The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London #4)(21)

“May I call on you this evening? I believe we, too, have much to discuss.”

Ross muttered something unintelligible. She noted his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“Of course,” Estelle quickly agreed, eager to be rid of him before Ross unleashed the anger brimming beneath the surface.

Ross did not wait for her to say anymore, nor did he pay Mr Hungerford the courtesy of acknowledging him. No, he simply took hold of her wrist, turned on his heels and forced her to march along Whitecombe Street.

“Stop this,” she whispered through gritted teeth as he barged past several people going about their business. He had not bothered to ask where she was going, but from the determined set of his jaw, he had another place in mind. “You’re hurting me.”

Ross released his hold on her wrist and gripped her hand instead. People gaped and stared. In their youth, such scandalous behaviour would have seen them married within the week. But she was a lady no more.

“You’re walking too quickly.” Estelle had to break into a jog to match his pace. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere quiet,” he snapped. “Somewhere away from prying eyes.”

Oh, she could not be alone with him.

They passed a coffeehouse.

“What about here? We could find a table.”

He stared straight ahead. “Since when has a coffeehouse been a quiet place?”

They turned into Coventry Street, continued north of Leicester Square.

“We could sit in the square near the statue. No one will disturb us there.” And she would not be inclined to stare at his mouth, or long for his fingers to delve down into her bodice.

Two ladies and their maid stopped walking and watched them stride past. The fair-haired one moistened her lips. “It seems one lucky lady has captured Vane’s attention. If only it were me.”

“You will be the talk of the salons tomorrow,” Estelle complained.

No one knew her in town. The ladies could pry and probe their peers, but no one would come up with a name. But an aristocrat with such a commanding presence captured everyone’s interest.

“Do you think I give a damn what these people have to say?” They turned into St Martins Lane and entered the courtyard of The Golden Goose coaching inn.

Panic flared as she noted numerous carriages crammed with passengers. They navigated the luggage and wicker baskets strewn around one conveyance. Stray dogs ran wild. One unusually large wolfhound raced over to her, almost knocking her off her feet.

She clutched Ross’ arm, both hands settling over hard muscle. “Good Lord.” The comment expressed her surprise at the size of the dog and her companion’s impressive physique. Ross had always been of athletic build, but now there was so much more of him.

Wearing a frown, Ross’ head shot to the hound. The animal came up to him and rubbed its furry head against his leg.

“I think he likes you.” For the first time in days, Estelle smiled with genuine amusement.

Ross raised a brow. “I would wager the hound is a she, not he. I seem to attract the wild ones, those of a mind to wander, those quick to deviate from the moral path.” One corner of his mouth twitched, though she could not tell if he was angry or amused.

Was he describing her? She didn’t think so. And yet she had strayed so far from the path she would never find her way back. What would he say if he knew the extent of her crimes?

Perhaps he was speaking about a lover or a wife. She had to know. “And what would Lady Trevane say about you bringing a woman to a coaching inn?”

“My mother died ten years ago or have you forgotten that, too?”

“I was speaking about your wife.”

Jealousy ate away at her heart like one of Mr Erstwhile’s caustic solutions. Estelle imagined a lady with exquisite taste in fashion, a lady who oozed sensuality, one who knew how to please a man like Ross Sandford.

Ross’ expression darkened. Had her comment roused a hidden pain? Had his wife died in childbirth or in a dreadful accident?

“There is no Lady Trevane. There never has been.”

“I see.” A wave of sadness washed over her. She should have been Lady Trevane. Once they had been equals. Noble blood flowed through their veins. Now they were worlds apart. “Is it not your duty to marry?”

Ross clenched his jaw and glared at her beneath hooded lids. “Do not dare lecture me on one’s duty.” He grasped her hand again, pulled her into the inn and through the common room to where the landlord stood behind his counter. “I want a room. Any will do.” Dropping her hand to reach into his coat pocket, he retrieved a handful of coins and slapped them onto the wooden counter.

The landlord brushed a wispy lock of hair over his bald head. He pushed his spectacles up to the bridge of his nose and studied her face.

Ross removed a calling card and slid it across the worn surface. “That should suffice.”

Bony fingers lifted the card. One quick scan of the name inscribed and the man reached under the counter and plonked a key on top.

“Two hours enough time for you, my lord?”

“Plenty.”

“Up the stairs, third door on the right.”

Ross nodded.

“And I’ll want to see the lady afore she leaves,” the landlord added. No doubt he was used to men using his rooms for distasteful purposes.