“Your aunt’s respectable, I trust,” Ripley said. “Not eccentric or excessively dashing? Doesn’t set fire to the pillows at odd moments? Carry on with footmen or grooms? In an obvious way, that is.”
She wiped her eyes and nose. “She’s somewhat dashing—at least Aunt Lavinia and Mama say so. Still, Aunt Delia is respectable enough to entertain the Queen on occasion.”
“Then why didn’t Auntie attend your wedding?”
“She suffered an indisposition that prevented her making the journey. That’s what she wrote to Mama, at any rate. I’m not at all sure she wished to attend. She finds Newland House excessively noisy, with all the children coming and going. She feels the same about Gonerby House—which is even more chaotic at present, because of the renovations.”
“But she will, in fact, be at home when we get there.”
She nodded, and the headdress slipped farther. She winced. “You cannot expect me to answer prying questions while my hair is being torn out by the roots. Unless you enjoy employing the methods of the Inquisition. If you do not help me get this thing off my head—this instant—I cannot answer for the consequences.”
“Is that supposed to be a threat?” he said. “Because you look so very much the opposite of threatening that I might die laughing.”
She pushed her glasses back up the minuscule distance they’d slipped during the tear storm. She gave him a steady look, or as steady as her state of intoxication would allow.
“Never mind,” she said. “If it’s too complicated for you, I’ll do it myself. But if things fly off and hit you in the face, you’ll have only yourself to blame.”
“That’s what stopped you doing it yourself?” he said. “The chance of your coiffure exploding?”
“I haven’t a mirror,” she said. “I can’t see the top of my head—or any of my head, for that matter. But never mind. Don’t let me disturb you.”
She reached up and started poking her fingers into the crownpiece. This set off various gyrations, which created intriguing movement in the areas directly above and below the dress’s neckline. These brought to mind so-called Egyptian dancing girls he’d seen in a theater somewhere. Eventually, she managed to remove a single hairpin, which slipped through her fingers and into the straw. She muttered something.
A lost hairpin was no calamity. Her aunt would have heaps of them.
But the gyrations and visions of dancing girls reminded him of the way she’d squirmed when he picked her up from the mud—reminded his breeding organs, that is, and all too vividly, given the circumstances and the length of time since . . .
Right. He would address the matter of the recent months’ celibacy later. This night, in fact. After the bridal complication was taken care of.
Ripley would leave her safely with her aunt. Given a nudge and a few broad hints, Ashmont would recover her.
It would all be a very good joke, the sort of thing Ashmont would appreciate, once he’d calmed somewhat. After all, he’d perpetrated plenty of jokes himself.
“I’ve decided to help,” Ripley said. “I want to take a nap, and that’s impossible while you’re jumping about and swearing under your breath.”
“I was not—”
“I do understand French, you know. To a point. All the bad words are well before that point.”
Thanks to the rain and the windows’ decades of accumulated grime, the coach was about as bright as the average tomb. All the same, Olympia could see the Duke of Ripley well enough. She could hardly miss him, when he took up most of the coach.
She was more aware than she wanted to be of his long legs stretched out, inches from hers.
She took her hands away from the headpiece and looked at him. Though his face was in shadow, she could make out the long, imperial nose and harsh angles of cheek and jaw. She knew his eyes were green.
That much she’d ascertained during her first Season, when they’d been introduced, and she’d felt so deeply uncomfortable. This was partly because he was so . . . overwhelming. She knew he wasn’t any larger than Ashmont. All Their Dis-Graces were tall, athletic men. All, certainly, were not well-behaved. But Ripley’s was the gaze that had made her feel as though she wasn’t fully clothed. He was the one whose wolfish grin had left her tongue-tied.
But back then she’d been naive and unsure of herself.
Back then, the three dukes had been considered rather wild but highly eligible. They kept well clear of the Marriage Mart, though. Rarely were they to be seen near even the beautiful and far more popular young ladies.
This was why, when Olympia had seen him over the years, it was usually at a distance. Across a crowded ballroom. Riding or driving in Hyde Park. At a public event like a regatta or horse race. In the past year she hadn’t seen him at all, because he’d been abroad.
As far as she could determine at present, he hadn’t changed. He still had the sleepy gaze that made her feel prickly inside. It oughtn’t to, since it told one nothing. People believed the eyes were windows to the soul. In his case, the shutters were closed. That was probably for the best.
Not that she was capable of gauging his mood even if he’d offered windows to his soul. Her brain at present was not trustworthy. When she tried to think, the thoughts danced away, out of reach.
Besides, the headdress made it hurt to think.
One thing at a time, she told herself. When they reached Battersea Bridge, she’d deal with the next thing, whatever it was. For now, all that mattered was getting away. From everybody.
“Move to the edge of the seat and lean toward me,” Ripley said.
Between the coach’s jolting and the brandy’s effects, she wasn’t at all sure she could keep her balance. She was not about to admit that to him. As it was, she felt sure he was laughing at her. But then, he was not renowned for being serious-minded. Furthermore, in all fairness, she hardly cut a dignified figure at the moment.
Most important, she needed the bridal monstrosity off her head. It felt as though she was wearing a clock tower.
She moved to the edge of the seat and leaned toward him.
Then she nearly leapt straight up from the seat, because his long fingers went into her hair, touching her scalp as they probed. The ruffles at his wrists tickled her face. She detected the scent of wet linen and something else—cologne or shaving soap, excessively masculine.
At that moment she remembered, with an inner repeat of the sensations she’d had at the time, his hands under her arms when he’d hauled her up out of the mud . . . the size of his hands and the way his powerful grasp felt . . . the size of him . . . and her back pressed to a torso like rock. Warm rock. Then those same long-fingered hands, linked for her to step on . . . then wrapped about her ankles.
Her brothers had helped her over walls and fences, but he wasn’t her brother. He was the man who looked at a girl and made her feel she’d forgotten to put her clothes on. He was nothing remotely like a brother—and recalling Mama’s incoherent explanation of what happened on the wedding night did not contribute to a state of serenity at present.