Daniel assured himself a couple hours of rest would turn things around, soften the soreness and soothe the sting. Which was why he’d gladly agreed when Madame Véronique sent Swift John round with the message there was no plausible way Thea would be ready at six.
Seven, eight, midnight, Daniel didn’t care, was happy to wait.
Maybe one of the remedies Tom had shared would help. He sent down to the kitchens for some precious ice, rubbed it all over his neck until he went numb. But when his flesh thawed, he was as sore as ever.
One remedy? Why not try them all?
So he sipped boiled water with honey, ate a lemon, lay on his bed and hung his head off the edge. Flipped over and let it hang from the other direction. Tried napping, gargling, and more stretching (who knew a man’s tongue could extend so far?). And still, with each swallow, at the merest inclination of speech, agony screeched through his muscles.
Rest, we need to rest! they railed at him, embedding sabers and swords from the inside out, jagged blades that cut through tissue and bone until he stilled the urge, released and relaxed the fatigued muscles, silenced the desire to speak.
And sat mute, once again, like an idiotic imbecile.
Thea was aware of the change in him. Acutely aware, and she was baffled by it. He could feel her discomfort in every worn-out particle of his being. Twice he’d touched her in the carriage, once on her hands, once on her knee. Both times, she flashed him a grateful smile, as though saying, It’s all right.
But it wasn’t.
He couldn’t lose her before they’d barely begun. And that dress! It bedamned and bedazzled. Befuddled his senses like—
“Season’s in full swing, milord,” the voice of his driver proclaimed at full volume. “Can’t light a fart in this crush!”
“Roskins!” Daniel scraped out and banged on the roof as the woman beside him choked on a laugh. At least he hoped it was mirth and not disgust. Did the man forget ’twas not Louise he squired about?
As though he’d leaned close and lowered his voice, a muffled, “Beggin’ your pardon, milord! Milord’s lady friend, I meant no disrespect.”
“None taken,” Thea hollered back to his driver, “I assure you.” Her lilting voice reassured him. Then stole his wits when she continued, “Had I a lucifer and the bodily urge, I might try it myself!”
Both men chuckled. And the carriage lurched ahead yet again.
Silence descended.
Weighed heavily.
Threatened to drown him.
Had air always been this thick? Or was his throat truly that swollen?
Long minutes later, when the horses had done nothing but inch forward a foot, Roskins yelled that there was no hope for it. He eased from the crush and took a sharp turn, coming to a complete stop (which was rather hard to discern, given how little they’d progressed). The man jumped down and opened the door, asking to confer with Lord Tremayne who gratefully stepped out at the unusual request.
Jointly, they moved toward the horses, out of earshot of the door, where Roskins continued. “The roads are clogged tighter than Prinny’s privy, milord.” He nodded toward his elevated seat. “Don’t see it getting none better, either. Here’s wot I’m thinking…” The man went on to offer several suggestions: take a longer route around, choose a different destination, try again another night.
Daniel latched on to the second option. “Anywhere,” he told his trusted driver, waving his arm and encompassing the whole of London. “Any p-p-pu-b-blic—”
He tripped over the words so bad he was surprised his tongue didn’t flap out and flay them both. But Roskins had been with him a long time, knew how to interpret. “Another playhouse, milord, instead of the one we was aiming for? Will that do the trick?”
A nod and they each returned to their previous seats, Daniel only partially jealous of his driver’s freedom up top, and alone.
How could he regret even one moment spent in her presence?
Easily, when he worried every one might be the last…
“Orreries!” exploded from his mouth as Roskins took off, the sudden forward motion jarring the occupants—and likewise his jaw. “Like orreries,” he said more sedately in belated response to Thea’s last note.
He wasn’t yet ready to talk about family. (What would he do? Tell her his sister fancied herself a witch?) Neither was he comfortable with the notion of declaring what he dreamed about. (Did he even dream? Other than a good night’s sleep and a fetching, accommodating mistress to help bring it about, Daniel didn’t think he’d dreamed of much in years.) But he could tell her of his interests (if he could talk, that was).
Though the planetary models he’d loved since childhood had been popular for decades, they were definitely playtime fodder for the privileged class. Not something those untitled were often familiar with. Rather than assume she knew what he meant, he’d better explain. “They’re pl-pl—” He licked his lips, tried again. “Pl-pl—”
Goddammit! The multiple, massacred efforts met his ears and he cringed. Even now, years later, there were times he had to remind himself a sharp birching wasn’t on the other side of a hashed-up word.
Why in blazes had he decided to start answering her litany of questions now? When they were stuck in such a confined space? Where all he was left with was dreaded, deathly silence? Or…or he could kiss her senseless, toss her silky skirt over her head and plunder her pu—“’Lanetary miniatures!”
“Orreries,” Thea responded in a delighted tone as though he hadn’t just been flailing about in a stupid stew of his own making. “You have an interest in them? I’m familiar with them too, especially the inner workings.”
Especially the inner workings?
She couldn’t have stunned him more if she’d been
