“And to meet high-born ladies, I suspect. A time-honored tactic for social climbers.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I suppose you begrudge my family their ambition, though it is only what our society demands.”
Rafe shrugged. “If people are foolish enough to believe that joining the upper class is worth that much trouble, that’s their problem.”
“I suppose people always want what they cannot have,” she said. “Not you, of course, because you’re not people.”
“No.” He held out a hand to help her into the carriage. “Your carriage awaits, Lady Luxborough.”
“Lady Luxborough,” she repeated with great amusement, and placed her gloved hand on his, warm and alive. It occurred to him with some surprise that this was the first time they had touched. She laughed lightly, and her laughter shot into his hand and up his arm like an electric charge. “Lord and Lady Lucks-bor-ough. Oh—Do they call you ‘Lucky’?”
“Astonishingly enough, they do not.”
Again, she laughed, as she stepped up into the carriage. He let her go, still feeling her warmth and weight, and watched as she arranged her cloak and skirt and sat back, looking about her with delight. She had blankets, as well as a basket of food and drink, and the company of the orchids.
She smiled back at him. “Gilbert says you will travel by horseback, and not in the carriage with me.”
“I daresay you will find the plants’ conversation more stimulating than my own.”
“Oh, you’re not that bad,” she said cheerfully. “I could almost enjoy talking to you.”
He could travel with her, he supposed. It would be more comfortable riding in the carriage than on horseback. They could chat, or not. She could come up with nonsense, and he could pretend not to be amused. He could simply look at her.
Rafe stepped back, slammed the carriage door shut, and made for his horse with such briskness that the startled creature shied away.
A day riding did little to improve Lord Luxborough’s disposition, Thea observed, when they stopped at an inn for the night. Without giving Thea so much as a nod, he left the men to deal with the carriage and strode inside.
The innkeeper took one look at the earl and greeted him as “my lord.” Scowling, Luxborough insisted that he was Mr. Cross, traveling with Mrs. Cross, and demanded separate rooms. The innkeeper began to protest, but a quelling look persuaded him that he could find some rooms, if his lordship, that is, Mr. Cross, didn’t mind waiting.
“We’ll wait in the private parlor,” Luxborough said, and marched straight for it.
The innkeeper scuttled after him. “I’m afraid it’s occupied, m’lord, I mean, Mr. Cross. You see, a small party—”
“Tell them to get out.”
Luxborough threw open the door and froze, aghast. Thea hurried to his side to see what horror lay within. A horror indeed: four women and two children, nearly all of who were weeping.
“What the hell is this?”
The earl shot a furious look at the innkeeper, as though the man had pinched the women to make them cry, purely for his inconvenience. Then one of the children, eyes on Luxborough, cried, “Auntie, it’s the Devil come for us!” and emitted an ear-piercing scream.
Luxborough slammed the door shut.
“Some kind of tragedy, m’lord, I mean, Mr. Cross,” the innkeeper whispered. “They can’t afford the parlor, but I put them there so as not to upset everyone. Weeping women puts people right off their food, it does. It’s the economics of it, m’lord, I mean, Mr. Cross. A man’s got to think of his economics. But if your lordship insists. I mean, Mr. Cross. Sir.”
The innkeeper flashed a worried smile at Thea, who tried to return it. Luxborough made a growling sound and dug out some coins.
“How’s this for your blasted economics? This’ll cover the cost of the parlor for them,” he said irritably. “And send them in food and drink too.”
The innkeeper eagerly took the coins. “Too kind, m’lord, I mean, Mr. Cross. Now, wait one shake of my tail and I’ll have a table cleared in the main tavern.”
“In a corner,” Luxborough called as the man bustled away. “I don’t want any attention on us.”
He drew a deep breath and rubbed one shoulder.
“That was very kind of you,” Thea said tentatively.
“Least I could do after terrifying the children.” For the first time since they stopped, he looked at her, a surprising glint of humor in his expression. “But let the record show that the women were already crying before they saw me.”
“Actually, they stopped crying when they saw you.”
“That’s me,” he agreed glumly. “Bringer of good cheer.”
But his unexpected good humor faded in the doorway to the tavern. It was full of rowdy ale-cheered travelers. The air was smoky from pipes and thick with the smells of stew and, well, travelers.
“This is hell.” Luxborough massaged the back of his neck. “These people. This talking.”
“It’s a normal tavern,” Thea pointed out. “And you don’t seem shy.”
“I’m not. People exhaust me.” He shook his head at the room. “Forget fire and brimstone. Hell is eternity stuck in a stuffy, smoky tavern full of loud Englishmen determined to enjoy themselves, despite having nothing but bland stew, warm ale, and each other.” He slid her a sideways glance. “But you cannot go in alone, can you?”
“No.”
“Right. Hell.”
Shaking his head, he shoved through the crowd to where the innkeeper had cleared them a table by one wall.
No sooner had they sat than a serving woman brought them food and drink. Thea, hungry and happy not to dine alone, showed her gratitude by not talking, despite Luxborough’s new provoking manner of casting her thoughtful glances.
As soon as their plates were empty, the server—perhaps paying them special attention because of the economics—quickly cleared their table and refilled their drinks, after which Luxborough abruptly said, “Your sister.”
Thea’s hand jerked and wine sloshed onto the table.
“My sister?” she squeaked, busily wiping up the spill.
“Dorothea, I believe, is her name.”
“Ah. Yes. Thea. Right.”
“Rumor has it she developed a scheme of seducing noblemen in an effort to trap one into marriage,” he said. “But she tried it with more than one at a time and they found out.”
How very succinct he was, Thea thought, and poked at a remaining droplet of wine.
“So what is the full story?” he asked.
She looked up, startled. “You want to hear the story?”
“That’s what I said.”
Oh. Only Arabella had ever asked her for the story. Warm pleasure spread through her like wine, and she sat back to consider her approach. How odd to narrate her own story as if it had happened to someone else. Unless—yes! She would be like the narrator in her pamphlet, telling the tale not of Thea Knight but of the heroine, Rosamund.
“Very well,” she said. “I shall tell you the tale of…a winsome lass.”
“Winsome?” He regarded her skeptically. “Do you even know what that means?”