“Head down, I say.” Mama yanked the hood up again.
“No.” Diana thrust it back. “Mama, you’re being ridiculous. This is a beautiful morning. I mean to enjoy it.”
She braced herself for another round of Tug-o’-Hood, but Mama didn’t care to play. She was distracted by the sounds of hoofbeats and carriage wheels and turned to peer down the lane.
“There is Mr. Keane with his curricle. He will save you.”
“Save me? I survived years of asthma. I don’t believe freckles are a terminal condition.”
“Head down,” she snapped. As the curricle drew near, she lifted one arm and waved to him with her handkerchief, like a drowning sailor in need of a rope. “Mr. Keane! Oh, Mr. Keane, do help!”
“Please don’t trouble him.”
“He is the vicar. He ought to do a good deed.”
The curricle rolled to a halt in the lane. What with the strong sun and the harsh shadows, it was hard to peer into the covered bench seat—but the driver didn’t seem to be the vicar. This man was rather . . . larger.
“Is there some problem?” he asked in a dark, all-too-familiar baritone.
Oh no. No. It couldn’t be.
What wretched luck. Diana took her mother’s advice. She drew her hood up and stared at her boots.
“Why, Mr. Dawes,” her mother said, her tone wary. “What are you doing with Mr. Keane’s curricle?”
“Mama,” Diana hissed. Good Lord, she made it sound as if he’d stolen the thing.
“And good morning to you, Mrs. Highwood,” Mr. Dawes answered patiently. Out of the corner of her eye, Diana saw him tip his cap. “Miss Charlotte. Miss Highwood.”
She felt his gaze on her. Now it didn’t matter if she stayed out of the sun. A blush this furious would surely stain her cheeks for a month.
“Mr. Keane asked me to mend the axle,” he explained. “I’m out for a short drive to test the repair before I return it. Is something wrong?”
As she listened to her mother carry on about the tragedy of sunshine and the need to keep her daughter’s complexion unmarred for Lord Drewe, Diana squirmed with shame.
“Surely you can drive her back to the rooming house,” Mama said. “I know it’s a liberty, as you are a hired man. But I daresay I can grant permission in Mr. Keane’s stead. It’s what he would do, as a gentleman.”
Mother!
In how many ways could she insult him? Mr. Dawes was not a “hired man.” He was a skilled craftsman and artisan, and everyone in the village—Mr. Keane included—respected him.
Diana had to look up now. “Please don’t let us trouble you, Mr. Dawes. I’m perfectly fine walking.”
“Perfectly fine!” her mother squawked. “You’ll be perfectly crisped.”
She caught his gaze and tried to send an apologetic look. Forgive her. And me.
His expression was impossible to read. “I’d be glad to give Miss Highwood a ride into the village. I’m going there anyway.”
“That is very good of you,” her mother said. “When I see him, I will be sure to speak highly of your service to Mr. Keane. Perhaps there will be a shilling in it for you.”
“Very kind of you, ma’am.”
Mr. Dawes alighted from the curricle, adjusted the folding hood for maximum shade, then offered his hand to help Diana. Despite the awkwardness of the situation, she took a thrill from the feel of his hand dwarfing hers and the easy strength with which he boosted her onto the seat.
When he joined her, she pressed herself all the way to the opposite side.
“We’ll see you back at the Queen’s Ruby,” Mother said. “Don’t fret about me walking. I will be fine. Even at my age.”
“I’m sure you will be,” Diana muttered.
As Mr. Dawes flicked the reins and set the curricle in motion, Diana slunk down in her corner of the seat.
She learned something new as they rattled down the lane.
Awkwardness wasn’t characterized by silence. Oh, no—awkwardness had a symphony all its own. The thump of an erratic heartbeat, contrasting with the steady squelch of hooves on packed mud. The roar of a thousand unspoken words piled up in one’s throat, all clamoring to get loose. The sound of fence posts whooshing past—each one brought them closer to the village, and each one felt like a stinging lash of rebuke. Another opportunity missed.
Frantic emotion built in her chest. She couldn’t stay quiet any longer.
“Mr. Dawes. Please let me apologize. For my mother just now. And for my behavior last night. And yesterday afternoon. I don’t know what—”
He held up a hand, gently shushing her.
“Truly. You must think me the most presumptuous—”
“Nothing of the sort,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road. “I’m just trying to listen for the axle. I think I heard it creak.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” She bit her lip, hard. Stop talking, ninny.