She read through its contents and looked up at him with those wide eyes. “I know it is more typically the fashion for a lady to express gratitude upon receipt of a proposal, rather than upon its withdrawal. Nevertheless, I thank you, my lord,” she whispered. “I do not think we would have suited.”
Which had, of course, very nearly been the point. He mustered a laugh. “There’s quite enough misery in the world to be going on with. No need to add yours to the mix.”
“Cousin Camellia did try to tell me it would not be miserable to be your wife.”
“Did she?” The lurch of his heart against his rib cage was almost painful.
“I shall put this letter into Papa’s hand myself.” Felicity had folded the parchment and was tracing one edge with her fingertip.
He had a sudden vision of what she might endure from her mother when he left. “He is expected soon, you said?”
“Perhaps even today,” she reassured him in a voice that was steady, strong. “Now, come.”
The street before Trenton House was nearly filled by an old-fashioned four-in-hand coach, an ancient, heavy thing that looked to be on the verge of collapse. No one who saw it on the road would imagine its occupant a wealthy nobleman.
It was perfectly suited to the reckless journey he was about to undertake.
“She has not been gone an hour,” Felicity said. “Surely you will be able to catch her?”
“With a little luck.” He eyed the coach dubiously. “In which, let me hasten to add, I do not believe.”
“You don’t need luck, my lord.” To his surprise, she laid one hand on his shoulder and stretched up to brush his cheek with her lips. “You need love.”
Sweet words and a sweet gesture that nearly unmanned him, for in a lifetime of scars and sin, he had known very little sweetness. But if she knew what awaited those he loved, or who loved him, she would not wish that fate on anyone.
With a slight bow to the woman who was to have been his bride, Gabriel turned and left.
Chapter 12
With a silent sigh, Cami clutched her portable desk. Along with a dozen other passengers, she sat in the public room of a posting inn, awaiting the northbound stage. The price of a ticket for a place inside the coach had been too dear. Now, however, she was wondering whether she ought not to have paid it, even if it meant bread and water for the rest of the journey. The roof was a notoriously dangerous place aboard a crowded, speeding coach, but she was even more worried about the weather. Through a dirt-streaked window, she eyed the thickening clouds. Rain. Could she persuade a fellow passenger to trade places with her? But why should anyone imagine she deserved a place inside, simply because she held a wooden box whose contents she didn’t fancy getting wet?
She tried to distract herself with her usual amusement. Who was meeting the stooped old lady with the leathery skin, who clutched an unlit pipe between her teeth and hid what Cami believed must be a live piglet, judging by the grunts and squeals coming from beneath her cloak? And what had possessed that tall, oddly dressed fellow, the one who had proclaimed loudly to his fellow passengers that he was the best wizard now living in Britain, to travel by the public stage rather than taking his broomsti—
Oh, it was no use. Characters they might be, but she was in no humor for making up stories to suit them. Her feet were sore from the long walk through town to reach the inn; she was worried sick about her family; and she was almost certain to get drenched. Was that a rumble of thunder?
No, a coach. A dozen pairs of hope-filled eyes turned toward the sound. A lumbering, old fashioned four-in-hand slowed as it passed the window. Merely some private conveyance stopping to change horses. The jumble of conversation resumed around her, and Cami absently traced the smooth, worn, ink-stained edge of her writing desk. Absorbed in her thoughts, she did not immediately realize that the door to the public room had opened, that the murmur of voices around her had grown louder, that someone was striding in her direction.
“Camellia?”
For a moment, she wondered if the fatigue of the walk had made her weak in the head. It could not possibly be…
Booted feet stopped before her. Between blinks of astonishment, her eyes traveled upward, over an imposing greatcoat and snowy cravat, to Gabriel’s face. She saw no trace of his usual sardonic expression. He looked drawn, tired.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Are you mad?”
“No, my—” My lord, she had been about to say. But she had a sudden vision of the chaos that might ensue if she revealed to her fellow passengers that the gentleman standing before them was a wealthy nobleman. Already, their curiosity was pressing them closer. “No,” she said, rising. “It is not madness to wish to go home.”
“Some might beg to differ.”
She could not keep her eyes from widening at his words, but his own expression was obscured as he bent to pick up the bag at her feet. Before he could attempt to take the writing desk from her arms, she moved out of his reach. “Pardon me?”
“A woman thinking to travel alone on the public stage is exhibiting a kind of madness. It would serve you bloody well right,” he said, each syllable spoken sharply and loudly enough for every one of her fellow passengers to hear, “if you’d been robbed. Or worse. Running off like that. Worrying your family. Worrying me.”
Cami knew her mouth had popped open, but she could not seem to muster a retort. And as he had begun to march back in the direction of his carriage, carrying her bag, she had very little choice but to
