My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1)(17)

“You can’t really mean to walk,” he said in disbelief.

“If the alternative is sitting here with you for hours, yes,” she replied. “It’s not that cold, and I shan’t dissolve in the rain.”

“And the mud?” He swept one hand toward the open door.

She lifted her skirts and surveyed her feet, clad in thin leather shoes. “It will ruin everything I’m wearing. I fully intend to send you a bill for the loss.”

“You’ve no idea where you’re going.”

She put her head to one side and gave an odd little smile. “That’s never stopped me before.” Jack stared, and this time she pushed his knee. On instinct he moved, and without another word she was out the door, helped by the startled footman.

For a moment he concentrated on breathing deeply. He should have never left Ware House in London. It would have been better to let Philip beggar himself, to her benefit or to anyone else’s. He should have turned and walked out of the club the moment he saw her face and felt a bolt of desire shoot through him. That had been his warning sign, and because he’d ignored it, he was going to have to trudge almost a mile in the rain and mud.

More penance, no doubt.

Grimly he turned up the collar of his greatcoat and climbed out of the coach. The rain beat down on his shoulders, stinging and sharp but not cold—-as Mrs. Campbell had said. Jack eyed her with disapproval. She had made her way to the front of the coach and was speaking with the driver, one hand clutching her hood beneath her chin. The driver pointed down the road, toward Alwyn, and she gave a decisive nod. A gust of wind caught her cloak and blew it open, exposing the bright blazing red of her gown—-a gown soon to be utterly ruined by the weather. Jack waded forward, wincing with each pull of the mud on his feet.

“Unharness the horses,” he told the driver, raising his voice over the rain. “Get them and yourselves to Alwyn House. Fetch the coach in the morning.” There was no point waiting; the horses were broken to a postilion rider, but it would be madness to try to ride them now, in a storm with no saddles or proper bridles. They stood placidly enough at the moment, but Jack knew better than to risk it. The driver and footmen would have to lead them.

“Yes, Your Grace.” The man ducked his head and motioned to the footman to come help.

Jack turned to Mrs. Campbell. “If you’re mad enough to walk, I shall have to walk, too.”

She looked distinctly unimpressed. “Please don’t feel obliged.”

“You have no idea where the house is, nor is the housekeeper expecting you.” He finished doing the buttons on his coat and pulled his hat lower on his forehead. This would be a miserable walk for him; Mrs. Campbell, in her gown and slippers, was going to be wretched. Of course, she had chosen to do it against his advice. “Shall we?”

They started off, heads bowed against the rain. It must have been raining here longer than in London. The road was a swamp of mud, and every apparent bit of solid footing turned out to be a puddle, lurking like a Charybdis in wait for a careless step. Jack forged into the lead, both to show the way and to block the wind. It also kept her out of his view, which made the rain in his face worthwhile. Penance, he told himself as water found a way down the back of his collar. He deserved this for being such an idiot tonight, and he began to feel guilty that he’d dragged Mrs. Campbell into it.

But the woman with him never complained. She didn’t speak as they trudged down the road, and every time he stole a glance backward, her gaze was focused downward, minding her steps. Her cloak hung in sodden folds; it was a pretty evening cloak, not a thick one. It couldn’t offer much protection, but on the other hand it wouldn’t be as heavy when wet.

The rain pounded down without pause. He concentrated on not losing his balance and falling flat on his face in the mud, a humiliation he was determined to avoid.

At long last the wrought--iron gates appeared. He turned in, trusting Mrs. Campbell had enough self--preservation to follow, and heaved a sigh of relief when he stepped onto the gravel drive. It was spotted with puddles but far firmer than the muddy road. The rain still beat steadily on his head and shoulders, but the imminent prospect of a hot bath and a glass of brandy cheered him immensely. His steps quickened.

A tug at his elbow made him look down. Mrs. Campbell gripped his coat sleeve, her wide--eyed gaze fixed on the house ahead of them. “That is your house?”

Jack nodded once. “Blessedly, it is.”

She blinked several times. Raindrops clung to her long eyelashes and ran down the curve of her cheek. Her cloak gaped open at her throat, and his eyes skimmed down the expanse of pale wet skin. She was soaked. So was he, but suddenly Jack didn’t feel it at all. Suddenly it wasn’t his own bath that transfixed his mind, but hers—-her, in the bath, her hair curling in the steam and her skin flushed pink everywhere . . .

God almighty. He tore his eyes from her and looked at Alwyn. It was a little jewel of a house, built by his great--grandfather in the style of a French chateau, though on a far smaller scale. As always, his mood improved merely at the prospect of a few days here. “Have you some objection to it?”

She blinked again and released his sleeve. “None at all, if it is warm and dry.”

“Good.” Without waiting for her, he strode on.

It took a few minutes of pounding on the door to raise a response. Jack hammered the knocker, aware of his companion standing dripping wet behind him.