If the carriage went any slower, theyād be traveling back in time.
Leo Ramsgate, Marquess of Savage, muttered a curse beneath his breath and snapped his pocket watch closed before he tapped on the hood. āWhat appears to be the problem, Rogers?ā
āSheep, milord.ā
Ah. That explained it, he thought with a glance through the rain-dappled window toward the rolling hills of the verdant Wiltshire countryside. He wonderedāand not for the first timeāwhy heād agreed to escort his former paramour to Bath. Typically, when an affair ended, it was over and done with for good. And yet, here he was, waiting for sheep.
As they came to a complete stop, a heavy sigh drifted across the carriage. āWill I be so easy to forget, Savage? No, donāt answer that. Youāll only say something detached and uncaring to make me feel guilty for my part in this premature separation of ours. Yet you never take any blame for pushing me into the arms of another man.ā
Thus far on their journey, Lady Chastaine had held fast to two topics of conversationāthe weather and their misunderstanding, as she put it. If she wasnāt scourging the rain for frizzling her auburn coiffure and the dreary gray atmosphere for doing nothing to complement her complexion, then she was relentlessly denying any culpability for her adulterous tryst. Had her excuses been a dead horse, she would not only have beaten it but dismembered and buried it in the deepest pit from which nothing could return.
He stared back at her with the bland nonchalance heād perfected over the years. āAm I as ruthless as all that?ā
āMore,ā she said with kittenish petulance.
He called up to Rogers again. āAny news to report?ā
āThere appears to be . . .ā His words were drowned out by the excited barking of a dog, agitated baahs and the hollow clanking of a copper bell.
Leo opened the door to the drizzle and peered ahead, trying to discern the cause for himself. Unfortunately, from his vantage point, all he could see was a flock of dirty-arsed sheep.
āBut Iāll have you know,ā Phoebe continued, āI wonāt be jealous of your next mistress. Iām too self-assured for that.ā
āGlad to hear it.ā
āAnd besides. For that, I would have to suffer from the delusion that you could ever truly care about any of the women you take as mistress. But you and I both know that isnāt possible.ā
āAre we back to calling me heartless again?ā he asked, flicking an absent glance over his shoulder.
She squinted at him, pouting prettily. āDid we ever stop?ā
His mouth quirked in response. He would miss Phoebeās particular brand of cynicism. Her wit could flay a manās ego at fifty paces. Her tongue was waspish to a fault, but also devilishly skilled in other more delightfully provocative ways. No, she wouldnāt be easy to forget. But he would put her from his mind, regardless, as heād always done with each paramour at the end of every affair.
The problem was, escaping the tedium of eternity that yawned before him in the meantime.
Leo had never been a man at ease with lingering in the hinterland between two placesāthe end of one thing and the beginning of another. Heād much prefer to continue on to London and find a new mistress to take her place. But instead, he was trapped here in this provincial hell.
His throat tightened on a growl of impatience as he called up to the driver again. āWhat were you saying, Rogers?ā
āA woman, milord. On foot. The shepherdās drover wonāt let her pass. Oh, and now heās got hold of her bag with his teeth.ā He chuckled, clearly amused by the spectacle. āItās a right solid tug-of-war, it is.ā
Well, damn. Now Leo had to step out and see this nonsense for himself. If nothing else, it would serve as a distraction.
āSo . . . have you?ā Phoebe asked as he stepped down, the muddy road squishing beneath his hessians. āSelected my replacement, that is?ā
He murmured an absent response that was neither admission nor negation.
As of yet, heād not made a firm decision. He received more than a dozen perfume-scented requests by post each week, some even from women who lived on other continents and knew him by reputation alone. There were more who approached him at evening soirees, whispering scandalous promises in his ear while slipping calling cards into his pockets. It was only a matter of choosing one to be on his arm and in his bed.
āNot that I care a whit, mind you,ā she said, her skirts rustling against the bench as she scooted closer to peer over his shoulder. āJust donāt tell me that itās to be Millie Sutton.ā
He absently pulled at the cuffs of his green coat and looked toward the convergence of dingy sheep and the barefooted shepherd boy. āNo?ā
āAbsolutely not.ā She scoffed. āWith that chirruping laugh of hers? And she thinks sheās oh-so clever with her fan-play. Someone should tell her that she looks more like an injured parakeet with all that flailing and flapping. Not only that, but she whines constantly about the old earl leaving her nothing in his will. Iāve even heard that sheās already ordered seven new gowns because sheās anticipating your invitation and told her modiste that you would pay for them. Why, that woman would drain your coffers dry in a month if you let her.ā
āAnd here I thought you didnāt care.ā
The truth was, heād always known that women were attracted to what he could offer on the surface. Women liked his looks, his bedsport prowess, and especially his money. Which was perfectly fine with him.
