low voice that affected him in a very visceral way.
Blast it, he really should have pretended he had not seen her. He did not need desire for a woman he could not have to make his day any worse. ‘Just plain Mr these days, ma’am. I hope you are well?’
Pink stained her cheekbones with a becoming blush. He remembered that about her, the way she coloured. But that was all that remained of her from before. Her ready smile and happy laughter were nowhere to be seen. Respectable widows did not smile at rogues. ‘I am well,’ she said, lifting her chin. ‘Thank you.’ She hesitated a fraction. ‘And you?’
Her politeness surprised him. He didn’t imagine she cared how he was for one single moment.
‘I, too, am well.’ He glanced around, looking for a maid or a footman. Seeing no one nearby, he frowned. ‘Are you unescorted?’
She stiffened. ‘I am quite capable of doing a little shopping without aid.’
From the icy blast of dislike coming his way, he knew she didn’t want to have anything to do with him, but he wasn’t enquiring for her sake; he was doing what his friend Charlie would expect of him. And, indeed, Charlie’s new wife, Merry. With the unrest among the population at the news in the papers this morning, even a guttersnipe like him knew better than to allow a decent female to walk the streets alone. He certainly would not allow his half-sisters to do so, though they, too, would likely baulk at his escort.
He grasped the handle of the heavy-looking basket over her arm. ‘Allow me, please.’ Not really a request, though at least he had enough manners to phrase it as one. Perhaps the countess, his stepmother, had done a better job than either of them had thought.
A moment of resistance held them frozen, but her expression said that while she did not want his escort, neither did she want to make a scene in public. She let go and stepped back. ‘It is very kind of you, Captain...I mean Mr Read, but I have quite finished my errands.’
‘Then I will accompany you back to your lodgings. I assume you are staying in York overnight?’
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. Then the sensible woman sighed, knowing there was no use arguing with a determined man. ‘At the King George. I return to Skepton tomorrow.’
He transferred the basket to the crook of his right arm and, gritting his teeth, slightly winged his left elbow. Enough for her to be able to ignore it without embarrassment for either of them. She would not be the first to refuse his injured arm.
His heart gave an odd lurch when, without a moment’s hesitation, she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. The feel of her hand seared his skin through several layers of cloth, including her gloves. He could not remember the last time he’d felt this shaken. Foolish sentiment, no doubt. After all, a woman who went about gathering prostitutes off the streets of Skepton, as Charlie had related to him, was hardly likely to baulk at a missing hand.
Even so, it was with a sense of doom that he realised that even for such a small gesture from this woman, he would walk barefoot across hot coals.
Idiot.
* * *
Caro could not believe her bad luck. Or rather she could. If anything could go wrong where she was concerned, it would. She had hoped never to see Captain Read—no, Mr Read apparently, her employer’s friend—ever again, after the Tonbridges’ wedding was over and done. Indeed, she had hoped she would not. For Tommy’s sake. Of all the people she had met in her life, he was one of the few who might guess at her secret. At her shame.
She still did not know whether he recalled their meeting years ago. The uncertainty made her heart flutter wildly, as did the way he regarded her as if she was some sort of tasty treat.
‘Who accompanies you on this shopping trip of yours?’ he asked, his voice teasing, but also concerned, when he had no right to be concerned for her welfare.
If she kept her answers brief and to the point, hopefully he would take the hint and be on his way. ‘No one. Merry is in London with Tonbridge, who was called to attend his father’s sickbed.’ Caro tried to ignore the sense of abandonment that had plagued her since her friend’s marriage. The same feeling she had experienced when her father had turned her out of his house. Yet it was not the same thing at all. She and Merry remained friends and correspondents. She had heard nothing from her family since the day she had left.
While she did not look at Mr Read, she sensed his gaze on her face. Sharp. Assessing. ‘You travelled to York alone?’ he asked.
The note of disapproval in his voice added to her discomfort. Her father’s voice had held exactly that note when one had a smut on one’s nose or had misplaced one’s gloves and kept him waiting. Instinctively her chin came up, the way it had so often in her girlhood, generally leading to further admonishment. What was it about this man that affected her so, when she had worked so hard on perfecting a calm demeanour? ‘I drove here in the Tonbridge carriage with his lordship’s coachman.’
He made a scoffing sound in the back of his throat that he then tried to disguise as a cough. ‘Have you not read the newspapers, Mrs Falkner? The north is up in arms about this latest idiotic verdict—’ He grimaced.
Mouth agape, she stared up at his face, once more overwhelmed by the height and breadth of him. In her mind she kept seeing him as the gangly young ensign from nine years before with large ears and a hook of a nose, hanging at the fringes of his fellow officers. The skinny fellow on the cusp of manhood was gone, replaced by a hard-faced, hard-eyed man who had grown into his aristocratic features. He’d become handsome in the way of a battle-hardened warrior, a face of clean lines and sharp angles. ‘I read the newspapers,’ she said with hauteur. It was difficult to look down one’s nose at a man who was as tall as he, but if he got the message that she wanted nothing to do with him, it was worth the attempt. ‘None of that has anything to do with my trip to York for household supplies.’
His expression darkened. ‘A woman driving across Yorkshire’s moors in a lozenged carriage with no more than an elderly coachman to guard her is hardly safe. Don’t think your gender will protect you. No one was safe at St Peter’s Field. Men, women and children died, and those wielding the swords were related to half the nobility in Britain.’
She recoiled at the underlying bitterness in his voice. ‘You speak as if you have first-hand knowledge.’
His mouth tightened. ‘I was there.’
‘Is that why you resigned your commission?’
His jaw flickered. He turned his face away, looking off into the distance. ‘In part.’
Clearly he did not welcome further interrogation. Nor did she have any reason to engage him in conversation. Quite the opposite. ‘I am sure there can be no danger to me. Tonbridge made his disgust of last August’s events quite clear.’
They crossed the square in front of York Minster, its spires pushing into the clouds like medieval lances.
He stopped, forcing her to stop, too, and look at his grave expression. ‘Nevertheless I will escort you on your return journey as Tonbridge would expect.’
His autocratic manner sent anger spurting through her veins, despite that he was right. Tonbridge was exceedingly protective of his wife and, by association, her erstwhile companion. And it was not just the recent troubles that made him so. The establishment of the Haven for Women and Mothers with Children
