merely to voice what you want, and it shall be granted.” His sensual smile indicated she could ask for anything at all.
“Right, then.”
She walked beside him, with her maids trailing, toward the rear of the train, to a car where small faces peered out through the glass window. She recognized the smartly dressed servant opening the door. It seemed his duties extended beyond that of porter at the hotel. “Good morning, Mr. Jones.”
With a smile of pleasure, he tipped his head. “It’s simply Jones, Miss.”
Forcing herself to stride in as though she’d traveled in this manner a dozen times before, she was surprised to discover it appeared to be a private car. Small sofas sat before the windows on either side of the car. A much larger one, which she didn’t want to consider could also serve as a place to sleep—or make love—dominated the center of the room.
“Lady Aslyn!” Fancy said, holding a little girl sucking her thumb in her lap. “I’m so glad you could join us on our outing. Children, say hello to Lady Aslyn.”
A chorus of “Hello, Lady Aslyn!” rose from the dozen claimed urchins who actually numbered half that amount.
“You seem to be missing some children,” she said to Mick, as he followed her maids inside.
He didn’t even have the good graces to appear abashed. “Counting never was my strong suit.”
A lie if she’d ever heard one. To have the success he did, he no doubt excelled at counting.
“It will help to keep the little ones calm if your maids will each see to two of them,” he said. “You and I can sit over here.” With a bow of his head, he indicated a sofa at an opposite window.
While giving instructions to her servants to assist Miss Trewlove, she considered helping out as well, but she didn’t think it would calm any of the children to become aware of her trembling. Sitting on the small settee he’d indicated, she clutched her hands together and gazed out, giving a little start when the whistle blew.
“That’s a signal we’ll be leaving shortly,” Mick said, as he dropped down beside her.
The door opened and Jones strode in, immediately scooping down and lifting a towheaded boy into his arms.
“Are these outings to the seaside a common occurrence?” she asked Mick.
She nearly protested when he went to work unknotting her fingers. “They are. We have a home for society’s discards.”
“They’re not legitimate,” she whispered.
He didn’t take his gaze off the task of removing her glove. “No.”
“How do you find them?”
He scoffed. “There are thousands of them, tens of thousands, in London alone. Parliament enacted legislation that made women ultimately responsible for their children born out of wedlock, thinking it would give them incentive to keep their legs crossed, but when there’s an itch—” he did look up then, holding her gaze “—one hardly thinks of the future, merely the need to scratch.”
Before meeting him, she hadn’t known those itches existed. She certainly knew now, realized if she were smart, she would exit the conveyance. But her curiosity kept her pinned to the spot. “You saidwe. ‘We have a home.’”
“People still bring the unwanted to Ettie Trewlove’s door. My siblings and I lease a residence and hire a staff to see to their needs. Our mum spends a lot of time there, caring for the small ones, but they are no longer her responsibility.”
Slowly he tugged off her glove, intertwined their fingers, securely, comfortingly. The back of the sofa prevented the servants or anyone else from seeing what he’d done, to see her hand closing more tightly around his. The train lurched. She squeezed her eyes shut, but still she could feel the rocking. “Keep talking.”
“Open your eyes, sweetheart.” His voice was gentle but firm, tinged with a bit of sadness, the endearment making his urging all the more profound. She considered chastising him for the intimacy, but convinced herself he meant nothing by it. For him, it was no doubt simply a word. Besides, she liked the comfort it brought her, wondered if he could sense the pounding of her heart. Even if the train didn’t wreck, she might die—with his large, warm, roughened hand cradling hers.
