It had sold like wildfire. Her words, Selina’s incisive cartoon—the piece had been daring and honest andright. Lydia had been so proud of that pamphlet. When she’d seen the two matrons in the park—had sensed the hope her words had engendered—she’d felt strong and certain and bright with resolve. She’d felt as though she could do anything.
She tried very hard to recall that confidence as she looked between Strathrannoch’s groom and the two bay horses that had drawn their carriage all the way up to the castle from Dunkeld.
“Where did you say Angus went?” Angus, she had learned that morning, was the postboy.
The groom ran his hand through his thinning sandy hair and looked apologetically at her. “The sheep walk, lass.”
“Perhaps you might point me in the direction of—”
The groom coughed. “With his wife, you ken.”
Lydia did not precisely ken.
“Yon Angus has been away these last two weeks, you see.” The groom’s ears had gone quite red, and he seemed unable to meet Lydia’s gaze. “I suspect it may be some time before they’re back. Perhaps dusk. Perhaps—er—tomorrow morning.”
Ah. That was—ah. She felt her own face heat.
And then the rest of the groom’s words registered.Tomorrow morning.
Tomorrow.
No. No. She could not do it. She would not. Sherefusedto go back to Strathrannoch Castle with her tail between her legs and beg the earl—to whom she had first proposed and then run from like her frock was on fire—for his leave to remain there overnight.
She looked from the groom to the post-chaise, which was currently devoid of horses. “Can you reattach them?”
“What’s that?”
She gestured, a little wildly. “The horses. Reattach them. Harness them back to the carriage.”
“Aye,” he said slowly. “But how do you mean to get back to Dunkeld?”
Lydia thought very hard about her pamphlets and the way she’d felt that day in the park. Resolute. Capable. Intrepid.
Oh God. Oh hell. She licked her lips and forced herself to say the words.
“I will do it,” she said. “I will drive the carriage.”
Roughly a quarter of an hour later, Lydia found herself perched atop a large bay horse, pondering the nature of her life’s choices. At what point, precisely, had this journey gone from “bold and daring” to “utterly, disastrously doomed”?
She had brought a riding habit in her trunk, a fact she was grateful for because a post-chaise was steered not by a seated driver but by a postilion on horseback. There was no driver’s seat.
She wasinthe driver’s seat, and it was on the back of a horse.
There was also no sidesaddle—of course there was not—and though she’d occasionally ridden astride, she was not especially proficient at it. The saddle between her thighs felt huge and unwieldy, the post-chaise behind her back a looming threat.
She did not care. She was getting herself out of this bloody castle, even if she had to abandon her belongings and walk back to Dunkeld.
She hoped she did not have to walk. Georgiana, she was quite certain, would not be enthused about walking.
Georgiana wouldn’t be terribly enthused aboutcrashing, either, but Lydia tried not to think about it.
She guided the horses and carriage back to the front of the castle. Georgiana—bless her—was waiting just outside, Bacon at her feet and her expression inscrutable. Beside her stood the Earl of Strathrannoch, looking large and imposing and utterly fearsome.
Georgiana arched one elegant brow at the sight of Lydia on horseback. “Well. I presume Angus was otherwise occupied.”
“Get in,” Lydia said, her words coming out a jumbled rush. “The luggage is still loaded. We’re going to Dunkeld.”
“Have youmurderedAngus? Because otherwise I cannot fathom why we are not simply waiting for his return—”
