Behind the Courtesan - By Bronwyn Stuart Page 0,32
heat.
He stared at Sophie, standing in the middle of the road, hands on hips, one foot tapping the gravel beneath her toe. What was she doing? Would she stand there until someone came along? He’d need help getting to his feet and was about to ask her when he realized the thumping in his head was actually the sound of horses, the sound that had woken him.
From where he sat, his back still against Monster’s, he couldn’t see down the road, but he could hear the driver’s order to the horses pulling the carriage to slow and then stop.
Doing his best to ignore the pain that racked his body, Blake rolled to his side, the side on which his ribs were unharmed, and willed blood back into his legs. The carriage could hold any manner of filth.
“Good morning to you, sir,” Sophie said, her voice clear and loud and sweetly feminine. “As you can see, we have met with some trouble and require assistance.”
“Who is it, Gaspar?” a voice asked from the inside of the carriage. Whoever it was sounded frustrated.
“A...lady, Your Grace.” The hesitation in the driver’s words made Blake want to punch the man in the face. He wasn’t at all sure if Sophie was a lady due to the richness of her clothes or just another woman standing in the middle of the road, but his hesitation implied he would as soon as run her down than render assistance.
“Please, sir, it has been a harrowing night already, I would be most appreciative.”
Why hadn’t she ever used that tone of voice with him? She sure knew how to stroke a man’s conscience.
He groaned, the pain in his legs taking his mind off the thought of Sophie stroking anything.
He heard the door of the conveyance open, boots hit the earth and the traces jangle as the horses shifted.
“And who might you be?” Frustration seemed to be replaced by curiosity.
Blake rose to his feet, worried about the black spots swimming before his eyes. Taking the few steps toward Sophie, Blake saw who stopped to offer them aid and swore.
* * *
Sophia itched to march over to the bone-head and kick him. What kind of man welcomed their rescuer with a string of vile, offensive curses? Did he think she wanted to stay on the side of the road with him?
Not likely!
Dropping a deep curtsey, Sophia tried her best to appear every inch the lady. If this man knew her status by birth, he would probably beat her out of the way with the ivory-handled walking stick he held. “My name is Sophia Martin, Your Grace.” She hadn’t missed the title the driver had so carelessly thrown about.
“And what kind of trouble have you come across?” The question was asked as the duke assessed first Blake, then their broken cart and then her. His gaze started at her toes and traveled slowly, insolently up, pausing at her chest, and then finally meeting her eyes.
Sophia remembered when Blake made much the same perusal. She narrowed her gaze in his direction before turning back to the duke. “I’m afraid one of the horses went lame and the other ran off. After spending the night on the road, I find myself eager for a warm bath and a glass of wine.” Sophia knew what she was doing perfectly well. The inflection she put on the word bath, implied she wished for company. She played with the devil not knowing whom she addressed, but faced with two evils, she would choose a stranger over Blake’s nearness any day.
“Oh, dear lady, of course I will offer you the sanctuary of my carriage. I expect the ambience will be improved with your presence.”
Sophia tittered. “Your Grace, you are too kind.”
“Ah, but you must call me Blakiston if we are to be traveling companions.”
Her heart skipped a beat. It couldn’t be. Resisting the urge to let her jaw fall open in shock, or to look to Blake to seek confirmation, she merely inclined her head. The presence at her back told her Blake had finally pulled himself from the ground.
“You needn’t risk the mud to your leather, Blakiston. Sophie will be quite fine here with me until the search party arrives.”
Ooh. Her foot itched again, only this time she would do more than kick his shins.
Blakiston didn’t give her the chance. “I’m sure the lady would rather join me than stay here in the cold with you.” His tone challenged, condescended.