It didnāt matter much in the end, regardless. He never kept a mistress beyond four months. After that, it just felt too . . . permanent. Too confining. A lengthy affair only built expectations like a house of cards, increasing the likelihood of collapse with disappointments and betrayals. As his current former mistress had so kindly reminded him.
A large sheepdog appeared on the grassy knoll, drawing him out of his musings. The shaggy canine gamboled by in a ripple of rope-like fur, tinged a sooty black on the ends. A battered leather valise was clenched in his teeth. He stopped to look over his shoulder, one eye peeping through a thick mop of fringe, bobtail wagging as a figure approached.
And that was the instant Leo first saw the woman.
She dashed into view at a long, graceful lope, a damp gray cloak plastered to her willowy form. In her haste, the hood slipped to her shoulders, revealing an intricately braided twist of hair the color of fresh buttermilk. Loose tendrils escaped the confines of tortoiseshell combs and spilled wetly against the curve of her cheek. But she paid them no mind. Her focus was on the dog.
Just as she was closing in, the beast playfully darted from one side to the other. The young woman paused, slender hands on hips, and regarded the thief with marked determination. After a momentās consideration, she bent to pat the tops of her thighs. Then she pursed a pair of deep pink, Cupidās-bow lips and kissed the air to call the animal.
Leo felt himself take a step.
The motion must have drawn her attention. Her head turned at once and a pair of stormy blue eyes alighted on him. Framed with lashes the color of dark sand, they were set inside a heart-shaped face bejeweled by beads of dew that shimmered like diamonds in the bleary rain-soaked light.
Leo couldnāt look away. A legion of trimmed tawny hairs lifted on his nape, his flesh tightening beneath layers of fine lawn and tailored wool. And when she straightened, his appreciative gaze drifted down the lithe form that the clever rain saw fit to reveal in subtle curves and shallow nooks where the dark cloak clung.
When his gaze returned to hers, there was a definite degree of coldness there. A warning to keep his distance. And since he couldnāt fathom why heād moved in the first placeāwhen he was the last man on earth to come to the aid of a damsel in distress, no matter how fairāhe merely inclined his head and anchored his boots to the earth.
āEven she would be a far sight better for you than Millie Sutton,ā Phoebe said.
āA wayward country waif? I think not.ā
āOh, but sheās one of us,ā she said, surprising him. āIām acquainted with her stepmother, Lady Whitcombe. The viscountess and I were finished together.ā
āHow delightfully sapphic, my dear. I do hope you both enjoyed yourselves.ā
Phoebe ignored the naughty remark. āIf rumors are to be believedāand you know the delicious ones always areāthis stepdaughter was caught in a rather compromising position at one of the soirees last year. Donāt know the particulars, but the gentleman involved obviously chose not to marry her. Poor girl. Quite ruined, of course. Lord Whitcombe holds a seat in Parliament and summarily banished her to the country without batting an eyelash.ā
āNothing like the warm embrace of a father to give one a bright start in the world,ā Leo muttered sotto voce.
His moodābitter as it usually wasāabruptly soured. He knew all too well what it was like to have parents who chose their own pursuits without considering the ramifications to others.
What the devil was the daughter of a peer doing out here all alone? Had she no other family to look after her?
He studied the stranger once more as she attempted to reclaim her property. He caught sight of the frayed hem and a faded blue dress that had seen better days. Yet, even in tattered muslin, there was something regal in her bearing. She kept her swanlike neck straight as she snapped her graceful fingers and ordered the dog to heel.
Surprisingly, the beast trotted toward her. But heeling wasnāt at all what he had in mind.
Instead, he bounded up with his paws reaching to her shoulders, his hindquarters wagging with glee. However, since he likely outweighed her by a stone, she summarily toppled to the squelchy ground with an audible splat.
A huff of indignation preceded her careful attempts to stand with utmost decorum. Yet, as soon as she righted herself and shook out her skirts, the dog woofed and knocked her down again.
This was all just a game to the exceptionally enormous puppy an...
