A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(101)

She leaned closer, forced to shout over the roar of wind and hoofbeats. “Teasing man. You do know how to drive it.”

“Four-in-Hand Club!” he called back, giving her a sly wink. “All the rage in Town.”

Laughing, Minerva clapped a hand over her bonnet, was too exhilarated by the rush of wind and speed to complain. Yes, of course. The rascal was a member of every club that would have him. Gentlemen’s clubs, boxing club, gambling club, adventurers club. Why not a driving club, too?

That was his life, in London. All those clubs. All those friends. All those glittering, opulent amusements.

All those women.

As they raced northward, her mind spun faster than the phaeton wheels.

His suggestion of a public courtship thrilled her, to be sure. Attending balls and operas on the arm of the dashing, handsome Lord Payne? The thought alone made her heart skip beats. And she believed him when he said he cared for her. He wouldn’t lie about that.

He’s driving breakneck to Scotland for you, she told herself. Of course he cares.

Then again . . . just a few days ago he’d devoted an afternoon to thatching a cottage roof. He’d thrown himself into the menial labor with strength and enthusiasm and good humor. But he hadn’t pledged to spend the rest of his life doing it. Was his sudden attachment to Minerva just a product of the extreme circumstances?

And if she was doubting his attachment, maybe he doubted her love.

Or maybe he simply doubted her. Perhaps he doubted she could make a proper viscountess, and who could blame him? For God’s sake, think of that enormous, beautiful house and estate. Who would ever think Minerva could be its mistress? She’d already left the drawing room a shambles and dripped rainwater all over the entry carpet. The servants would hate her.

She couldn’t help but worry over a hundred separate things. Colin must be worried, too. He’d admitted his uncertainty. That’s why he wanted to wait.

Waiting was wise, she reasoned. Delaying an engagement was the sensible, prudent course of action.

So why did it terrify her?

They stopped thrice to change horses and take refreshment, always hurrying back to the road at the first possible moment. The landscape rolling by was green and lushly curved. A recumbent goddess, awakening from her winter sleep.

The wind, by contrast, was a cold, cruel witch.

Minerva huddled under a woven rug for warmth, but the chill clawed straight through it. When the road straightened and he could spare some slack on the reins, Colin drew her close, putting his arm about her shoulders. She nestled into his side, comforting herself with his familiar warmth and scent. Watching his gloved hands guide the team with arousing, confident motions.

She slid an arm about his waist, hugging him tight. It didn’t matter what happened today, or tomorrow. This—just this—was worth everything.

They neared Edinburgh just as the midday sun reached its zenith.

“Almost there,” he said, climbing back into the seat after stopping to ask directions of a tradesman. “Ready for your grand moment?”

“I . . .”

I don’t know, I don’t know. They don’t know I’m a woman. I’ve lost all my notes and sketches. They won’t believe me about Francine without the evidence. And after traveling seventy miles in a single morning, my hair must be a perfect fright.

They’re all going to laugh. Oh God. I just know they’ll all laugh.

Terror had her insides knotted. But she refused to give her fears a voice. She’d promised Colin she wouldn’t speak ill of herself again.

“I think so. If you’re with me, I’m ready for anything.”

He drew the horses to a halt, right in the middle of the street.

“Are we there?” she asked, looking about.

“Not quite.” With a single gloved fingertip, he turned her face to his. “But I didn’t think I should do this on the doorstep of the Royal Geological Society.”

He bent his head and kissed her. Right there in the street and with such sweet, tender passion, all her worries receded, pushed aside by the swelling emotion in her heart.

“Better?” he asked, gathering the reins.

She nodded, feeling her confidence return. “Thank you. I needed that.”

Another few minutes’ travel down crowded, cobbled streets, and Colin pulled the team to a stop in front of a stately brick edifice. He tossed the reins and a coin to a waiting boy before rounding the phaeton to help her alight.

“Hurry, now. You’re just in time to make a fashionably late entrance.”

Arm in arm, they raced up the steps. Minerva was so occupied trying not to trip over her skirts, she didn’t notice a doorman—or anyone, for that matter.

Until a deep voice drew them to a halt.

“I beg your pardon. Just where do you think you’re going?”

Chapter Thirty-one

Minerva winced. She should have known it couldn’t be so simple.

“We’re here for the geology symposium,” Colin told him. “And we’re running late, due to a travel mishap. So if you’d kindly step aside . . .”

The bearded man stood firm. He thumped a paper clipped to a writing board. “I’m sorry, sir. But admittance is for Society members only.”

“I am a member.” Minerva came forward. “I’m a member of the Society. My name’s M. R. Highwood. It must be on your list.”