Page 10 of The Marriage Method

She was his.

The prospect, he found, wasn’t as repellent as he had earlier imagined it.

3

Nell sat back in the leather-upholstered seat of Miles’s carriage as his matched pair of jet-black horses sprang into motion. She wasn’t an idiot. She knew what he meant when he referenced his responsibilities.

Were she not already consumed with worry at the inevitable repercussions of this morning’s cat-induced debacle, she might have had some capacity left to be shocked by his sentiments.

Leave it to her to have been compromised by who had to be the last truly honorable gentleman in greater London. Surely, no other man would feel obliged to own up to his so-called responsibilities in such a way. Not if the lady he’d compromised was no lady at all.

Nell had no illusions on that score. She was an orphan girl, with no money or connections. A humble teacher at an obscure charity school, and a lame one at that. Most gentlemen would have fobbed her off with a wooden apology, and—if they were generous—an offer of some meager financial compensation. They certainly wouldn’t have been contemplating anything more.

But Miles Quincey wasn’t most gentlemen. He was the childhood best friend of Effie’s new husband, Mr. Royce. Perhaps that’s why he was behaving with such unusual consideration?

He sat across from her in the carriage, his tall black hat resting on his knee. He was, in every outward respect, no different from the man who had shaken her hand in greeting less than an hour ago, rumpled and impatient, as though he had a million obligations pulling on him at once and not enough time in the world to see them straight.

Yet, he wasn’t the same at all.

She’d since felt the strength of his arms. The long length of his leanly muscled body pressed to hers. And she’d submitted, quite willingly, as he’d lifted her skirts, giving him full view of not only her ankles (which would have been scandalous enough) but her calves and—heaven help her—her knees.

Facing him now, any other young lady would be forgiven for swooning. But Nell had neither the time nor the temperament for lapsing into a fit of the vapors.

She pushed back her veil. Her hat was still partially askew on her head, her hair coming loose from its pins. “Have you any way of locating Reverend Pettiman?” she asked. “One of your newspaper sources or something of the like?”

Miles looked at her steadily. There was an expression in his eyes that was difficult to read. “I can try.”

“I would be grateful,” she said. “If you can but find him and explain things, we may yet avert the worst of this disaster.”

“You prefer I speak with him?”

“It must be you. He’d never listen to my excuses. And if he did, he wouldn’t believe them. As a man you’ll be given the benefit of the doubt.”

“A cynical viewpoint.”

“An accurate one. It doesn’t behoove me to fool myself. Pettiman must be made to see reason. Otherwise…”

The possible consequences pressed in on her from every side.

A truly liberated female would laugh in the face of them. But Nell knew better. Though the Academy’s mission was firmly progressive, it must still present a public appearance of conformity. It was that outward veneer that was susceptible to crack if Pettiman’s accusations about Nell were made public. No charity school could ever hope to remain reputable if its deputy headmistress had her character impugned by such a prominent local figure of morality.

Miles seemed to grasp her unspoken concerns. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

She reached up to remove her hatpin. “That doesn’t signify. It’s not the wrongdoing society concerns itself with, but the impression of wrongdoing. And you and I have provided ample evidence of that.”

He ran a hand through his disheveled black hair. There was a slight wave in his locks that was not unbecoming. “It was a perfectly justifiable interaction, however it looked. Far more comical than immoral, if you think of it.”

Nell lifted her hat from her head. “Yes, I’m sure Reverend Pettiman will be heartily amused. Perhaps we should introduce him to your cat?”

Miles’s brows lowered. “Shadow is as innocent in this as you are.”

Nell flashed him a speaking glance as she smoothed her hair back into its chignon. He was defending his cat. And from her of all people. She hated that she found it endearing. “I know that,” she replied. “I’m not blaming her.”

Miles didn’t seem to fault the little beast either. Never mind that she’d bitten him. And severely enough to draw blood if the damp streaks of crimson that stained the front of his waistcoat were to judge. “No one is to blame,” he said. “Unless—”

She paused in the act of resettling her hat back on her head. “Unless what?”

“Nothing.” He glanced away from her to the carriage window. Outside, the city rolled by at a steady clip as the horses weaved through the crowded streets.