Anne Barbour by A Rakes Reform

a quick glance with Larkie and stared warily at the earl.
    “I was wondering,” he finished in a rush, “if you would accompany me to Miss Wendover’s home.”
    “I beg your pardon?” gasped Hester.
    “Sarah Wendover lives near Bythorne Park, so she is no more than fifteen miles from here. You—and Miss Larkin, of course—could come with me and still be home by this evening. Please,” he added, in the face of Hester’s expression of blank disbelief. “If she has fled to Miss Wendover, it’s going to be next to impossible for me to winkle her away, at least without tying her up like a Christmas goose and flinging her over my shoulder. But if you were to talk to her . . .”
    He left his sentence unfinished, but bent on her the most charming smile at his disposal, one that he knew from experience was unvaryingly effective. On this occasion, however, he could sense that it had failed in its purpose.
    “No,” she said uncompromisingly.
    “But—but why?”
    “Lord Bythorne,” returned Hester patiently, “I sympathize with your, er, difficulties with your ward, but you can hardly expect me to disrupt my life in order to come to your rescue. In fact, I find myself extremely reluctant to try to persuade her to acquiesce in what I can only consider your unreasonable desire that she return home to marry a man whom she holds in repugnance.”
    Thorne rose and advanced on her, experiencing an irrational urge to grasp Miss Hester Blayne by the shoulders and shake her until that tidy little bun on the top of her head tumbled down her back.
    “Now, wait just a moment, Miss Blayne. First of all, as I thought I had explained, I am not the villainous uncle from some third-rate melodrama. Chloe is my ward and my responsibility. I consider finding an acceptable match for her the most important of those responsibilities. The husband I have chosen for her is a fine young man. I have investigated his family. The fact that Chloe has dug in her heels against the idea only goes to prove how woefully inadequate she is to determine her own future. Second, I did not ask you to disrupt your life, I merely asked you to spare me an afternoon from your busy schedule.” He drew a deep breath and stepped away from her abruptly. “However, you may consider that request null and void. I regret having disturbed you. Thank you for telling me of Chloe’s reference to Miss Wendover. And now, if you will excuse me . . .”
    He turned on his heel and rigid with anger made once again for the front door.
    “Wait.” To her own amazement, Hester heard herself speak the word. She put out her hand. “I apologize, my lord. I’m afraid I have been conditioned to attributing the worst motive to any male plan for a female’s well-being.”
    “Indeed, Hester,” interposed Miss Larkin, tendrils of gray hair flying about her face. “Lord Bythorne’s request is not unreasonable. You told me yourself just this morning that you are ahead of schedule on your book, and we have no social engagements pending—at least, not until Tuesday next when we have been invited to Squire Maltby’s.”
    Hester smiled reluctantly at Thorne. “Very well. We shall be pleased to accompany you—if you still wish us to do so.”
    Thorne’s grin of relief told her her apology had been accepted. “Absolutely,” he said. “My curricle, unfortunately, will not accommodate all of us, so I’ll have to hire a vehicle at—the White Stag, is it?” he asked, naming the posting inn on the outskirts of the village.
    “Yes,” replied Hester. “That would probably be best, since I’m afraid our only vehicle is a rather smallish gig.”
    Thorne nodded and hurried from the house with a marked air of relief, returning less than an hour later with a commodious coach and four with attendant postboy.
    Scarcely more than another hour elapsed before they arrived at The Willows, home of Mr. Jonathan Wendover, Esquire. Present to greet them were the squire himself and his lady, as