“No,” he said. “You’re the first bride who’s kidnapped me. Naturally, though, they assume I made off with you, which suits our purposes.”
“It doesn’t suit mine,” she said. “I can’t—” She had been about to say I can’t afford to be made off with, but that was absurd. To all intents and purposes she’d run away with the Duke of Ripley, and that was what the scandalmongers would say and the papers would publish, and there would be satirical prints of the event, drawn from the artists’ imaginations. These would be lurid.
She told herself to look on the bright side. Never in her wildest fantasies had she ever imagined appearing in the print shop windows.
Never in anybody else’s wildest fantasies, either. To her knowledge, nobody had ever been voted Most Boring Girl of the Season more times than Lady Olympia Hightower.
On the other hand, she’d embarrassed her family. Disgraced them. Disgraced herself. Made herself truly unmarriageable.
But no, she could not think about consequences or she’d go mad. As it was, her mind was on shaky ground.
One thing at a time.
A maidservant appeared to show them to their rooms.
Ripley followed Lady Olympia up the stairs, telling himself the bride-overboard scene was the sort of thing a fellow could expect to happen in the course of an adventure. Not that it was the sort of entertainment he’d expect to have with a respectable girl—but then, he hadn’t had much experience with that type.
Happily, the setback had occurred early in the trip, near an inn he’d patronized time and again. True, he and his friends had behaved as badly here as they did elsewhere. True, also, that they always paid the damages.
The White Lion kept an account for him. This wasn’t unusual in the case of a gentleman who frequently traveled the king’s highway in search of excitement: boxing and wrestling matches, horse and boat races, and every sort of game on which one could bet.
What wasn’t usual was the duke’s agent’s settling accounts—not on quarter days or twice yearly or annually or, in the grand tradition of the aristocracy, never at all—but monthly.
All accounts, paid in full, every single month.
This little eccentricity of his kept people quiet and made them cooperative. Instead of bolting the doors and windows and putting up Gone Fishing or Closed Until Further Notice signs when they heard he was coming, all the tradesmen flung open their doors and rushed out to greet him with open arms and, sometimes, their daughters.
It was good to be a duke, but best to be a solvent one.
Money mended everything, usually.
It would soon mend the current problem, and Ripley would get Ashmont’s bride to Twickenham in plenty of time.
She would not take a chill and develop pneumonia.
This was June, not November. The weather was mild, and she’d fallen into not two feet of water.
He became aware of water dripping on the stairs as she climbed them.
His mind came back to the present, and he realized she was wet to the skin. Her petticoats had to be soaked through. Otherwise, her skirts couldn’t have plastered themselves to her bottom and thighs.
He recalled the way her body felt pressed to his, and the way she felt in his arms when he’d carried her up to the inn.
Of course he remembered. He was a man, and she was a shapely young woman.
And of course she was shapely. Ashmont wouldn’t dream of wooing any other kind of female.
And since Ashmont had wooed and more or less won her, the shapeliness belonged to him. Which was as it should be. Beyond a doubt she was exactly what he needed. Lady Olympia would never let him walk all over her. She might walk all over him, which probably would be fun . . .
And let’s not think about how much fun it would be, Ripley counseled himself when his imagination started to stray in that direction. Not a useful train of thought at present.
For the present, what he needed, first, was a thorough wash, and second, a hat—and they had better find something suitable. Third, he needed—as was perfectly reasonable and natural after months of unnatural abstinence—a shapely female who did not belong to one of his best friends. The first and second would be dealt with soon and the third this evening, he promised himself.
Meanwhile, being a man and by no means a saint, he did not tell himself to stop looking at Lady Olympia’s muddy ankles.
Ripley waited until Lady Olympia was safely in her room with two of the inn’s servants, Molly and Jane, on guard.
He’d taken them aside to tell them her ladyship had had a trying morning and was not as clearheaded as one could wish. Therefore he expected them to remain clearheaded and vigilant on her behalf.
They were to forestall any attempts by her ladyship to climb out of windows or make other sudden changes in travel plans. Their task was to get her clean and dry and fed and into fresh clothes. Under no circumstances were they to let her out of their sight. If by some bad chance she slipped away from them, they must tell him instantly. He would be next door.
Having addressed all contingencies, he waited until the door had closed behind the trio, then summoned the landlady.
“Send somebody to the dressmaker Mrs. Thorne,” he said. “Make sure she understands that the lady had an accident and needs fresh clothing quickly, quickly. We haven’t a moment to lose.”
The landlady dashed away.
Then he folded his arms and leaned against the door frame of his room.
Another trick he’d learned through experience.
People performed their tasks more speedily when a large, intimidating nobleman stood waiting for them to do whatever he’d told them to do.
Servants bustled up with kindling and buckets of coals.
More servants followed, with pitchers of hot water.
Still, he waited. Time passed. His clothing stopped dripping and subsided to a sodden second skin.
He stepped out into the gallery overlooking the inn yard. He leaned against a supporting post and watched the activity below. In the humid air, his clothing gradually went from sodden to damp. He was growing increasingly bored and impatient when at last three women hurried into the yard. The most elegant of the three looked up anxiously at him.
He nodded.
She started up the stairs, the other two close behind, bearing large, muslin-wrapped parcels.
Then and only then did he enter his room.
In Olympia’s large room, a fire blazed in the hearth.
In June.
Two immense pitchers, filled with hot water, arrived about the same moment the flames began to bounce over the coals.
Though the White Lion was a busy place, two of its overworked maidservants attended to one bedraggled lady.
Countless other servants—virtually all of those belonging to the inn and, very likely, its neighbors—ran about, attending to His Grace’s whims.
Indeed, it was good to be a duke.
Or, more precisely—and Olympia was a precise person, normally—if you were going to fall into a river in your wedding dress, it was good to be in a duke’s company when it happened.
She was annoyed with herself for falling out of the boat.