Did the man have no shame? “And,” she went on, waving her hands in frustration, “you lied!”
“Yes.”
Francesca wanted to scream. “Is that all you’re—Wait a minute.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “What were youreallydoing at Mr. Skerrit’s, Lord Winterbourne?”
He didn’t answer, his face a blank canvas, but for once she didn’t mind. “Are you some sort of spy?” It was the first thought that popped into her head.
“You have an active imagination, Miss Dashing.”
She couldn’t deny it, but she’d said something that struck a mark. She had seen the quick tensing of his jaw when she’d said the wordspy—the hard set of his lips before they’d relaxed back into deceptive detachment. She had seen that look before, in another lifetime, when the two of them had danced at the Harcourts’ ball.
“You were doing more than riding by Skerrit’s farm yesterday, weren’t you, Lord Winterbourne?” She took a step toward him, trying to find the best angle to
judge the expression on his face. “No wonder you were so quick to buy Thunder. You were trying to rid yourself of me!”
“I’m beginning to thinkthat’san impossibility,” he muttered.
Francesca huffed. It all made sense now—his annoyance with her, his eagerness to buy a horse he didn’t want. What if her guess was true? What if she’d interrupted him in the midst of a mission for the Foreign Office, perhaps even for Prime Minister Pitt himself? She’d allowed her imagination to run wild, and now she couldn’t seem to rein it in.
“Is Mr. Skerrit a threat? Is he an agent for the French? Oh!” She put her hands to her throat. “Those men we just saw kept talking about a Frenchie.” She took another step forward and grasped Winterbourne’s forearm. She clutched him, feeling the security of solid muscle under her fingers. “Hampshire hasn’t been” —she swallowed—“invaded? Has it?”
“No.” His voice was harsh with exasperation. “The French have not invaded the Hampshire countryside.”
She took his arm with her other hand, holding him with both now. “Oh, thank God!”
He glanced at her hands, ungloved and red from cold against the dark material of his greatcoat. Suddenly aware of his warmth seeping through the material and the hard, sculpted feel of his muscles beneath her hands, she released him and stepped away.
She glanced in the direction of Tanglewilde, then back at him.
“Miss Dashing, either lead the way, or I’ll pick you up, throw you over my shoulders, and carry you home.”
“No!” She held up her hands to ward him off. “You can’t do that.”
“Watch me.”
He was so close, she felt his breath caress her cheek. When she met his gaze, he stared right back, and she realized he meant what he said.
It had been bad enough imagining arriving at Tanglewilde—traipsing past all the servants and God knew who else—with the notorious Marquess of Winterbourne at her side. That in itself would create enough scandal among her bored, sleepy neighbors for a year. Probably more. But if she showed up, tossed over his shoulder like a soldier’s spoils of war, she’d die from the shame. She’d already been the source of gossip once because of him.
He gestured for her to begin walking.
Francesca winced. She could not return to Tanglewilde with the Marquess of Winterbourne. She was already out of her father’s favor because of Thunder; she could only imagine the array of colors he’d turn if she brought Winterbourne to dinner.
Lord! Thunder! She still had to find a place for her baby. She eyed Winterbourne. Now that she knew the real reason he’d been at Skerrit’s and bought the horse, it seemed unlikely he’d be willing to take the colt, even temporarily.
“Lord Winterbourne,” she began, not sure what she was about to say.
A warning flashed in his eyes, and she grasped her skirts in her hand, scurrying out of his reach and onto the road. He followed her.
Even worse than her father would be her mother. Though he’d treated her abominably at the Harcourts’ ball, the marquess was prime marriage material. A juicy fly for her mother to trap in her web. A snack to feed her mother’s obsession with Francesca’s unmarried state. Despite her mother’s love of gossip, she cared almost nothing for the marquess’s tainted reputation. Like the rest of theton, she could forgive almost anything if the gentleman had enough money, power, or good looks. Winterbourne had all three—in abundance.
And Francesca did not want to imagine what Winterbourne’s impression of her mother would be. The viscountess would probably collapse in utter delight at the sight of him. She’d certainly waste no time bringing up the topic of marriage and making not-so-subtle hints that he should consider her daughter as a prospective bride.
Francesca felt terror creeping in as they topped the final rise. At the summit, they’d have a full view of Tanglewilde.
She turned abruptly and came to a full stop, holding up her hand to stall his progress. “I wish to extend my most fervent thanks for the escort you have provided me today, but I fear I must insist upon traversing the last quarter mile alone.” She gave the speech in her most authoritative tone and curtsied prettily, thinking it a nice touch. It was actually one of her more graceful curtseys, until Winterbourne led his horse past her and she almost fell over.
“W-where are you going?” she stammered, regaining her footing and stumbling after him.
