Someday she’d have that house. But she wouldn’t marry Montague to get it.
The horses shifted, sending the phaeton swaying again. The reins slid off the seat, where he’d left them. Before she lost them entirely, she looped the leather around a brass anchor by her feet.
Eyeing the horses, then the man buttoning the placket on his breeches, she weighed her options. She’d driven the gig back home. But that was one horse. A phaeton was double the horseflesh, plus an unstable carriage design, and she was off the beaten path.
Montague clambered up to join her on the narrow seat, and the opportunity was lost. “Mr. Montague, I would like to leave. Now.”
“We agreed you would call me James.”
“You insisted, then I relented. That is not coming to an agreement. But fine. Yes. James.” She rolled her eyes. It was like negotiating with a surly child. A cool breeze whistled through the trees, making her shiver despite her heavy spencer. Changing tactics slightly, she sweetened her voice. “This pond is lovely. Thank you for sharing it with me. But I am rather chilled. Could you take me home, please?”
He loosened the reins and held them in his hand. “Before we go, there is one thing I need to do,” Montague said, then sealed her mouth with his.
Her first kiss. Kind of shocking, really. To be twenty-six and have never experienced this. It was, well, wet. Warm. Different from how she’d imagined it would be. But then, she’d always imagined her first kiss would be given, not taken. Wrenching her head away, she wiped her mouth with a gloved finger.
“Come now, love,” he said with a silky, firm voice. “Don’t turn missish now. We aren’t leaving until you kiss me properly.”
The charming man she’d thought she knew had disappeared. Instead, his flat eyes were set in a face that used to be handsome and now appeared to be carved from stone. The sneer he wore fit him better than a smile ever had. Everything Amesbury had warned her about was true. This man was a bully, a cad, and a reprobate.
Montague held the reins, literally and figuratively. By refusing to set the horses toward home unless she kissed him back, he’d trapped her. At his mercy, she felt a cold pressure behind her ribs, limiting her air to shallow sips.
Not knowing what else to do, she shook her head. Denying the situation, denying him a kiss, denying that she’d somehow landed here, outside London, with no way home besides him. When Montague kissed her again, it was a second invasion she hadn’t asked for.
This had nothing to do with romance. Even a woman with her nonexistent romantic history knew that. His fingers pinched her upper arms. If she bit his tongue, he might do worse than a kiss.
But then, if she vomited on him, perhaps that would speak for itself too. A whimper clawed up the back of her throat as she tore her face away, twisting to use a shoulder to create precious inches between them.
“Please, sir. I don’t feel well.” Truth. Her stomach rolled with acid waves fed by fear.
“So formal, my love. I told you to call me James.” The fingers on her arms tightened. There would definitely be marks to commemorate their time together. But in that split second, she saw an opening. He’d dropped the reins to hold her arms, trying to turn her body to face him.
She trapped the leather straps under her boot so they wouldn’t fall off the driver’s perch. If she was going to get herself out of this, she’d need those reins. As a girl, she’d wrestled with her brother, and one particular tussle they’d had in the stables surfaced above the panic flooding her mind. She wasn’t helpless.
Mustering every thread of strength and rage, she moved her head and hands at once. Slamming her forehead into Montague’s face, she pushed against his chest. The seat was narrow and high, made of slick polished wood, and Montague sailed right off it with a cry that rang like music to her but spooked the horses. It took precious seconds to grab the reins, and only sheer dumb luck sent the carriage moving in the right direction. Sending a quick prayer of thanks for her rough-and-tumble big brother, she slapped the reins against the backs of the matched pair and let loose a whoop of triumph when the phaeton jarred and lurched its way out of the clearing.
The journey back to the road was worse than coming in, because all she cared about was speed. A quick glance back showed Montague running after the phaeton with a bloody nose, limping slightly. One irate dandy was no match for two horses, even with a driver who had no idea what she was doing.
Once on the road, she gave them their heads, wanting as much distance from him as possible. Lottie focused on the horizon. There were buildings. They weren’t too far out of town, then.
How she’d erred, thinking Montague manageable, when she couldn’t even convince him they weren’t getting married. In the distance, those buildings grew taller. The horses slowed, and she eyed the reins, tracing which lead went to which side of each horse. As she threaded the leather through her fingers, Lottie released a sigh, and with it the panic that had gripped her.
That’s when the shaking started. It began in her thighs and traveled up her belly to her arms. As she pressed her hands to her knees to steady them, her throat closed around a sob. Her brain was a jumble of emotion, so she focused on one thing: driving. One unemotional thing, because she couldn’t handle more than that or she’d fall apart. On the way to London, she would learn to drive with twice the lines she was used to. And by God, she wouldn’t cry
