That blasted dimple. She’d always been wary of its potency, but never more so than now, when she was trapped alone in a coach with him.
Best to avoid looking at him altogether—
“If you don’t mind my saying so, Miss Bishop, you look as if you could use a little Christmas escapade.” Oliver’s dimples flashed in a sly smile, as if he’d read her mind and was determined to make her look at him.
Dinah crossed her arms over her chest, nettled. “I don’t like Christmas escapades.” She didn’t care much for escapades at any time of year, escapades being, in her opinion tedious, bothersome things that led more often to disappointment than pleasure.
In the worst cases, they led to disaster.
Oliver waved this objection away. “Everyone likes a Christmas escapade, and in any case, you couldn’t send me off to Cliff’s Edge alone in my weakened state.”
“How are you weakened? You look perfectly fit to me. Not a single festering wound or pistol ball embedded in you anywhere.” Oliver looked better than fit. So much better Dinah was obliged to tear her gaze away from the sight of his lean, muscled form.
“Fit! What about my injuries?” He gestured to the cut above his eye. “It still bleeds now and then, you know. Really, how can you be so hard-hearted?”
Dinah rolled her eyes. She wasn’t hard-hearted enough, otherwise she wouldn’t be in the coach with him at all. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You are, indeed, and we’ll have a merry enough time together as long as you’re prepared to indulge my every whim.”
“It’s only a day’s journey, my lord. I doubt we’ll have time to indulge them all.”
“May I choose the ones we do indulge?” Oliver asked, his lips quirking in a lazy smile.
Dinah’s gaze wandered to those hypnotic dimples again and a resigned sigh left her lips. If she wasn’t careful, she might well find herself indulging his every whim.
Very well, then. It was back to not looking at him.
She turned her face to the window and watched as Tottenham gave way to Palmer’s Green, and Palmer’s Green to Enfield. The sumptuous velvet seats cradled her exhausted limbs, and the monotonous swaying rocked her until her eyelids grew heavy and she leaned her head against the glass.
“Yes, that’s it. You’ll feel much better after a rest.” Oliver’s voice was low and soothing. There was a faint rustle, then he tucked something soft and warm around her shoulders. The last thing she remembered before she drifted off to sleep was gentle fingers brushing her hair back from her face.
She woke from a peaceful doze much later, a startled cry on her lips. Her head was fuzzy with sleep, and it was some moments before she realized she’d been thrust into wakefulness with a hard jolt.
She’d had a dream she was falling…
Where was she? Not in her bed. It was far too warm and comfortable. Quiet, too, without the usual shouts and curses from the street below, and not even a hint of the dusty smell of damp and mildew that always assaulted her upon waking.
Instead it smelled divine, like vanilla and cedar with a touch of citrus. Dinah’s nose twitched with pleasure as she inhaled the familiar scent. It was J Floris’s Malmaison—she’d know it anywhere, because it reminded her of—
Oliver.
Yes, of course. She remembered now. She’d gone to Mayfair yesterday morning to fetch Oliver, he’d come down looking as if he’d been trampled by a horse, and the next thing she knew, she’d agreed to go to Cliff’s Edge with him. They were in the coach on their way there now.
She wasn’t sure how he’d talked her into it, but then Oliver was very, very good at coaxing. He could wheedle the feathers from a bird, the cream from a cat—
“Shall I return you to your seat, or would you prefer to remain where you are?” A husky voice rumbled nearby, and soft breath tickled her ear. “You’re quite welcome to stay.”
Stay? Yes, perhaps she would. She quite liked it here. Something warm and solid was wrapped around her, and her cheek was resting on a pillow of fresh linen. She tilted her head back and saw a white cravat tied neatly under a strong, angular jaw shaded with a faint trace of bristly black hair.
Black hair? What—
Dinah’s eyes snapped wide open, the last vestiges of sleep evaporating. She wasn’t just in the coach with Oliver—she was on his lap—and her cheek wasn’t resting on a pillow—it was resting on his chest.
Dinah leapt free of his arms as if her skirts had caught fire. She shot him a baleful look once she was safely on her side of the carriage, but Oliver only gave her an innocent grin. “I beg your pardon. We had a bit of a jolt. I was obliged to catch you before you tumbled off your seat.”
“I see. Were you obliged to wrap your arms around me, too?”
“I thought you might be cold. You were shivering,” Oliver replied, looking affronted.
Dinah pinched her lips together. For a gentleman who was so frequently up to mischief, he certainly managed to look incredulous when he was accused of it. “Why have we stopped?”
She peered out her window. It was later than she’d expected—well into the afternoon already, and a light snow was drifting down from the sky.
“The coachman was obliged to stop for a rather stubborn herd of cows who insisted upon taking up the whole of the passable bit of the road.”
Dinah frowned. “I don’t see any cows.”
“Well, no. Not anymore. They’ve gone on their way, but Rundell & Bridge aren’t fond of cows, and they don’t care for this coachman. They’re refusing to go.” Oliver’s head coachman had been given leave to visit his family for the holidays, so they had a hired coachman on the box.
“Rundell and Bridge? You named your horses after the London jewelers?”
“Yes, because they’re as perfect as a matched set of pearls. Now the cows have cleared off, I daresay we’ll be on our way as soon as the horses are over their fit of temper.”
Dinah glanced out the window again. They should be near Chelmsford by now, but the road didn’t look familiar. “Where are we? I don’t recognize this road.”
“We’re in Plumstead.” Oliver grinned with delight, as if Plumstead were the only place in the world anyone would care to be on a snowy afternoon in December.
“Plumstead? Cliff’s Edge is in Essex, Oliver. What are we doing in Kent?”
“Alistair Rutherford lives in Kent,” Oliver said, as if this explained everything.
Dinah stared at him. “I’m pleased for Alistair Rutherford, but what are we doing here?”
Oliver sighed, as if she were being very troublesome. “Rutherford’s Scottish, you see—from Bowmore. He fetched a cask of whisky for me last time he was there, and I’ve come to collect it.”
“You couldn’t secure a cask of whisky in London?”
“Not Rutherford’s whisky, and his is the best. It’s a Christmas gift for Christopher. Do you think he’ll like it?”
Lord Christopher had a bit of a wild streak, just like his two elder brothers. Lord Christopher with a cask of whisky at his disposal was sure to lead to a debacle. “I think he’ll be delighted with it. Whether Lord Archer will think it’s as delightful is less certain.”