It took only a few miles for him to begin wishing she’d taken the other choice. It was nice to ride with her—far too nice. She fit easily into the space before him, her soft hip pressed into his thigh as though it belonged there. As he spurred the horse, wisps of her fine black hair escaped from her bonnet and whipped in the breeze, teasing the skin of his cheeks. It was a tickling sweetness, bringing with it a whiff of cologne that made him want to lean forwards and bury his face in the side of her throat. He had to work to stifle the urge to loosen the bonnet and free the rest of it to let it stream in the wind.
He wished he was in a position to make conversation with her, for it might have helped to pass the time and occupy his mind in anything other than the scent of her hair.
‘Who are you?’ The words came from her suddenly, with no preamble. And then she stopped herself, probably shocked at sounding ridiculous, nonsensical and, worst of all, rude.
But she was unaware of what a blessed relief it was to him.
‘I am John Hendricks, as I have already told you. I worked for the Earl of Folbroke as a personal secretary.’
She relaxed a little as though she’d been bracing for some sort of harsh retort. It made him wonder at the sort of conversation she was accustomed to, if a simple question was not met with a polite answer.
‘But I think that is not what you are asking me,’ he said. ‘I would be happy to answer you in detail, if you would clarify your meaning.’
‘How did you come to be who you are? Who are your people? Where did you come from?’ And again he felt her tense, as though she were expecting ridicule. It made him want to reach out and offer physical comfort of some kind—a touch on the shoulder, a word in her ear urging her to relax in his company. Or, worse yet, to ask similar questions of her. He must remember that conversation between them, given his position and hers, was a one-sided affair at best. A desire to know his personal history did not demonstrate a desire to share hers.
He answered carefully, giving just the information required. ‘I was born in London, though I spent very little time there. My mother died when I was quite young; there is not much I can tell you of her, other than that she was beautiful. But that is what all children say of their mothers and so it hardly signifies.’
And that had been enough to loosen her tongue and relax her rigid posture. ‘I suppose you are right, Mr Hendricks. I would say the same of my departed mother. Beautiful and happy.’
‘Mine was sad.’ He reflected for a moment, surprised that her questions had raised a fresh feeling of loss for something that had happened so long ago. ‘I was sent away to school when she died. To Eton and then to Cambridge. There was never any question of how it would be paid for. But around the time of the death of Duke of Summersly, I received a nice settlement. I think that tells us both all we need to know about the identity of my father.’
‘A bastard son of a duke?’ Again she had blurted the words in a way that was the height of bad manners. He could almost hear her mouth snap shut.
‘Of him, or some member of that family. While he did not acknowledge me in life, I cannot really complain about the way I was treated.’ At least, he had no right to. ‘I was a natural student and quite happy at all the schools I attended. I cannot say the same of my fellows. I took great pleasure in besting them when I could, at lessons or at games. It proved …’ and then he remembered his audience and shut his own mouth.
‘That it is not always one’s parentage that proves one’s abilities,’ she finished for him, unbothered by the idea. Of course, she had no reason to feel threatened by it. She was a symbol of the rank he’d been denied; nothing he could say would change her status in society. ‘And when you were finished with your education?’ she prompted.
‘I used the money I was given to buy a commission and did quite handsomely for myself as a soldier. I was aide-de-camp to the Earl of Folbroke. We were friends as well as comrades. When he returned home, I followed and took a position in his household.’
‘And you might have been equals …’
‘Or perhaps his superior,’ he added calmly, ‘had I been born on the right side of the blanket.’ He waited for her chilly response and the inevitable withdrawal. Their circumstances were unusual and some curiosity was natural. But a well-bred young lady would not stoop to befriend a by-blow.
Instead, she continued as though she found nothing particularly unusual about his past. ‘I enjoyed my schooling as well. There is a great comfort to be found in books.’
And why did you need comforting, I wonder? The woman was a curiosity.
‘But in such places as I was sent, most of the time is spent ensuring that young ladies are properly prepared to take their roles as wives and mothers, and are assets to the households of their intended husbands.’
Which made them sound little better than servants. Perhaps they had more in common then he’d thought.
She sighed. ‘When Mother died, it was agreed, amongst us, that it would be for the best that I come home from school and see to things.’
Liar. Her father had commanded it, he was sure. He risked a question. ‘And what sorts of things needed seeing to?’
‘Once we were out of mourning, my younger sister, Priscilla, was ready to make her come out. And it has been decided that I must be her guard, until she finds a husband. The stronger must protect the weaker, after all.’
‘And you are the stronger,’ he said, softly.
Her eyes narrowed. ‘I am. In mind and in body. I am older and wiser, as well. And with no mother to advise or protect her, someone must care for Priscilla.’ There had been the faintest, most fleeting hint of a something on her face as she had said it, as though she remembered a time not so long ago when she had not thought that way at all. But her father had called her home. And like an obedient daughter, she had come and done exactly as she was told, putting all of her own dreams aside for the good of her sister. More than her mother had died on that day, John was sure of it, but Lady Dru had convinced herself otherwise.
Out of the blue, she added, ‘Priscilla is the prettier of the two of us, and with the extra attention she receives from so many gentlemen, there is an increased risk.’
‘Prettier than you?’
For a moment, her frown faded into a look of surprise, softening her features into a dark attractiveness that quickened his pulse. ‘Of course. She is of a more appropriate height, delicate of frame, fair of hair, pale of skin.’
And that explained why she would run to Scotland after a man who no longer wanted her. If she thought this Mr Gervaise was her only opportunity, if their understanding was that he would wait until she felt free to marry, she would be loathe to let him go.
It pained him to see such hesitance in one who was normally so sure of herself. Would it do any harm to give her some assurance on her looks? For it was clear that no one else, not even the errant Gervaise, had done so. ‘There is nothing inappropriate about your height,’ he said. ‘It suits you. And your frame suits your height. In my experience, delicacy is as likely to go hand in hand with sickness as it is with beauty. A lack of frailty on your part is hardly an imperfection.’
She was blinking at him again, as though she could not quite understand what it was that he meant. But it had brought a faint flush to her pale cheeks that made her all the more attractive, so he dared and went on, ‘Your colouring might not be the same as your sister’s, but it is most fetching. I am sure the two of you, when side by side, are an attractive counterpoint to each other.’ Now he was wishing he had a hand free to adjust his spectacles so that he might get a better look at her face before continuing. ‘That is only