A Well Pleasured Lady by Christina Dodd

the upper servants from the lower.
    But when he spoke, he used English well leavened with a Scottish accent. “God’ll grant us good weather until we leave Scotland, m’lord,” he said, “but after that we’ll be in the Devil’s hands.”
    â€œA proper Scottish sentiment.” Sebastian couldn’t help it; he grinned. Such a defiant spirit amused him. “Why are you going, if you find England so repugnant?”
    â€œSomeone has to go along to watch Miss Fairchild.”
    Normally, such impertinence would only amuse Sebastian more, but something about the way those blue eyes watched him wiped the smirk from his lips. The fellow was confronting Sebastian, man to man, and Sebastian didn’t care for the challenge. “She’ll be fine, I assure you.”
    â€œNay, I assure you ,” the fellow said. “And that’s why I should continue inspecting the procession.”
    â€œYou’re a footman?” Sebastian asked.
    â€œThe ostler.”
    And did this ostler imagine himself a suitor to Guinevere Mary Fairchild, descendent of a noble English line? “What’s your name?”
    â€œHaley, m’lord.”
    Sebastian hesitated. He should dismiss the man, tell him he’d lost the right to care for his beloved Miss Fairchild by his effrontery, but something about the way Haley stood—shoulders back, hands on hips—told Sebastian he would be wasting his breath.
    â€œVery well,” he said. “Watch over Miss Fairchild if you wish, and do that by making sure our journey is a smooth one.”
    â€œTo that end, my lord.” Striding to the back of Lady Valéry’s carriage, Haley eased a large wash pan from beneath the ropes that held it. “Take this.”
    Sebastian gingerly took the banged-up old thing between two fingers. “What is it for?”
    Now Haley was grinning. Sebastian could tell by the crinkles of merriment around his eyes.
    â€œIt’s for Miss Fairchild,” Haley said. “She is not a good traveler.”

Chapter 6
    Blearily Mary lifted her head from the pillow. The carriage had stopped swaying, the wheels had stopped their eternal clamor, and the door opened to let in a draft of fresh air.
    â€œSit up, Miss Fairchild,” Lord Whitfield said.
    â€œOh, now what?” Miserably aware that her appearance must be as wretched as her constitution, she groped on the floor for her bonnet.
    â€œWe have arrived.”
    The significant tone of his voice brought her erect as nothing else could do. She clutched the edge of the narrow padded seat that had been her bed for too many days. “At Fairchild Manor?”
    â€œCome.” His hand, marked by that forbidding scar, appeared beneath her nose. “I’ll carry you.”
    â€œI don’t want you to,” she muttered as she tied the bonnet under her chin.
    â€œYou never want me to,” he answered. “But Idoubt you wish to pitch forward onto your nose.” He paused for a beat. “As you did before.”
    He wouldn’t let her forget it, either. That first night on the road from Scotland had not been one of her brighter moments, true, but a gentleman would have simply offered his services without constantly harping on one wretched incident in that filthy inn.
    Resentfully she put her hand in his and let him pull her off the seat. As she had every evening on the journey from Scotland to London, then again on this ride to Fairchild Manor, she balanced herself with her hands on his shoulders while he eased her through the door. Without ever letting her feet touch the ground, he picked her up with an arm beneath her back and one beneath her knees.
    She hated this. She hated being touched, especially by him, especially now. On the way to London, she’d been protected by layers and layers of thick wool cloth. She hadn’t liked being handled, but she’d been sick enough to be resigned.
    Then they’d