“I know. Which I find rather amazing. How many women would reject the hand of a duke?”
She gave him a quelling look. “I don’t wish to discuss it.”
“And I don’t wish to discuss my involvement any further. I’ll pay a visit to Bow Street as soon as I return to London. Now just say a gracious thank-you, sweeting, and hold your tongue.”
“Very well, thank you, your grace,” Roslyn said grudgingly.
“That wasn’t gracious enough,” Drew observed. “I can be of help to you and you know it.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “Very well, you win. I would appreciate your help.”
Drew regarded her with satisfaction. After their tumultuous parting last night in the garden, he wanted very much to have Roslyn smile at him again. “That is much better-”
He had only completed half the sentence when a sudden crack of lightning split the sky on their left, followed swiftly by a ferocious clap of thunder. His high-strung horses shied violently at the boom and lunged forward, jerking the curricle behind them.
Drew swore under his breath and tightened his grip on the reins, struggling to hold the grays, yet it was difficult when a gusting wind began buffeting them. And when a second jagged streak of lightning was accompanied by more explosive thunder, the pair panicked and bolted into a gallop.
It was all Drew could do to maintain control as the curricle went careening down the country lane. He had just started to slow the frightened horses when one of the wheels hit a pothole with a loud crack, jolting the vehicle so hard that both he and Roslyn were nearly thrown from their seats.
Drew caught her and clung precariously as the curricle canted at a dangerous angle. They were dragged behind the racing pair for a hundred yards or more, until at last he managed to haul the horses to a trembling halt.
“Are you all right?” he demanded of Roslyn.
“Yes,” she said shakily. “What of the horses?”
Tossing her the reins, Drew jumped down and went to their heads, trying to soothe them. “They’re unharmed, but the wheel is shot.”
The metal rim had come off and the wooden wheel had splintered in fragments, so that the axle was almost touching the ground. The wheel would have to be repaired before the curricle was functional again.
In any event, outracing the storm was out of the question, for already they were being pelted by stinging raindrops.
He was debating whether to walk back to the village or search for the nearest farm when the heavens suddenly opened up. In seconds they were drenched by a torrent of icy rain.
Drew immediately set to work unharnessing the horses, and when another lightning bolt shook the ground, Roslyn climbed down from the curricle and pointed at a shadowy structure set back off the lane.
“There is a cottage,” she shouted. “Can we take shelter there?”
“Better than remaining here,” Drew responded over the din. The cottage would offer nominal protection from the lightning and slashing rain at least.
Roslyn helped him to unbuckle the leather straps of the harnesses, but for her safety, Drew led the nervous horses through the deluge.
It was slow going. They could barely see in the downpour, and her shoes were not made for trudging over uneven ground made treacherous with mud.
The lightning struck dangerously close again just as they finally reached the cottage. The small dwelling was built of stone with a thatched roof, Drew saw, and boasted a shed for livestock against one wall.
“I recognize this place,” Roslyn shouted again. “It belongs to the Widow Jearson, but she may not be here. I heard she is visiting her granddaughter for her lying-in.” Stumbling forward, Roslyn dragged open the door to the shed. “Yes, I was right. She has a pony and cart, but they are both are gone. There is room for your horses, though.”
Drew led the skittish grays inside while Roslyn quickly shut the door behind them to keep out the fierce gusts of rain. As he took stock of the shed, she leaned back against the door in obvious relief, her breath a little ragged. Through the dim light slanting through the one window, he could see she was soaked to the skin, with her hair plastered to her head. His coat had been useless in protecting her, but at least she was now safe from the ferocity of the storm.
There was only one stall, but it would serve to hold the horses, Drew decided, and there was even a forkful of hay in the manger to keep them occupied. He removed their bridles and turned the grays loose, but to his surprise, Roslyn followed them inside.
She had rummaged in a cupboard and found some rags, which she proceeded to use to wipe down their soaked hides.
“You don’t have to curry my horses, sweeting,” Drew said, relieving her of a rag.
She flashed him a damp smile. “I feel obliged, since they suffered enough abuse at my hands for one day. And it won’t be good for them to be put up wet.”
It didn’t totally surprise him that she would place the animals’ comfort and well-being over her own, but it did surprise him that a lady of her breeding would know how to properly care for blood horses.
“Where did you learn to groom?”
“My sisters and I had to care for our own mounts for the past four years, since our step-uncle wouldn’t let his grooms assist us.”
Drew found his jaw tightening at the reminder of the late Lord Danvers. The miserly curmudgeon had treated his step-nieces like supplicants, not only forcing them to work for their livings and become teachers at their academy, but to perform the tasks of menial servants.
“We didn’t mind,” Roslyn added when she saw his frown. “And Lily thrived on it. She would much rather spend her time in a barn than a ballroom.”
When they had finished, the grays not only were much drier but had calmed down significantly. They stood quietly munching hay, even though rain still drummed fiercely upon the roof and outside thunder rolled and lightning crackled.
Roslyn, however, had begun shivering in her wet clothing.
“Let’s move to the cottage,” Drew said. “It will be warmer there.”
“The doors may be locked,” she replied skeptically.
“Then we’ll break in. You can’t stay here in this condition.”
Leaving the shed, they made a dash through the rain for the front cottage door, which indeed was locked. Drew had to pry open a window in order to gain access. He climbed inside, then ushered Roslyn in through the door and slammed it behind her.
“I don’t think Mrs. Jearson will mind if we take refuge here,” Roslyn said breathlessly as she stood drenched and dripping, “but she won’t be pleased that we’ve damaged her home.”
“I’ll repay her, of course.”
The interior was cold and dark, since minimal light seeped in through the shutters. But it was spotlessly clean and quite comfortable-or it would be once they got a fire going in the hearth.
There were two rooms, Drew saw. The main one that served as living quarters and kitchen, and a smaller one to the rear that was obviously a bedchamber.
“The accommodations are not what a duke is accustomed to,” Roslyn said, moving to the kitchen. “Mrs. Jearson is a pensioner of Sir Alfred and Lady Perry-she was nanny to their children, but she has no other income.”
“It will do well enough,” Drew said with all honesty.
In truth, he was just as pleased that the widow wasn’t here. He hadn’t planned this debacle, but he was glad to have the chance to be alone with Roslyn. He not only wanted to clear the air between them, he wanted time to persuade her to accept his proposal of marriage.
Drew shook his head in sardonic amusement. The fact that he actually welcomed being caught in a chilling rainstorm so he could further his matrimonial goals was solid proof that he had gone a little daft.
A fire had been laid with logs, so he knelt on the rug in front of hearth to light the kindling, while Roslyn lit a lamp in the kitchen.
The glow helped present the illusion of comfort. The storm continued to lash the small cottage-wind shook
