An Unlikely Duchess by Mary Balogh Page B

Mitford was no expert on feminine fragrances. Eveline had always worn a strong, sweet perfume. He had never liked it, though he had never been impolite enough to tell her so.
    Miss Middleton smelled good. And her breath was warm at his neck. And where the deuce was he supposed to put his arm? It was dangling rather awkwardly over hers, down along his side. He set it at her waist—a soft and small and warm waist. And good Lord, there was nothing except a very thin shift between his hand and her.
    “I won’t marry the duke, Papa,” she said in a voice of firm determination, making the Duke of Mitford jump and then lie very still, holding his breath. The words were followed by mutterings and grumblings and more head burrowing against his shoulder.
    “The ring fell off,” she muttered, and she was still and quiet again.
    What a coil! If he tried to move away, she would doubtless wake up and think he was trying to ravish her. If he did not move away, she might wake up before he did and think that he was responsible for this cozy arrangement of bodies.
    Oh, Lord, what was he to do? The Duke of Mitford wished fervently that he had had more experience with the worldlier side of life. Of course, there was no chance whatsoever that he would sleep another wink that night anyway. Perhaps after a while, when he was quite sure she was fast asleep, he could ease his way over to the side of the bed and down onto the floor again.
    “Nice,” she muttered against his neck. She sighed deeply, sending tickles right down to his toes. “Nice.”
    The Duke of Mitford, who would not have a wink of sleep for the rest of the night, had a deep sleep instead.
    ***
    It was far more comfortable to ride inside the old coach than up on the box, Bartholomew discovered. And the riding was smoother too. Not that it was the driver who made the difference, of course. It was a fact that the road north was kept in far better repair than the one they had traveled early that morning.
    However it was, Sukey was not sick any more. Sam said it was because she had eaten some breakfast. She said it was because the ride was smoother. Bartholomew said it was because she had grown accustomed to the motion of the carriage.
    And Sam had turned out to be something of a tyrant. He had stopped to change horses long before Bartholomew thought it was necessary.
    “The little lady needs a rest and some tea and vittles,” the new coachman said quite firmly when his new master voiced his objections. And so Susanna had her tea and some cakes while her brother fumed at the delay.
    And Sam stopped for the night long before it was quite dark.
    “The road is still quite clear to me,” Bartholomew protested. “And it is going to be a clear night, doubtless with moon and plenty of stars.”
    “The little lady needs ‘er dinner and ‘er rest,” Sam said. And who was to argue with such a giant? Certainly not Susanna, who looked quite exhausted although she had valiantly withheld all complaints. “The gent won’t escape with the jewels,” he added with a reassuring grin. “Nor the other gent with the lady. The trail is clear enough.”
    And it was too. There was no lack of people who had seen the gaudy blue and yellow carriage with the handsome gentleman, and the gentleman’s curricle with the lady passenger. They would catch up to them the next day or the day after, Sam said with the greatest confidence.
    But who the devil was Paul Villiers? And what the deuce was Jo doing with him?
    Josephine was awake a full five minutes before the knock sounded on the door. She woke feeling warm and drowsy and quite unwilling to be roused. She simply must remember to ask Betty what new soap the sheets were being washed in. A musky smell. Nice.
    “Nice,” she heard herself mutter, and then felt remarkably foolish and remarkably something else too, for she was not, of course, lying in her bed at home but in the bed at the inn that Mr. Villiers had paid for. And she was snuggled up