“Then what the devil do you mean by it?” the gentleman said, brows furrowing. “I was in the middle of a very peaceful nap, you know.”
Eliza gaped at him, speechless. Who on earth was this man? His skin suggested Indian descent—unusual in so rural a setting—and the private chaise spoke to affluence, so perhaps he was a wealthy merchant, en route to a nearby city? But a merchant would not speak to her in such a way.
“We did not intend to!” Margaret said indignantly.
“He was driving at a shocking pace, milord!” The man’s driver, having calmed his horses, was now jabbing an accusatory finger at Tomley.
“So were you!” Tomley retorted.
“Shall we agree the fault was shared?” Eliza suggested hastily, before tempers could rise any further.
“That verdict feels a trifle premature,” the gentleman said, a smile beginning to curl his mouth, as if he were tempted to find the whole incident rather amusing. “Ought the jury not properly hear the evidence before we deliberate?”
“I am glad you are finding this so entertaining, sir!” Margaret said tartly.
“As am I,” the man agreed. “A sense of humor truly is man’s greatest treasure.”
Eliza reached up to adjust her bonnet, dazed. This was not at all the serene journey she had planned, and if she had thought tears would help matters, she might have begun crying already. By now they ought almost to have reached Peasedown and be looking forward to a restorative repast—not stranded in the middle of nowhere, having conversations with a strange gentleman so unusual as to border upon the lunatic.
“Tomley?” she said. “Are we able to continue?”
The coachman shook his head.
“The spokes on the left wheel are quite snapped,” he said, examining them with a critical eye. “But not to worry, my lady, Peasedown is only three miles away. I shall take one of the horses and return directly with a wheelwright!”
“And leave us here?” Margaret said. Even if Eliza were not in widow’s weeds, it would not be ideal to be left stranded and unprotected on an open road—as it was, it felt distinctly improper. But what choice did they have? Eliza raised her eyes to the heavens.
She would not weep. She would not weep. But why was it today that such a disaster had to occur, just when she had resolved to make a new start?
“Far be it for me to insert myself,” the gentleman’s voice interrupted her reverie. He still, infuriatingly, sounded a little amused. “But as my carriage seems to be wholly intact—indeed, mortifyingly so—may I offer you ladies transport to, ah, Peasebury or Peaseton, where you might rest out of the cold?”
It was tempting, and even as Eliza considered it another shiver ran through her—as if her body was in agreement with him—but she shook her head in refusal.
“You are kind to offer, sir, but I cannot accept,” she said.
“I am kind to offer,” the gentleman agreed. “And I am afraid—and I beg you will not think me boorish—I must insist. I cannot leave you here upon the road.”
“But you must,” Eliza said.
“I cannot,” he said. “It is against the gentlemanly code of honor they made us all memorize at Eton. ‘One shalt not leave damsels on the road, to be eaten by bears.’ ”
Eliza wondered vaguely if she was concussed.
“There are no wild bears in England,” Margaret pointed out.
“You will have to take that up with Eton,” the gentleman said gravely.
“You are a stranger to us,” Eliza said. “It would not be proper.”
“Why, that is easily resolved with an introduction,” the gentleman said, sweeping a magnificent bow. “I am Melville.”
Margaret gave a start. Tomley made an audible choking noise.
Oh. Of course.
The Melville family was one of the oldest lines in British aristocracy, and each new generation seemed to eclipse the last in infamy: the seventh earl, “Mad Jack,” was famed for frittering a fortune away at cards; the eighth earl for first running away upon his eighteenth birthday and then for returning a decade later with an Indian noblewoman for a wife. In keeping with family tradition, the ninth and most recent Lord Melville’s romantic entanglements appeared almost weekly in the gossip rags, yet he and his sister, Lady Caroline, had become just as renowned for their literary exploits: Lady Caroline for a loosely fictional political novel and Melville for the romantic verses that had held women throughout the ton spellbound.
Eliza looked Melville over, deciding that he was certainly as handsome and as well-formed as so often described, though not—as she had always imagined—carrying a cutlass. She could see now, too, that while he was dressed casually rather than elegantly, the exquisite cut of his riding coat, the shine of his top boots and the high crown of his beaver hat all proclaimed the beau monde. Her eyes traveled back up to his face, at which point she realized, from the raise of his eyebrows, that in her shock she had made no attempt to mask her obvious perusal of his person.
“Well?” Melville said, spreading his arms as if to encourage inspection. Eliza flushed. “Do you accept my benevolent and generous offer?”
“My lady, if I may—I do not think it proper,” Tomley said in hissing undertones. Pardle gave a fervent nod of agreement.
Eliza hesitated, at an utter loss. On the one hand, association with such a notorious flirt—one might even say rake—was certainly undesirable. On the other, they could not very well linger here on a public road, in the cold, for the hours it might take Tomley to return. She looked over to Margaret, who gave a tiny, helpless shrug. It was up to Eliza to decide, then.
“His late lordship would not want—” Tomley pressed, which clarified matters.
“His late lordship is not here, however,” Eliza said. “It is my decision, and . . . and I would not like to tarry any longer. Tomley, if you would help us alight from the carriage you may follow with the horses and procure the wheelwright’s services.”
“Allow me . . .” The earl offered Eliza his hand and, in a trice, both the ladies and Pardle were handed into the chaise which was blissfully comfortable, and after a brief pause Melville followed, handing Eliza her mud-splattered portfolio before settling himself in the seat opposite.
The carriage drew off. There was silence, as Eliza and Margaret stared at Melville. Eliza cudgeled her mind for something of interest to say but drew an utter blank.
Fortunately, Melville seemed more than able to carry the conversation.
“Where are you ladies traveling today?” he asked politely.
“Bath,” Margaret supplied. “We are removing there for the remainder of my cousin’s mourning.”