Page 10 of For a Scandalous Wager (Breaking the Rules of the Beau Monde #3)

CHAPTER 9

E velyn pulled the greatcoat tight, folding her arms against the cold. Rochester refused to take it back. By the time they reached the first hamlet, a few errant drops had turned into a bleeding downpour. The lamps were now lit, and the guttering light made it feel more real.

She occasionally looked across the seat to find Rochester staring at her as if she were an anomaly, a mystery to solve, and then he’d blink her away in favor of watching the road again.

“You understand if you take me to Winn’s, I’ll have to explain all this to my friend, who should not be bothered with emotional baggage when she’s about to be a mother?”

He watched out the window at the falling rain and then looked at her askance.

“You do understand?” she asked again when he said nothing.

“Then I suggest you do your damnedest to put on a pretty front if you care for her at all.”

“Rochester, sometimes you say horrible things.” She refolded her arms and turned away.

“I know I do. And I don’t mean them most of the time.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You exasperate me as no one can, and I think you know it. But tonight, I’m quite right-minded when I say to pull yourself together for the sake of your friend.”

“How can I when I can hardly breathe? Can you not see that I’m terrified? Perhaps if my mother were alive, it would be different. She’d talk sense into my father. Surely, you can understand that since we both lost our mothers as children.”

“I watched my mother die, Evelyn. It’s not the same.” His cheek twitched. His fists burrowed in the crease of his crossed arms. She didn’t know if his tense demeanor was caused by the cold or because of angry grief.

“I didn’t know you wrote the book on pain and sorrow. You must have a yardstick to measure it. How thoughtful. I should have considered that before I trusted you.”

He sighed heavily toward the ceiling with a look of frustration rounding out the whole display. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you? I saw my mother die, too. I just don’t remember it. In fact, I don’t remember her at all. Would it be fair of me to say to you, at least you have that ?”

His nostrils flared. His lungs deflated, and he looked a little lost. “I am sorry. I don’t mean to be insensitive, and I never stopped to consider what it might be like to never know one’s mother. I still remember my mother’s face, although her words are foggier now.”

“That must be difficult.”

“Evelyn, I’m not uncaring of your plight. Truly, I’m not. I know you consider me a friend. But what kind of man cultivates a friendship with his best friend’s little sister?” His eyes darted between hers.

“A foolish one?”

He chuckled at that. “Bravo. I do think you’ve hit the nail there.”

“Are you my friend?”

He tilted his head, then grabbed the strap when the coach rocked through a pothole. “I’m very much your friend, which is why this is so hard.”

A crack of thunder shuddered through the cabin, and they both leaned to see out the window. The weather did not let up. The coach made another lurch, this one throwing them at a steep angle, and then, as quickly, it came to a jerking halt. The back corner listed as she braced her hand on the seat to keep upright.

Evelyn heard the driver shout something.

“Stay here,” Rochester said just before he opened the door and disappeared into sheets of rain. She looked down and realized she still wore his coat. Why had she left her room without even a cape?

She was a goose. Rochester was right. But to go about with a man who didn’t call her silly names was unthinkable. She’d grown to love the way he said it, all ruffled and exasperated, often with his hands on his hips, throwing back his jacket like he’d done tonight. He looked like a pirate barking orders on a windy deck. His hair had a forever windswept look that made her wish to run her hands through it.

Outside, she heard the coachman and the postilion shouting above the rain as it pelted the roof. She listened as the howling wind made the coach springs bob like a rocking boat. If it kept up, she could only hope that the darn vehicle could float.

She opened a window. “What’s happening?” She forced the words out, but they came back to her like someone far away. The wind blew her hair and eyelashes while rain drove into her cheeks like tiny spikes.

“Shut the window!” Rochester shouted. “We’re stuck.”

“Stuck?” As much as she enjoyed sparring with him, she did as he commanded.

The coach shook, rocking forward without any progress, falling back into the rutted place it began. She scooted herself to the middle of the seat, her cold hand braced against the russet-brown leather. She hadn’t even donned gloves.

The door blew open, rattling the glass, and Rochester leaned in, opened a drawer under the seat, and retrieved a spare lantern. Holding the post, he lit the wick, closed the case, and then shut the door, but Evelyn stretched out a hand to stop it from latching.

“Can I help?” she yelled at Rochester before he got too far. Thick drops of water fell from her hair, her nose, and her lips sputtered water when she spoke as she lifted her shoulders to protect her neck.

“No! Stay in the coach where it’s dry.” He blinked, squinting through the soaking rain, and the unrelenting weather cast the moon in shadow with thick thundering clouds.

“We need to back up. There’s no room to turn around,” Rochester said from somewhere near the back of the vehicle.

Evelyn sat forward, gripping the narrow windowsill, her ear pressed to the cold glass, trying to make out the voices.

