He gave her an ominous smile and prepared to reach for her. And then the chit had the audacity— the out-and-out gall—to turn those huge blue eyes on him. How was he supposed to toss her out on the street with those sapphire eyes practically begging him to help her? He didn’t know what she needed help with, but somehow, he knew she needed him.
And so, instead of tossing the chit out the carriage door, he found himself asking their destination.
Not that he would help the brunette. He was done with helping damsels in distress—and that included his brother. Jack slipped his head in the noose for no man.
Or woman.
Not anymore.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t ask.
It was the blonde who answered him, and once Jack got a good look at her, saw who she was, he wasn’t surprised.
“We’re going to Gretna Green,” she told him. “Without you. Get out.”
Jack blinked at her forceful response, though he shouldn’t have been surprised. “Miss Brittany,” he said easily. “Why am I not surprised that you are eloping to Gretna Green?”
The blonde exchanged a look with the brunette, then spat, “Obviously my reputation precedes me, sir. And you are?”
“Not impressed by you.”
Jack glanced at the couple across from him. The man would be no threat. He wasn’t a fighter by nature. By the way he watched the events unfolding in the carriage, Jack knew the man was an observer. He reminded Jack of his professors at Cambridge.
Dismissing the professor, Jack directed his attention back to the brunette. “Now, you,” he said, allowing his gaze to caress her pink cheeks, her ripe mouth, her slender neck, and—
Jack took a shaky breath.
—her other ample charms.
He was in more danger than he’d anticipated.
“You impress me.” He extended a hand, which she didn’t take. “Jack Martingale, Marquess of Blackthorne.”
The blonde took in a sharp breath—which was the usual response when he met a young lady— but the brunette showed no sign of knowing who he was.
“I do not mean to impress you, sir,” the brunette said, and her voice was rich and velvety, like her long, chestnut curls. “I only mean to travel to Gretna Green. Mr. Dover and I hope to marry as soon as possible.”
The punch Jack felt in his gut was as real as any his brother had given him in the coffeehouse. Only it hurt like hell. It hurt as bad as that time he’d been in a dockside brawl and one of the sailors had knifed him in the ribs then twisted it just to hear him scream.
Jack hadn’t given the sailor the pleasure. It had been that man who’d screamed in the end, but Jack never forgot the pain of that knife blade. He felt it now.
The brunette and the professor?
He couldn’t stop himself from glancing down at those ample charms again. Perhaps it was a good thing the professor had a claim on her. Jack didn’t think he could be responsible for his actions otherwise.
“Lord Blackthorne,” Ashley Brittany was saying.
Jack looked back at her. She was a lovely girl. A classic beauty who had turned the heads of all his friends. He didn’t know why she didn’t turn his head as well. Perhaps because she was too perfect.
Perfection bored him.
“I don’t know what you are doing here, but you must leave.”
“I don’t think so,” Jack said.
“Sir, I am afraid I must concur with Miss Brittany,” the professor said. “This matter does not involve you. Unless . . . ” He exchanged a glance with the brunette. “Speak up now, sir. Were you hired by Lord Castleigh?”
Jack blinked. “Castleigh? Why the hell would I be working for that old frump?”
