After a Fashion (A Class of Their Own #1)(50)

“Lucetta is perfectly competent with the reins, as you can see,” Harriet said even as the carriage jolted over what had to be a huge rut in the street that a competent driver would have surely missed.

“I was more than willing to drive us to Mrs. Hart’s,” he insisted.

“Yes, I know, you told me, several times, but that wouldn’t have allowed Darren, the man who suffered a troubling accident because of you, the opportunity to spend time with Lucetta.” She smiled. “I must say, it’s wonderful to see he’s already on the mend, probably because he’s been given the extreme treat of having Lucetta’s undivided attention.”

“Miss Plum should be giving all her attention to the road, not to Darren, and if I were at the reins, we would have arrived by now.”

Harriet batted long lashes his way, an action that was completely out of character for her. “Lucetta’s apparently decided to take a more scenic route to Mrs. Hart’s.”

Edging forward, Oliver peered past Buford and looked out the miniscule patch of window that wasn’t blocked by the ladies’ possessions. “I hardly believe this back alley we seem to be trundling down is even close to being scenic. Although”—he leaned back—“it would be a perfect route to take if someone was, perhaps, trying to make certain no one is following us.”

“Who would want to follow us to Mrs. Hart’s?”

“I’m sure I have no idea, other than the two men you were obviously trying to avoid earlier.”

“I never said I was trying to avoid two men.”

Oliver blew out a breath. “You didn’t have to. Your suspicious behavior spoke for itself.”

“I must say, all these compliments you keep sending my way are bound to go to my head soon. Why, I don’t recall the last time I was deemed peculiar and suspicious in the same day.”

“You can hardly fault me for being a little suspicious, especially when you had Miss Plum drive you to that church instead of following Mrs. Hart’s carriage.”

“I needed to let Reverend Gilmore know where we were going so he wouldn’t worry about us.”

“What was in that box you took into the church?”

Harriet eyed him for a moment, and then, strangely enough, she smiled. “Honestly, Oliver, we’re hardly going to enjoy a pleasant ride in your carriage if you continue questioning me in such a concerning fashion.”

“Our ride was doomed to be less than pleasant from the start, considering we barely have enough room to sit, let alone comfortably, and you’ve been glaring at me for most of our journey.”

“I wouldn’t continue glaring at you if you’d simply extend me the apology I so richly deserve.”

“The agreement you and I struck does not require me to apologize to you for anything.”

“Then I suppose you’ll just have to become accustomed to me glaring at you.”

“You agreed to be charming.”

“And I shall be, when we’re out in public—unless, of course, you try to take me to task for speaking to people I consider friends.”

“It’s beyond inappropriate for you to count women of Tawny and Ginger’s ilk as friends.”

“It truly is a lucky circumstance I can’t reach the door at the moment, Oliver. Otherwise, I’d feel a distinct urge to throw myself out of it again.”

Oliver frowned. “While I know this has nothing to do with the conversation at hand—and we will return to that conversation—tell me, how was it possible that when you threw yourself out of this carriage the first time you were able to land on your feet?”

“I spent time in a circus.”

He couldn’t help himself, he laughed. “You have quite the imagination, don’t you?”

Harriet opened her mouth, but before she could say a single word, the carriage lurched to the right and began traveling at an even faster rate of speed. He struggled to reach the handle to roll down the window. “I think I should take over driving.”

“Don’t be silly. Lucetta’s doing a fine job, and . . . Good heavens, you’ve just squished my bustle.”

Wincing as he realized something that felt remarkably like metal was piercing his stomach, Oliver cautiously leaned back right as Harriet snatched the bundled package of wrapped linen straight off his lap. She set it on her knees, parted the linen and then scowled at him. “You broke my collapsible bustle.”

Oliver eyed the contraption. “It doesn’t look broken to me.”

“It certainly is. It won’t spring back into place.”

“Forgive me, Harriet, but if women are going to be sitting down with that bustle on their backsides, I would have to imagine there’s going to be more force used than what I exerted by merely leaning on it for a second.”

Harriet began muttering under her breath, but her mutters came to an abrupt end when the carriage began to slow. Craning her neck, she peered out the window. “Is this Washington Square?”

Struggling to see past Buford, who was trying to crawl into Oliver’s lap, he finally caught a glimpse out the carriage window. His gaze traveled over rows of brownstones, all looking remarkably the same.

“From what little I can see, yes, I do think we’re on Washington Square.”

“The houses are very different from those on Fifth Avenue, aren’t they?”