she had imagined the fleeting puzzlement in his expression, because it was not there now. ‘Yes, it is lovely,’ he agreed. ‘I have missed England in the spring.’ So she had been right, he had been abroad. ‘Listen to the skylarks. See, there is one, so ridiculously high.’ He pointed, leaning right back to look up at the tiny speck far above their heads.
Laurel leaned back, too, following the line of his pointing finger. ‘So brave, singing its heart out, trying to touch the heavens.’
She lost her balance and stumbled. The man caught her, turned her and stood, his hands cupping the points of her shoulders. ‘Dizzy? I have you.’
Yes, yes, you do.
There was something about him, something so familiar, so dear and yet so tinged with regret and sadness—and yet, surely she had never met this man before.
She stood there, looking deep into the blue depths of his eyes, stood far too close, too long, his palms warm even through the thickness of her pelisse and gown. Then he took his hands away, as though freeing a captured bird, and, very slowly, giving her all the time in the world to run, he bent forward until his mouth met hers.
It was the merest brush, a caress without pressure, without demand. He stood still, lips slightly parted as hers were, exchanging breath in a way so intimate she felt an ache of longing in her breast.
Then he stepped back abruptly, his face as neutral and guarded as if they had never stopped talking about birds and landscape. ‘The horses will be rested sufficiently now. We had best be on our way.’
Laurel blinked at him, dazed, then caught herself. She was behaving like some bemused village maiden when she was a sophisticated, experienced lady who had been kissed dozens of times. Well, six at least, by partners at local Assemblies and once, embarrassingly, by the curate emboldened after three glasses of the New Year’s Eve punch.
She lifted her chin and walked away towards the chaise without a word, lowering her veil as she went.
The postilions got up from beneath a hawthorn bush where they were sharing a clay pipe between them. Neither looked very happy at such a speedy return. Doubtless they thought she had disappeared for a prolonged period of dalliance, leaving them to their leisure, Laurel thought, thankful for the concealing veil.
Although who vanishes into the countryside to misbehave with a chance-met stranger with their maid on their heels?
It had been the merest chance that Binham had turned back in a sulk, the merest chance Laurel had almost fallen and he had caught her.
Or perhaps she was being naïve and he had lured her out and unbalanced her on purpose. She certainly knew very little about dalliance, inside or in the open.
The track wound its way downhill, the carriage lurched and swayed, and Laurel, searching for something to take her thoughts from that magical moment on the hilltop, could appreciate why the turnpike trust had given up on maintaining it and opened up the longer, gentler route. They passed other lanes, a few farms, and then after perhaps twenty minutes drew up on the level in a small hamlet in front of an old inn, sprawling under a canopy of trees.
The horseman wheeled his mount and bent to speak to her through the window. ‘Here you may try the famous Sandy Lane pudding at the Bear Inn, as favoured by none other than the late Beau Nash himself, or press directly on to Chippenham. The roads are metalled again from this point so your journey should be smooth.’ He did not sound like a man who had just kissed a complete stranger on top of the Downs.
‘Thank you, sir. I will press on, if you would be so good as to tell the postilions.’ She did her best to sound as politely indifferent as he did. ‘I appreciate your suggestion and your guidance, it has saved me a long detour.’
‘My pleasure, ma’am.’ He touched his whip to the brim of his hat, then called out instructions to the men before urging the grey horse forward.
‘A small adventure,’ Laurel commented to Binham, who pursed up her mouth in response. An adventure and a lesson not to be so suspicious and grumpy. The chance-met stranger had been a not-quite-harmless Samaritan and only slightly a dangerous rake. She had no excuse for regretting his departure, she told herself firmly, resisting the temptation to run her tongue over her lips.
* * *
The Earl of Revesby shifted in the saddle and thought longingly of sinking into a deep, hot tub at the Christopher Hotel. But first he was going to see where the discontented traveller with the mysterious deep brown eyes and the glossy dark hair and the cherry-sweet lips was bound for. He dug into the pocket of his greatcoat, found the worn lump of pewter inside and turned it between his fingers, the infallible remedy for impatience, restlessness, nerves.
Arthur, the big grey, named for the Duke whose nose resembled his, cocked up a rear hoof and relaxed, and his rider slapped his neck. ‘We’re both tired, a stable for you soon, boy.’ He had waited for the chaise to pass him, as patient as any highwayman in the shelter of a copse, then had followed at a distance all the way to Bath, driven by curiosity, arousal and a nagging sense of familiarity.
What was he doing kissing a chance-met lady? His head reminded him firmly that, besides any other considerations, that kind of thing led to consequences which could range from a slapped face to a marriage at the end of a shotgun wielded by a furious father. But there had been a compulsion, a spur-of-the-moment irresistible impulse far louder than the competing voice of common sense.
He’d had no difficulty ignoring the many lures thrown out to him on his way home from Portugal, yet now he had fallen victim to a pair of fine brown eyes. Again, he reminded himself savagely. He appeared to have developed a dangerous partiality for dark brown eyes and, given how much trouble simply smiling at the owner of a fine pair of them had got him into, it was madness to escalate to snatching kisses.
As he watched, a footman hurried out of the elegant house on Laura Place, followed by a grey-haired lady who embraced the passenger almost before she set a foot on the ground. Neither of them looked round as the horse walked past down Great Pulteney Street. The irritable lady with the sense of beauty and the tantalising gaze was safe and he knew where she was. That was quite enough for one day.
‘Darling Laurel, here you are at last! Welcome to your new home, my dear. I expect you would like to freshen up a little before we have some tea—Nicol, show Lady Laurel and her maid to her rooms—and then we can be cosy and talk.’
Aunt Phoebe, the widowed Lady Cary, spoke as rapidly as ever, Laurel thought. Slightly breathless after her first encounter in years with her mother’s sister, she followed the butler up two flights of stairs. She had been given a suite of rooms, he told her and she found it took up the entire floor—on one side a bedchamber and dressing room overlooking the garden at the back and on the other a sitting room with a view of Laura Place with its fountain in the middle of a railing-encircled patch of grass and shrubs. Behind the sitting room was a bedchamber for Binham, who was pleased to give it a stately nod of approval. Laurel took off her bonnet, gloves and pelisse, washed her hands and face then went back down again, leaving Binham to unpack.
‘Darling, is it all right?’ Phoebe picked up the teapot and began to pour the moment Laurel stepped into the drawing room. ‘I thought that apple green for the hangings in the bedchamber was appealing, but you must change it if you loathe it.’
‘It is delightful. All the
