his cologne pressed against her chest. She clenched the strings of her reticule in her lap. ‘So I have heard.’
An awkward silence hung in the air.
He cleared his throat. ‘We will stop at Ashford for lunch and arrive in Tunbridge Wells before the supper hour.’
‘Thank you.’
Tunbridge Wells and Mary Jensen and her future. Her heart swelled with optimism and she touched the locket at her throat. Everything would be all right.
An impatient sigh gusted from his corner. He shifted, stretching out his long legs until his shining black boots landed inches from the edge of her skirts.
For all his outward appearance of ease, tension crackled across the space between them. Determined to ignore it and him, she focused her gaze out of the window.
He eased his shoulders deeper into the corner. She glanced at him from beneath her bonnet’s brim and cast a professional eye over his attire. After all, a successful modiste kept au courant with the latest styles, male and female, and she had met few members of the ton hidden away in Dover.
His buff unmentionables clung to his well-muscled legs, a smooth second skin over lean, strong thighs. Her pulse quickened.
Unable to resist the tempting sight, she let her gaze drift upwards past narrow hips to his broad chest, the close cut of his black coat, unmistakably Weston. Above an intricate, snowy cravat, she followed the column of his strong neck to his patrician profile, then to his hair arranged à la Brutus. A stray lock fell in a wave on his broad forehead. No dandy, just the quiet elegance of a man comfortable with himself.
As if he sensed her perusal, he turned his head and glanced at her from beneath half-lowered lids.
Cheeks burning, she flicked her gaze to the view.
Not another glance would she spare for her escort. Mary and her shop must be the focus of all her attention. Their shop. She hugged the thought to herself, a glimmer of warmth in a chilly world. Although small, according to Mary it was situated one street from the centre of the spa. No longer as popular as Bath, the Wells continued to attract older members of the ton because of its proximity to London. But Mary’s last letter had arrived six months ago. Her business must be thriving if she could not find the time to write.
‘Mademoiselle?’
Her stomach lurched.
Merde. She had all but forgotten him. Taking a deep breath, she willed her heart to stop its wild fluttering and forced frost into her tone. ‘Miss Boisette, Mr Evernden, since I plan to make my home here in England.’
He raised a brow. ‘Boisette is hardly an English name?’
He was right. It was the name her English mother had used in her new life in Paris, a life where she preferred not to shame her family name. Sylvia had simply adopted it. ‘It is how I wish to be addressed.’
A furrow formed above his patrician nose, but he inclined his head. ‘As you wish.’
‘I prefer to be addressed as Miss. Both of my parents were English. Also, there is no need for polite conversation, since after today we will never meet again.’
His firm mouth tightened and his nostrils flared as if he held back angry words. ‘As you wish, Miss Boisette.’
The carriage turned north away from the coast and he gazed out the rain-spattered window at the passing hilly countryside.
She let go of her breath. She infinitely preferred the heat of his anger to the other warmth she’d sensed deep in his eyes. Yesterday, he had been furious as she removed her gloves. Furious and fascinated.
Therein lay the danger. While he might have convinced the softhearted Monsieur Jean as to his honourable nature, she knew better than to trust any man.
Painful pinpricks ran over her shoulders. At any moment he might press her to make good her offer from the previous day. The dangerous game she played might yet be lost. She squeezed tighter into her corner of the carriage.
They reached Ashford around mid-day and lunched at the King’s Head. There, in clipped sentences he explained the document setting out the terms under which he agreed to provide her with the promised funds. Sylvia signed it and he produced a velvet purse containing twenty-five guineas, the rest to be forwarded from his bank within two weeks. With new horses put to, the carriage jolted its way across country to their final destination and at long last, the coach bowled into Tunbridge Wells. Sylvia leaned forward for a better view of the High Street and the famous spa at the bottom of the hill. The town was smaller than she expected. It didn’t matter. The infusion of funds from her uncle and the two of them sharing the work—and she would work night and day—it could not help but be a success.
The coach eased into a narrow lane and pulled up outside a timbered, bow-fronted shop with swathes of cloth draped in the window. Mr Evernden reached for the door handle.
Her heart beat a rapid tattoo. She did not want him to realise the unexpected nature of her arrival. She placed a hand on his sleeve.
The hiss of his indrawn breath shivered to the pit of her stomach.
She drew back, startled. Shaken by her response to that faint breath, she tried to keep her voice steady. ‘If you would request your coachman to put my luggage on the road, I will not put you to any further inconvenience, Mr Evernden.’
He turned the door handle. ‘It is no trouble at all, Miss Boisette.’
Stubborn man. She raised a brow. ‘I prefer not to arrive here blatantly accompanied by a young gentleman of the ton.’
His expression turned grim and he dropped his hand. ‘It is impolite to leave you in the street, but it shall be as you desire.’ He sat back. ‘I wish you all the best in your new life, Miss Boisette, and bid you good day.’
His stern remoteness appealed to her far more than effusive politeness. He’d acted the perfect gentleman in all their dealings, while she had treated him to an outrageous display of hot and cold. No doubt he thought the worst of her. A pang of regret held her rigid for the space of a heartbeat. She must not care about his opinion. She reached for the door. ‘Thank you.’
She stepped out on to the slick cobbles.
At Mr Evernden’s order, the coachman heaved her belongings down beside her and climbed back on to his perch.
Shocked to discover her hand shaking in trepidation, she knocked on the door, all the while aware of Mr Evernden’s intense gaze on her back. She turned, raised her hand in farewell, and the carriage moved off, affording one last glance of Mr Evernden’s stern profile in the window.
The door opened to reveal a freckle-faced girl of about ten. Behind her, a passage led into the depths of the first floor and a narrow set of stairs wound upwards. Mary had never mentioned a child. She must be the maid.
‘Can I help you, miss?’ the girl asked.
Sylvia took a deep breath and smiled. ‘Is Miss Jensen home?’
‘There ain’t no Miss Jensen at this address.’
Sylvia
