Page 22 of To Wager with Love

“At least the rain is lessening,” Matilda said, trying to distract herself from the fact that the Marquess of Montagu’s arm was around her shoulder and she was pressed tightly to his side. A low rumble of thunder grumbled softly, and she was relieved to know the storm was moving away. “What do we do now?” she asked, praying he’d not make some inadvisable remark as she was shivering, and she wasn’t certain it was from the cold, though she would swear on her life it was if questioned.

He was so solid, though, far more muscular than she’d imagined beneath all that impeccable tailoring. She’d believed him tall and lean, but the body beneath her hand was hard and a great deal more powerful than she’d guessed. The heat of his body burned through his damp clothes and she was feeling quite giddy at his nearness. Perhaps she was coming down with something. She could only hope it was pneumonia and not something more dangerous.

Montagu didn’t answer but looked around at the sound of horses’ hooves.

“Thank heaven for small mercies,” he said with a sigh, as whoever it was hailed them and drew to a halt, sliding from the saddle and running to the marquess.

“My lord!” the man exclaimed, eyes wide with concern. “Are you hurt, my lord? I left as soon as I heard the storm.”

Matilda admitted to some surprise at the obvious concern in the man’s expression. From his appearance, she assumed he was a groom or something of the kind, and he’d obviously left in a hurry without taking a coat, as he was in his shirtsleeves. Wiry and slim of stature, he was perhaps twenty years older than the marquess.

“Nothing of note,” Montagu replied. “Thank you for coming.”

The fellow belatedly swiped the cap from his head and astonished Matilda by muttering, “I tol’ yer it were gonna storm.”

“Noted,” Montagu said, his expression both benign and quelling at one and the same time. She wondered how he did it. “I will relieve you of your horse and take Miss Hunt back to Holbrooke. Return to the inn, send my carriage for me, and get people out looking for Rhaebus. I pray he’s not done himself an injury.”

“Yes, my lord, at once.”

“And how do you propose to get on a horse with a sprained ankle?” Matilda demanded, irritated.

Montagu returned a look of mild surprise as Thornton brought the horse closer. Matilda watched as the marquess grabbed a handful of mane with his left hand, put his right on the saddle and vaulted into place without ever touching the stirrups. Matilda’s mouth went a little dry and she huffed, refusing to admit she was impressed.

“I can do it bareback too, if you like,” he offered.

“Hardly the thing for the Marquess of Montagu,” she countered, affecting a scandalised expression when in truth her imagination was already picturing it. “What would the ton say if they knew?”

“I expect all the young bucks would ride up and down Rotten Row with not a saddle between them the very next day,” he said, his usual bored tone evident, though there was amusement in his eyes.

Matilda muttered something about pride coming before a fall, but otherwise refused to bite.

Montagu spoke a few words to Thornton before the man jogged off back to the village. The marquess moved the horse closer to her.

“Come along, Miss Hunt.”

Matilda looked up, her eyes widening as Montagu reached down a hand to her.

“Oh, no,” she said, backing off and shaking her head. “No, no. Indeed not. I thank you, but I shall walk.”

“You shall not, you little fool. You’re soaked to the bone and you’ll catch your death. Besides which,” he added, a wicked glint in his eyes that made her pulse flutter in a remarkably stupid fashion, “did you know that muslin becomes curiously transparent once wet?”

Matilda was suddenly a deal less chilled as her cheeks flared and she gave a little yelp of outrage. Her top half was at least covered by her spencer, sodden though it was, but from the waist down….

“Come, come, Miss Hunt. I’m a gentleman, after all. Surely you trust me not to look?”

“No,” Matilda replied succinctly and began walking away, only to realise what kind of view that gave him. She cursed and swung back around, holding her reticule in front of her. “You go first,” she ground out from between clenched teeth.

“Oh, no, Miss Hunt. I couldn’t possibly.”

Matilda narrowed her eyes at him and knew she wouldn’t win. “You are, without a doubt, the most odious, arrogant, irritating man in the entire country.”

Montagu tutted, shaking his head in dismay. “Oh, in the empire, surely? If a thing is worth doing etcetera….” he added, waving a hand nonchalantly.

Biting back the urge to growl with fury—he’d only enjoy it—Matilda stalked back to the horse. Montagu reached down before she’d prepared herself, and the next thing she knew she was sitting sideways in front of him. She gave a shriek, not least because the pommel was most uncomfortable, and almost slid off again, but a strong arm lashed around her waist, holding her in place.

“Calm yourself, you’ll spook the horse,” he replied, infuriatingly cool as Matilda stared at the ground, which seemed a dreadfully long way off.

“I don’t like horses,” she said, uncertain whether the proximity of the marquess or the lack of proximity to the ground was causing her the most distress. No. She wasn’t the least bit uncertain. There was really very little option other than to plaster herself against him, given the lack of space. It was far too intimate, and it was playing havoc with her equilibrium.