How to Steal a Scoundrel's Heart (The Mating Habits of Scoundrels #4)(8)
The heat of embarrassment flooded her cheeks. Though, if she’d needed further reassurance that the marquess had no interest in seducing her, she had it.
“Of course,” she said, but fumbled with the clasp.
Before he even finished saying, “Allow me,” he lifted a long-fingered hand, flicked the fastening, divested her of her cloak and tossed it up to the driver.
Startled by his degree of deftness with disrobing the nearest female, she stared warily down at the hand he offered to help her into the carriage. “I can manage on my own, thank you.”
He inclined his head and lowered the hinged step. Which she would have navigated perfectly well if the broken sole of her half boot hadn’t caught against the edge. She teetered for the barest second before her fingers found purchase in the warmth of his waiting palm.
His hold was firm and steady as he guided her inside. And it wasn’t until she withdrew that she felt the sharp prickle of a splinter she’d taken the day before.
Prue didn’t dare to look at his expression, knowing it must be filled with distaste. She knew how rough her flesh had become over the past year. He was likely used to softly pampered women who bathed with scented oils and dressed in the finest silks, instead of layers of mud and poorly mended muslin.
These thoughts were only confirmed as the luxurious interior enveloped her. He was most definitely used to the finer things.
She balked at the rich surroundings. It seemed more like a bedchamber than a carriage, imbued with the subtle fragrances of new upholstery, sandalwood and amber, and a pleasant spice of some sort. Her fingertips sank into the plush pile of brushed velvet as she sat on the edge of a bench that was softer than any sofa she’d ever encountered and adorned with rolled bolster pillows on either side. Shimmering black silk lined the hood, running in fanned pleats that gathered in the center. And the surrounding windows were swathed in tieback brocade curtains trimmed in silver fringe.
Tut-tut, Prudence. Your admiration of such frippery is sinful.
Aunt Thorley’s voice in her head was likely correct, but Prue couldn’t help it. She’d never seen a more magnificent carriage in her life.
It made her all the more aware of the dreadful state of her clothes.
As he climbed in after her, unfolding his masculine form on the inverse corner, she smoothed her damp skirts and sat as primly as possible. Yet, when the carriage set off, the momentum forced her back against the tufted cushion.
So she tried again to maintain a formal bearing, not only to keep herself from ruining the upholstery but to keep from relaxing her guard in the company of a scoundrel. She had vowed never to make that mistake again.
“You may as well abandon yourself to comfort, Miss Thorogood. We have a few hours ahead of us and not a single soul around to care if you slouch.”
“I’m not usually given to slouching, my lord.”
“You don’t say,” he remarked without a shred of surprise as he withdrew a handkerchief and extended it to her. Seeing her watchful hesitation, he added, “No improper advances hidden within the pressed creases, I assure you.”
She accepted the offering with a nod of thanks and unfolded it carefully, not wanting to soil it in any way.
“I hope your sacrificed combs purchased a meal and a room for last night, in addition to coach fare,” he said, casually easing back against the squabs.
The hand daintily blotting the droplets of dew from her face paused. How did he know? Yes, it was true. She had sold them. But surely, he couldn’t have recalled such an insignificant detail in her appearance from their brief encounter yesterday.
“They did . . . for the most part,” she answered. “Although, the landlady was in a delicate condition and her time had come. And since the cook was also the local midwife, they adjourned to the room upstairs. This left the kitchen without a servant. So I offered my services, such as they are, tidying up, boiling water, and readying the linens for a makeshift bassinet.”
“You offered to—” He broke off abruptly, his features revealing bald surprise before he carefully resumed a mask of nonchalance. “How industrious.”
“I know engaging in such labor is hardly common practice for young women in society. Since living with my aunt and uncle for the past year, however, I’ve become well accustomed to earning my keep through daily household tasks. And it was no trouble at all to lend a hand when needed.”
Returning the handkerchief, she saw his gaze drift to her chapped hands and she hastily hid them in the folds of her skirts.
“Your aunt and uncle are absolute models of economy,” he quipped, scrubbing the same handkerchief over his own face and through the layers of his wavy hair. “I, myself, wanted to turn all my relations into indentured servants but, sadly, I don’t have any. None legitimate, at any rate.”
She squared her shoulders. “I do not want your pity.”
“I have naught to give. In fact, I was asking for yours. Not only do I lack a nephew to enslave, but there isn’t even a single cousin to fight over his place in my will or to secretly plot my murder. Terrible shame, isn’t it?”
She didn’t answer but studied him quizzically in the shifting gray light. Was he truly that self-absorbed, or was he merely attempting to put her at ease?
Not that it mattered to her either way. As soon as the carriage stopped in London, their acquaintance would come to an end. Besides, she was feeling too grateful for being off her feet to want to delve beneath his surface. She would hate to discover something to like about him.