now.”
One look into his fathomless green eyes, and Georgie only too willingly reached out and let him pluck her from the chaos erupting around them.
He plotted a quick course through the crowded room, while behind them, Brummit, Paskims, and Hinchcliffe struggled to find their feet, shouting complaints and making calls for help from their uniformed brethren scattered about the room.
Georgie swiped a few stray locks out of her face, only to find Uncle Phineas standing in the path before them.
Colin shoved him out of the way, sending him floundering into the crowd, his pudgy arms waving about like a pair of windmills.
She made the mistake of looking back to see if he was hurt, and his livid gaze met hers.
“What the—?!” he called out.
Yet before their pursuers could overtake them or Uncle Phineas could regain his footing, Georgie found herself towed out the front doors, down the steps, tripping and spilling along as she tried her best to keep up with Colin’s unrelenting pace.
Once they gained the street, Georgie felt her heart sink. Even if they were to find a carriage, it would essentially be trapped in the press of vehicles. There was nowhere for them to go, no means of escape.
Colin swore under his breath, looking this way and that, as if weighing his choices. Then he dashed straight into the confusion of curricles, cabriolets, and elegant barouches.
Drivers shouted curses at them as they set horses to prancing and tossing their heads in their traces.
Georgie stumbled once or twice in her wretched shoes, the high heels and ill fit a serious detriment to flight—but then again, she hadn’t planned on creating a scene that would have an angry mob nipping at her hemline as she fled the ball.
Halfway across the street, Colin snatched a dark blanket from a carriage seat, throwing it over Georgie’s shoulders like a shawl. The driver started down from his perch, shouting out a protest, until he spied Colin.
“To the corner, Elton,” he said. “And we’ll meet you there . . . in good time.”
“Yes, milord,” the driver replied, scrambling to pick up his reins, and shouting complaints to the other carriages blocking his path.
They set off anew, Georgie shrouded in the smelly horse blanket. So much for her dreams of the ermine-trimmed cape she’d once seen in a fashion magazine. Still, she didn’t complain, for the dark wool covered her telltale dress, and from the shouts behind them, their followers had not let the crush of vehicles or the prospect of picking their way through a dark, horse-littered thoroughfare lessen their zeal.
“Your driver doesn’t find this unusual?” she asked, wondering if Colin was in the regular habit of dashing about with disreputable women, and an angry mob hot on his heels.
“He’s not my driver,” Colin tossed over his shoulder. “He’s Temple’s man. And if you knew my cousin, you wouldn’t consider our predicament unusual in the least.”
Once across the street, Colin continued down the block until they came to an alley.
He darted down the narrow way, dodging the refuse blocking their pathway.
To her dismay, she stumbled, this time landing in a heap on the dirty cobbles. He turned around and plucked her up from the ground with barely a pause.
“My shoe,” she cried out, realizing she’d lost one of her shoes the moment her stocking-clad foot touched the cold ground. “My shoe fell off.” She turned to go back.
“Forget it,” he told her tersely, catching her once again by the hand and making for the lamplight at the end of the alley.
“But it’s my shoe!” she complained, the dirty alley soiling her only pair of silk stockings.
“I’ll buy you a shopful of new ones tomorrow.”
“I don’t want a shopful, I want my shoe.” Georgie pulled to a stop again. “Besides, according to those men back there, you haven’t any money.”
“I have enough,” he told her. “Unless you prefer they give you the blunt for it.”
As if to
One look into his fathomless green eyes, and Georgie only too willingly reached out and let him pluck her from the chaos erupting around them.
He plotted a quick course through the crowded room, while behind them, Brummit, Paskims, and Hinchcliffe struggled to find their feet, shouting complaints and making calls for help from their uniformed brethren scattered about the room.
Georgie swiped a few stray locks out of her face, only to find Uncle Phineas standing in the path before them.
Colin shoved him out of the way, sending him floundering into the crowd, his pudgy arms waving about like a pair of windmills.
She made the mistake of looking back to see if he was hurt, and his livid gaze met hers.
“What the—?!” he called out.
Yet before their pursuers could overtake them or Uncle Phineas could regain his footing, Georgie found herself towed out the front doors, down the steps, tripping and spilling along as she tried her best to keep up with Colin’s unrelenting pace.
Once they gained the street, Georgie felt her heart sink. Even if they were to find a carriage, it would essentially be trapped in the press of vehicles. There was nowhere for them to go, no means of escape.
Colin swore under his breath, looking this way and that, as if weighing his choices. Then he dashed straight into the confusion of curricles, cabriolets, and elegant barouches.
Drivers shouted curses at them as they set horses to prancing and tossing their heads in their traces.
Georgie stumbled once or twice in her wretched shoes, the high heels and ill fit a serious detriment to flight—but then again, she hadn’t planned on creating a scene that would have an angry mob nipping at her hemline as she fled the ball.
Halfway across the street, Colin snatched a dark blanket from a carriage seat, throwing it over Georgie’s shoulders like a shawl. The driver started down from his perch, shouting out a protest, until he spied Colin.
“To the corner, Elton,” he said. “And we’ll meet you there . . . in good time.”
“Yes, milord,” the driver replied, scrambling to pick up his reins, and shouting complaints to the other carriages blocking his path.
They set off anew, Georgie shrouded in the smelly horse blanket. So much for her dreams of the ermine-trimmed cape she’d once seen in a fashion magazine. Still, she didn’t complain, for the dark wool covered her telltale dress, and from the shouts behind them, their followers had not let the crush of vehicles or the prospect of picking their way through a dark, horse-littered thoroughfare lessen their zeal.
“Your driver doesn’t find this unusual?” she asked, wondering if Colin was in the regular habit of dashing about with disreputable women, and an angry mob hot on his heels.
“He’s not my driver,” Colin tossed over his shoulder. “He’s Temple’s man. And if you knew my cousin, you wouldn’t consider our predicament unusual in the least.”
Once across the street, Colin continued down the block until they came to an alley.
He darted down the narrow way, dodging the refuse blocking their pathway.
To her dismay, she stumbled, this time landing in a heap on the dirty cobbles. He turned around and plucked her up from the ground with barely a pause.
“My shoe,” she cried out, realizing she’d lost one of her shoes the moment her stocking-clad foot touched the cold ground. “My shoe fell off.” She turned to go back.
“Forget it,” he told her tersely, catching her once again by the hand and making for the lamplight at the end of the alley.
“But it’s my shoe!” she complained, the dirty alley soiling her only pair of silk stockings.
“I’ll buy you a shopful of new ones tomorrow.”
“I don’t want a shopful, I want my shoe.” Georgie pulled to a stop again. “Besides, according to those men back there, you haven’t any money.”
“I have enough,” he told her. “Unless you prefer they give you the blunt for it.”
As if to
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