me,” said Abigail, feeling Paggles shivering. “It is out of the question for us to wait here in this noisy place, and if we do not leave now, the snow will keep us here overnight. Kindly tell the coachman the way to the Dower House. And we shall require another hot brick, if you please.”
When the boy brought the brick, Abigail herself tucked it under Paggles’s feet. Mrs. Spurgeon’s maid seemed amused that the young lady should lavish so much attention on her servant, but Abigail did not care if she appeared ridiculous. Paggles had been the only servant to stay with Lady Anne after her marriage to Red Ritchie, and she had always been more like a grandmother to Abigail than a lady’s maid.
The Dower House was not more than three quarters of a mile from the inn. As the coach rounded a bend of tall, ice-laden elms, Abigail looked out of the window. Her mouth fell open. The coach rolled to a stop.
“Good heavens!” Abigail cried in disbelief.
The house at the end of the drive was a handsome square cottage of rosy stone, half covered in ivy, exactly as it should be but for one thing. A very large elm tree had fallen on it recently, crushing the roof and upper attics of the left-hand side, and spraying shattered glass from the upper windows across the snow. A few men in frieze coats were standing about, shaking their heads over the mess, their breath freezing in the air.
“What is it, Miss Smith?” Evans wanted to know.
Without answering, Abigail flung open the carriage door and jumped out, forgetting in her haste to let down the step. She put her foot down, expecting to encounter something solid, then ended up falling nearly four feet down, landing in a heap in the snow.
“I believe it is customary for the lady to allow the gentleman to open the door for her,” said Cary Wayborn, helping her to her feet.
Abigail leaped at the sound of his voice, which she immediately recognized, and completely forgot about the elm that had fallen on the Dower House. She had been quite wrong in thinking she could see him again and remain rational. The sight of him and the nearness of him instantly shut down the best part of her brain. Her throat went dry and she could only stare at him helplessly. If she had been able to move, she would have run away from him, but her legs were rooted on the spot, and, besides, he was holding her hand. She was acutely aware that, despite the cold, he wasn’t wearing gloves, and his hand was quite as brown as his face. This was not how she had envisioned their second meeting.
Cary’s faith in his sister’s knowledge of London’s debutantes was so strong he did not doubt for a moment that he was looking at his Irish cousin, Miss Cosima Vaughn. While vain enough to believe she’d come to Hertfordshire in pursuit of him, the extreme boldness of the move puzzled him; he had judged her to be a young woman nearly crippled by shyness. Yet here she was, staring at him like a pole-axed doe with those oddly appealing light brown eyes.
“Good Lord,” he murmured aloud. “It is you, isn’t it? I’m not imagining things? You are my cousin from Piccadilly? Aged eleven and three quarters from the back, aged twenty-one from the front?” He began to smile at her, his eyes growing warm as the initial surprise of seeing her wore off. He was starved for female companionship in Hertfordshire, and he thought she might fill the void very nicely indeed. He might even succeed in discovering the scandal that had thus far eluded his inquisitive sister Juliet. Making her blush had already given him more pleasure than he’d had in a month. Better still, she was his cousin, and, as a blood relation, he could tease her and flirt with her as much as he liked, without arousing ugly gossip.
Abigail guessed he was the sort of man that made every woman he met feel special, and she tried to resist his smile. Sternly, she reminded herself that this was a married man.
“What brings you to Hertfordshire?” he asked
When the boy brought the brick, Abigail herself tucked it under Paggles’s feet. Mrs. Spurgeon’s maid seemed amused that the young lady should lavish so much attention on her servant, but Abigail did not care if she appeared ridiculous. Paggles had been the only servant to stay with Lady Anne after her marriage to Red Ritchie, and she had always been more like a grandmother to Abigail than a lady’s maid.
The Dower House was not more than three quarters of a mile from the inn. As the coach rounded a bend of tall, ice-laden elms, Abigail looked out of the window. Her mouth fell open. The coach rolled to a stop.
“Good heavens!” Abigail cried in disbelief.
The house at the end of the drive was a handsome square cottage of rosy stone, half covered in ivy, exactly as it should be but for one thing. A very large elm tree had fallen on it recently, crushing the roof and upper attics of the left-hand side, and spraying shattered glass from the upper windows across the snow. A few men in frieze coats were standing about, shaking their heads over the mess, their breath freezing in the air.
“What is it, Miss Smith?” Evans wanted to know.
Without answering, Abigail flung open the carriage door and jumped out, forgetting in her haste to let down the step. She put her foot down, expecting to encounter something solid, then ended up falling nearly four feet down, landing in a heap in the snow.
“I believe it is customary for the lady to allow the gentleman to open the door for her,” said Cary Wayborn, helping her to her feet.
Abigail leaped at the sound of his voice, which she immediately recognized, and completely forgot about the elm that had fallen on the Dower House. She had been quite wrong in thinking she could see him again and remain rational. The sight of him and the nearness of him instantly shut down the best part of her brain. Her throat went dry and she could only stare at him helplessly. If she had been able to move, she would have run away from him, but her legs were rooted on the spot, and, besides, he was holding her hand. She was acutely aware that, despite the cold, he wasn’t wearing gloves, and his hand was quite as brown as his face. This was not how she had envisioned their second meeting.
Cary’s faith in his sister’s knowledge of London’s debutantes was so strong he did not doubt for a moment that he was looking at his Irish cousin, Miss Cosima Vaughn. While vain enough to believe she’d come to Hertfordshire in pursuit of him, the extreme boldness of the move puzzled him; he had judged her to be a young woman nearly crippled by shyness. Yet here she was, staring at him like a pole-axed doe with those oddly appealing light brown eyes.
“Good Lord,” he murmured aloud. “It is you, isn’t it? I’m not imagining things? You are my cousin from Piccadilly? Aged eleven and three quarters from the back, aged twenty-one from the front?” He began to smile at her, his eyes growing warm as the initial surprise of seeing her wore off. He was starved for female companionship in Hertfordshire, and he thought she might fill the void very nicely indeed. He might even succeed in discovering the scandal that had thus far eluded his inquisitive sister Juliet. Making her blush had already given him more pleasure than he’d had in a month. Better still, she was his cousin, and, as a blood relation, he could tease her and flirt with her as much as he liked, without arousing ugly gossip.
Abigail guessed he was the sort of man that made every woman he met feel special, and she tried to resist his smile. Sternly, she reminded herself that this was a married man.
“What brings you to Hertfordshire?” he asked
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