A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(82)
Author: Tessa Dare

“To Scotland. To the symposium.”

“But . . . it’s too late. The symposium is today.”

“I know. That’s why we must hurry. We’ll arrive late. It can’t be helped.”

“How would we even arrive at all? No more coaches, Colin. We can’t.” She knew how miserable he’d been in the post-chaise last night. She wouldn’t put him through that again, ever.

“I have a plan,” he said. “You’ll see.”

“But Francine—”

“Still exists. Plaster cast or no plaster cast. Her footprint exists. She left her mark on the world.” He approached and took her hands in his. “And so will you, Min. Perhaps you won’t be assured the prize without the evidence in hand. But you’ll be there, and you’ll make your impression.”

She didn’t know what to say.

A maid appeared in the bathing-room doorway. She cleared her throat and bobbed in a curtsy. “My lady, your bath is prepared.”

Colin dismissed the servant with a nod.

He squeezed Minerva’s hands. “We’ve come this far. We’re not giving up now. This is the story of our future—the one we’re going to tell our friends and dinner guests and children and grandchildren—and the story doesn’t end with defeat. It ends in triumph. Your triumph.”

He lifted her hands to his lips. Kissed one, then the other.

She melted inside.

“Just trust me to get you there,” he said. “And then make me proud.”

“This?” An hour later, Minerva stood on the Riverchase front steps, dressed in her best remaining traveling habit, made of a dark green twill. She hoped she looked optimistic, if she didn’t quite feel it. “We’re journeying to Edinburgh in this?”

She peered into the misty dawn. In the drive sat the highest-sprung, most richly upholstered and gaily-painted phaeton she’d ever seen in her life. The narrow seat, built to accommodate only two persons—one driver, one passenger—must have hovered at least six feet from the ground. The little sporting carriage was hitched to two of the finest, most perfectly matched black warmbloods Minerva could imagine. They looked more like racing stock than coaching beasts.

“That can’t be safe,” she said.

“It isn’t exactly the family model.”

“We’ll glow in the dark.” She winced as the first ray of sunlight hit daffodil-yellow lacquer.

“It’s garish and flashy and reckless, yes.” Colin tugged on a bit of leather tack, testing its strength. “But it is the fastest conveyance to be had in England. Won it in a game of cards, a few years back.”

“You won it. But do you know how to drive it?”

He shrugged and smiled. “We’ll find out.”

Minerva approached the phaeton with no small degree of trepidation. But she forced the nerves down, determined to be brave. Colin was putting all his faith in her. She had to make this worth it.

With a groom’s assistance, she managed to climb into the seat. The team danced with impatience, and the phaeton swayed on its springs. Minerva’s head spun.

Don’t look down, she told herself.

Of course, the next instant she looked down. Did such prohibitions ever work?

Hoisting himself into the seat, Colin landed next to her. He pulled down the brim of his hat and gathered the reins. “Seventy-three miles. That’s the distance to Edinburgh. If the weather holds, we can cover twelve miles an hour, easily, in this phaeton. Fifteen, if I press. With any luck, we’ll arrive by noon. We can do this, Min. We really can.”

She nodded. “You do . . .” Threading her arm though his, she swallowed hard. “Colin, you do know how to drive this thing, don’t you?”

He smiled. “You keep asking me that.”

“You keep refusing to answer.”

He turned his gaze to the road and flicked the reins, nudging the team into a walk. “I don’t like to ride in carriages. Driving is a different matter.”

Once they’d rounded the turn in the drive, Colin snapped the reins and gave the horses their head, urging them into a canter.

They didn’t canter. They flew.

“Oh!” The wind took her startled laughter and whipped it across the sprawling grounds of Riverchase.

This must be what a bullet feels like.

Powered by those two majestic, elegant animals, the phaeton rocketed down the straight gravel drive like the angels’ divine chariot. The seat was so lightly sprung, Minerva scarcely felt the ruts in the road.

When they reached the end of the drive, Colin slowed the team and guided them onto the main road with skill and ease. He looked as though he’d been born with reins in hand.

She leaned closer, forced to shout over the roar of wind and hoofbeats. “Teasing man. You do know how to drive it.”

“Four-in-Hand Club!” he called back, giving her a sly wink. “All the rage in Town.”

Laughing, Minerva clapped a hand over her bonnet, was too exhilarated by the rush of wind and speed to complain. Yes, of course. The rascal was a member of every club that would have him. Gentlemen’s clubs, boxing club, gambling club, adventurers club. Why not a driving club, too?

That was his life, in London. All those clubs. All those friends. All those glittering, opulent amusements.

All those women.

As they raced northward, her mind spun faster than the phaeton wheels.

His suggestion of a public courtship thrilled her, to be sure. Attending balls and operas on the arm of the dashing, handsome Lord Payne? The thought alone made her heart skip beats. And she believed him when he said he cared for her. He wouldn’t lie about that.

He’s driving breakneck to Scotland for you, she told herself. Of course he cares.

Then again . . . just a few days ago he’d devoted an afternoon to thatching a cottage roof. He’d thrown himself into the menial labor with strength and enthusiasm and good humor. But he hadn’t pledged to spend the rest of his life doing it. Was his sudden attachment to Minerva just a product of the extreme circumstances?

And if she was doubting his attachment, maybe he doubted her love.

Or maybe he simply doubted her. Perhaps he doubted she could make a proper viscountess, and who could blame him? For God’s sake, think of that enormous, beautiful house and estate. Who would ever think Minerva could be its mistress? She’d already left the drawing room a shambles and dripped rainwater all over the entry carpet. The servants would hate her.

She couldn’t help but worry over a hundred separate things. Colin must be worried, too. He’d admitted his uncertainty. That’s why he wanted to wait.