“There’s a gravel drive ahead. If we can move the team forward, I think we might accomplish an about-face.”

“Not unless there be a circular drive there, sir.”

Voices came at her through the dark, but Rochester’s rich tone was the only one she could distinguish for sure. His voice she’d know in a whisper.

When she saw him head toward the coach, she backed away. His mouth was set in a line of grim determination as he struggled through the elements, opened the door, and threw himself into a seat.

“Are there blankets in here? You need to dry off.” She told him, searching for calm.

“Not yet. The coachman is checking a gravel drive ahead. We don’t have enough manpower to turn the coach around, nor the time or a good place to remove the wheels. So, we either make it to this drive, or we’re stuck here. There’s no going through now. We need to get back on a well-maintained road.”

Someone pounded the door and shouted through the glass, “We can do it, but part of the drive is in six inches of water. Needs checkin’ afore we drag the horses through. Ain’t no tellin’ what’s what in them rocks.”

“Stay here and don’t move,” Rochester said. He shifted to leave and then turned back as if he’d forgotten something. A serious crease formed a wave across his brow. “Are you scared, Goose?”

Between the genuine concern and the pet name, she felt tears spring to her eyes. She swallowed and shook her head. “I’m worried for the horses, though.”

“We won’t move unless it’s safe for every creature. Let us hope we don’t have to spend the night.” He disappeared through the haze of rain again while she watched out the window, her breath frosting the glass with every anxious exhale.

Jolting shivers worked through her from the inside out. She had Rochester to thank for the greatcoat. However, that left him in the rain with nothing to fight the weather but his daywear jacket. Thankfully, he wore boots. The coach bounced with a heaving motion and then fell back into its rut. Then she felt her stomach roll over as the cab began to rock back and forth several times.

Clearly, the men were doing their best, one coaching the horses forward while the other two pushed the vehicle from behind. She felt like ballast. Without stopping to think, she carefully opened the door, hanging on to the edge so the wind didn’t take it, and stepped down, her slippers sinking into what felt like a bog. She gripped her toes in order to keep her shoes from being sucked off her feet by inches of mud. With her hands, she felt along the smooth lacquered fa?ade toward the rear. There, she found Rochester and the driver.

“Madam, take yourself back inside instantly,” Rochester yelled into the gale.

“I can help,” she sputtered through the rain, shouting over the moan of wind whipping the trees, feeling like she’d just walked under a gushing spigot. She pulled off the coat and shoved it forward for Rochester. “At least take this.” There was no use trying to save her apricot gown. Even with the coat, she was drenched, so what could it matter to keep it on when Rochester needed it? She stood there helpless to attend them as the men went about their task, shoving with all their strength, their shoulders and hands pressed against the coach, their feet planted, and their legs braced against sliding mud and gravel. With their heads down, they growled against the strain.

She heard the coach frame groan as the wheels miraculously cleared the rut.

Their predicament created such an emergency that Rochester passed her without comment, rushing to help the postillion pull the team forward.

Evelyn shouldered back into the greatcoat and trudged ahead.

“I think we’re there.” One of the men bellowed over the sound of tack and springs. The coach rolled forward, the horses no longer sunk in mud, turned into a drive. With the situation seemingly under control, Rochester appeared in the haze, striding toward her, his head bent against the elements. Water distorted her vision, so she had no idea of his mood.

He grabbed her hand, lacing her fingers with his, pulling it under his arm. He forged ahead, steering them until they stood on even graveled ground out of the mud.

The coach had pulled ahead and seemed to be leaving them behind. But she didn’t question it; she trusted Rochester. His countenance was set on the task, and he hadn’t even tried to scold her for disobeying his order to stay put.

He pulled her into his arms, hunching over her for protection with his cheek resting against the top of her head.

“We’re safe. The coach got through.” The sound of his muffled voice over the roar calmed her. His heart beating under her ear soothed her while her whole body shuddered from the cold and fear.

Winn’s house could not be reached successfully tonight, possibly not tomorrow either, and she wondered what Rochester planned to do with her. Whatever it was, she would hang on to this moment of peace and rejoice in the safety he offered. Standing in the middle of a hurricane, he was her rock.

“Are you alright?” he asked against her ear.

Wrapped securely in his embrace, she nodded, rubbing her cheek against his chest. He briskly ran his palms up and down her coat-covered arms, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Then he draped her in a hug. He smelled of rain and earth.

Cocooned as she was, she wriggled her shoulders, making herself smaller under his protection, and he answered with a squeeze, his arms like bands of steel. He cradled her cheek with one hand against him.

In this storm of a place, not just the rain and howling wind but her life too, she finally felt safe, protected, cared for.

Were they friends?

She wanted more than that.

She’d always wanted more than that.

For just a little while, showered by freezing rain, she imagined that he wanted more, too. The thought warmed her and blocked out everything but him.

