to him for support in a storm, or felt the hard muscles beneath his clothes.
“There,” John said behind her. “It’s safe to look.”
She stood and faced him, ignoring his teasing tone. Her breasts tightened, and a fluttering sensation took hold of her. He’d changed into a dry shirt and breeches, and his black hair stood in rumpled, towel-dried spikes. She liked this John—not a stone-faced model of impeccable posture, but relaxed and with a humorous gleam in his dark eyes. In his shirtsleeves, there was no mistaking his broad shoulders and lean, flat abdomen.
“We should hang our wet clothes up to dry,” he said.
“I was planning to spread mine out in front of the fire. I’ll add yours, if you’ll pass them to me.”
He gave her his wet clothes. “Thank you.”
Still clutching the woolen blanket about her with her left hand, she draped her damp stockings alongside his sodden coat. “Is there any chance we can still reach Kegworth tomorrow?”
“That will depend on the weather. The repairs to our carriage may take some time, but Leitner has orders to hire a hack chaise and four. It can’t be above forty miles now, so as long as the roads are passable we should be able to cover the distance in a single day.”
“Oh, I hope we can manage it. I worry that poor Papa...” She trailed off, afraid to finish the sentence. “What about our coachman? Will he be all right, convalescing in Market Harborough?”
“I gave Leitner enough blunt to ensure Barnes should be able to live like a king while we press on to Kegworth. We can collect him on our return, and by then he should be healed enough to travel.”
“What if there’s no post-chaise available for hire?”
“Never fear, once the weather clears, there’s sure to be a mail coach or a stage running to Derby. One way or another, I’ll make sure you reach your father’s side, even if I have to carry you there myself. You have my word.”
He sounded so reassuring. Ronnie had been right—Welford was good in a crisis.
Caro gathered her courage and asked, “And you will keep your promise, won’t you? I couldn’t bear for Papa to find out the truth about our marriage now, when he has so little time left.”
She half expected Welford to stiffen up and remind her in his usual frosty tone that he wasn’t in the habit of breaking his promises. Instead he stepped closer and said with surprising kindness, “Don’t worry. I’ll follow your lead.”
Her imperious husband, following her lead? The thought was too strange to contemplate. But then, everything about this night felt strange. Welford was rumpled, coatless, and so close she could smell the rain on his skin. They were in an unfamiliar house in the middle of nowhere, while the wind howled outside. Their coachman might even now be under the surgeon’s knife, and soon her father might be dead—perhaps he was already dead, while this wretched storm kept her from reaching his side.
And John was being so kind she scarcely recognized him. She was tired of fighting, tired right down to her bones. Surely it was time one of them made an effort to mend the rift between them.
Impulsively, she said, “John, I don’t want you to sleep on the floor tonight.”
His brows drew together. “I told you, I’m not going to take the bed when—”
“No, I know what you said. But I’d rather not sleep on the floor either.” She smiled uncertainly. “Why don’t we share the bed?”
Chapter Eight
It is a most mortifying reflection for a man to consider what he has done
,
compared to what he might have done
.
—Samuel Johnson
A jolt of raw desire shot through him. Caro was inviting him into her bed?
Wait—he was getting ahead of himself. She hadn’t said anything about the marriage act, only that they should share the feather tick. More than likely she meant for them to pass the night chastely, like the couple in that long German poem who’d slept with the hero’s sword between them. He was
“There,” John said behind her. “It’s safe to look.”
She stood and faced him, ignoring his teasing tone. Her breasts tightened, and a fluttering sensation took hold of her. He’d changed into a dry shirt and breeches, and his black hair stood in rumpled, towel-dried spikes. She liked this John—not a stone-faced model of impeccable posture, but relaxed and with a humorous gleam in his dark eyes. In his shirtsleeves, there was no mistaking his broad shoulders and lean, flat abdomen.
“We should hang our wet clothes up to dry,” he said.
“I was planning to spread mine out in front of the fire. I’ll add yours, if you’ll pass them to me.”
He gave her his wet clothes. “Thank you.”
Still clutching the woolen blanket about her with her left hand, she draped her damp stockings alongside his sodden coat. “Is there any chance we can still reach Kegworth tomorrow?”
“That will depend on the weather. The repairs to our carriage may take some time, but Leitner has orders to hire a hack chaise and four. It can’t be above forty miles now, so as long as the roads are passable we should be able to cover the distance in a single day.”
“Oh, I hope we can manage it. I worry that poor Papa...” She trailed off, afraid to finish the sentence. “What about our coachman? Will he be all right, convalescing in Market Harborough?”
“I gave Leitner enough blunt to ensure Barnes should be able to live like a king while we press on to Kegworth. We can collect him on our return, and by then he should be healed enough to travel.”
“What if there’s no post-chaise available for hire?”
“Never fear, once the weather clears, there’s sure to be a mail coach or a stage running to Derby. One way or another, I’ll make sure you reach your father’s side, even if I have to carry you there myself. You have my word.”
He sounded so reassuring. Ronnie had been right—Welford was good in a crisis.
Caro gathered her courage and asked, “And you will keep your promise, won’t you? I couldn’t bear for Papa to find out the truth about our marriage now, when he has so little time left.”
She half expected Welford to stiffen up and remind her in his usual frosty tone that he wasn’t in the habit of breaking his promises. Instead he stepped closer and said with surprising kindness, “Don’t worry. I’ll follow your lead.”
Her imperious husband, following her lead? The thought was too strange to contemplate. But then, everything about this night felt strange. Welford was rumpled, coatless, and so close she could smell the rain on his skin. They were in an unfamiliar house in the middle of nowhere, while the wind howled outside. Their coachman might even now be under the surgeon’s knife, and soon her father might be dead—perhaps he was already dead, while this wretched storm kept her from reaching his side.
And John was being so kind she scarcely recognized him. She was tired of fighting, tired right down to her bones. Surely it was time one of them made an effort to mend the rift between them.
Impulsively, she said, “John, I don’t want you to sleep on the floor tonight.”
His brows drew together. “I told you, I’m not going to take the bed when—”
“No, I know what you said. But I’d rather not sleep on the floor either.” She smiled uncertainly. “Why don’t we share the bed?”
Chapter Eight
It is a most mortifying reflection for a man to consider what he has done
,
compared to what he might have done
.
—Samuel Johnson
A jolt of raw desire shot through him. Caro was inviting him into her bed?
Wait—he was getting ahead of himself. She hadn’t said anything about the marriage act, only that they should share the feather tick. More than likely she meant for them to pass the night chastely, like the couple in that long German poem who’d slept with the hero’s sword between them. He was
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