“I hired a carriage and driver to bring me out here.”
“And where is the hired hack now? Why did you not tell me you had someone with you? What if Frampton’s ruffians got to him?”
“They didn’t.” She pinched her lips together. “The bounder took my fare and then refused to wait for me. Can you believe it? He barreled off, laughing at me.”
“Yes, because you are a naïve little dove.”
“I am nothing of the sort. Is there no honor among thieves?”
He arched an eyebrow. “Apparently not, which is a lesson for you to learn. You may be clever, but you are notstreetclever.”
“And you are?”
“Who, me?” He shook his head. “No. However, I know my skills and limitations, and I try never to underestimate my opposition.”
“Am I your opposition?”
“No, Florence,” he said with surprising gentleness. “You are mine to protect.”
That sounded wonderfully apish. Her heart did little flips, for when had anyone ever felt this way about her?
She cast him a soft smile.
He let out a breath. “And I shall protect you for the duration of our ruse.”
She almost wished their hastily cobbled-together betrothal might last longer, but it was never going to happen. Trajan might appear comfortable with her, and may even have liked their kiss, but he would never love her. Everyone knew his heart belonged to the Duchess of Lynton, the former Lady Eden Darrow. Florence had met her last year and liked her very much. She was charming and lovely—and also deeply in love with her husband, the Duke of Lynton, whocame with three adventurous children and a meddling mother, all of whom adored Eden.
For Trajan, becoming the Duke of Weymouth must have been a reprieve from his unrelenting heartbreak, since it allowed him to be tossed into the hard work necessary to maintain the ducal properties in their proper grandeur and bring the failing ones up to snuff.
But the work was merely a distraction. His heart was still broken because Eden had chosen to love another. Of course, her husband was an excellent man.
However, were Florence in her position, she would have chosen Trajan without question. The kiss they’d shared still lingered on her lips.
Did it linger on his, too? It truly was a wonderful kiss.
However, she dared not make anything of it. He had kissed her because he needed to rescue her, not because he liked her and meant to share a little of his heart.
Besides, weren’t hot, lingering kisses the sort of thing handsome rakes mastered early on in their lives?
Even if he thought her above the string of ladies he’d kissed and forgotten, where would it lead? Certainly not to something meaningful and lasting.
Anyway, she was totally wrong for him. He needed a gentle, nurturing woman who could bring him solace and distract him from his unrequited love for Eden.
Yes, this was the sort of wife he needed. A healer. A comforting companion. They ought to have opened a betting book at White’s to wager on who was the lady most likely to provide him those comforts of a happy home.
That fortunate lady would be the one he’d marry, not some icytondiamond or an unlovable bird watcher whose hem caught on tree branches.
Florence knew his choice could never be her. She cared passionatelyabout many things, but often ruffled feathers instead of soothing them. Simply put, she was more likely to irritate and disrupt rather than provide a welcoming home.
Her mother took every opportunity to tell her so.
It was not long before they arrived at the Weymouth Inn, her charming seaside lodgings these past few days. The inn was quite elegant, ranking high among the finer establishments catering to the upper classes on holiday.
The innkeeper, a portly gentleman with an amiable countenance, hurried toward them as they entered. “Lady Florence! Thank goodness you have been safely returned to us. Your aunt was worried sick about you. What happened? You left early this morning and neglected to have a picnic lunch packed for yourself.”
“Do forgive me for worrying you, Mr. Goring. I was out walking longer than planned. But as you can see, I have been returned without incident by His Grace,” she said, then hastily introduced Trajan as the Duke of Weymouth.
The innkeeper’s attention now turned to Trajan, his expression one of all due deference. The introduction might not have been necessary, since the man had obviously recognized the Duke of Weymouth’s crest emblazoned on his carriage that was still standing in front of the inn, its black steel frame gleaming in all its impressive splendor. “Your Grace, it is an honor to have you with us. May I offer you refreshments?”