When the coach rattled into view, obviously having found a place to turn around, Rochester led her to the door, and without bothering with the formality of the steps, he lifted her easily off the ground and steadied her in the coach. Then he hopped in, jolting the springs and landing her off-balance, unceremoniously tossing her on her seat while Rochester leaned out the door to speak with the postilion.

She heard the other man ask, “Where?”

Rochester yelled, but his words were lost in the gale. “Posting… horses. Home.” That was all she heard. But then it was all she had to hear. A post stop to change the weary horses, and then she’d be returned home.

She faced the window despite the lack of visibility. The lantern in the cabin flickered, and the ride, though they were thankfully moving forward, was still rough. The coach swayed, and more than once, she’d braced a hand on the back of the seat to steady herself.

“How drenched are you under that coat?” Rochester’s question startled her from the exhaustion of coming up with a believable explanation for her father.

She looked down at the charcoal-gray wool. The weight of it multiplied by the volume of water it absorbed. She gazed up at him, pulling the lapel open, intending to give it back. “I imagine I’m soaked through like you are.”

His gaze faltered, and he bit his lip. Reaching forward, he grabbed the coat and crossed it over her chest. “Leave it on. Your clothes are indecently wet.”

She peeked beneath the coat to examine the apricot gown. She hadn’t bothered with petticoats that might impede her climb out the window. The skirt plastered against her legs outlined them perfectly, and the apricot color blended in as if she wore nothing at all. Her chest looked almost as bare as her legs, saved only by the short stays that covered her nipples, although they were clearly erect from the cold. The outfit as a whole, soaked as it was, left little to the imagination. She looked up, shocked, her mouth agape, and found Rochester’s brow cocked.

“I tried to tell you, but I shall, regardless of my manners, never forget the sight. I’d say thank you, but I’m afraid I’d just sound like the rake you think me.”

“I doubt I’d be wrong.”

He rolled his eyes, but his smile teased her into comfort.

She smiled weakly, suddenly remembering the where and why of the evening. “You’re taking me home, aren’t you?” She fought to keep her voice from quavering. The cold alone would make it so, but it was fear that possessed her now.

He looked at her solemnly and nodded. “I have no choice. The roads are impassable.”

Her breath rushed out, and the morsel of energy she had hung on to fell away, evaporated by reality. Her shoulders drooped. She hung her head, defeated.

They rode in silence after that as if Rochester understood her devastation. But when she swiped a fist over the steamy film on the window, she noticed they had passed the fork in the road that would lead them back to Rosewood. She looked across at Rochester. His eyes were closed, his head leaning against the backrest. Should she tell him they missed the turnoff?

After everything he’d done, it was only fair. “Rochester?”

“Hm?” he grunted a reply.

“I believe we missed the turnoff.”

He scrambled to straighten, blinking fiercely, then swiped a palm across the window. He looked in both directions, the outside too dark to see all the landmarks, but Evelyn had been this way so often that even a tree trunk was familiar.

“I believe we’re good,” he said with a relieved sigh.

“But my home is that way. Are you taking me back to London? I can’t go to the town house, not at this hour.”

“No. We’re going to my home.” He laid his head back again. “In Mayfair.”

“Your home?” she whispered, but he didn’t seem to hear.

He was taking her to his home. Not to hers. Not even to Clover’s. She should have felt panicked, but her relief was so complete that her eyes welled with tears, and her throat ached. Exhaustion, inclement weather, her father’s determination to see her wed. It all caught up. She gasped, sniffled, and looked for something to dry her eyes since every piece of fabric on her person was damp while thick drops fell from her lashes and her stomach wrenched with uncontrollable sobs. Though her heart melted with the warmth of his decision, she shivered.

“Evelyn?” Rochester asked, a quiet tenderness about him.

Women were often blamed for their absurd reactions, including crying, and Evelyn felt humiliated by her real tears. “I’m alright.” She fanned a hand toward him.

He brandished a damp handkerchief under her nose because there was nothing dry on either one of them. She accepted it and made it work.

“What is it, Goose?”

A weeping giggle escaped at his familiar address, and she knew she sounded hysterical. “I’m tired.” She looked up at him. “Are you truly taking me to your home? In the middle of the night?” She could hardly believe he would chance such a thing.

“Yes. I told you I don’t have another choice.”

“I thought you meant my home.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because I begged you not to take me to Winn’s, and you set out for there anyway.”

“I can’t take you home. Winn’s place would have been a nice reprieve, giving you time to think through this thing. The destination may have changed, but your need for time has not. The roads are clear to London, and my staff is a small one. You’ll be safe there.”

She nodded, sniffling. “Thank you, Rochester. You can’t know what that means.”

“But I am beginning to understand.”

His words were like a gift. Her heart felt a pang of joy while her gut trembled with tears of the same emotion.