clasped his large hands lightly round her waist, and without the least visible effort, lifted her up onto the seat.
Maggie’s cheeks flushed at the intimate contact.
St. Clare gave no sign that anything was out of the ordinary. He leapt into the curricle beside her, and before taking the reins, paused to spread a rug over her knees. “Comfortable?”
Maggie wasn’t comfortable. St. Clare’s muscular thigh was brushing against her leg. And her waist was still tingling from the pressure of his hands. “Yes, thank you.” She was mortified by the squeak in her voice.
St. Clare gave a curt nod. His own smile had faded. His gray eyes were a bit more watchful. Perhaps he was feeling the effects of her closeness just as she was feeling the effects of his? “Stand away from their heads, Enzo,” he called to his tiger. And taking up his whip, he gave the horses the office to start.
The tiger, a thin, dark-haired boy with obsidian black eyes, ran behind them for a few strides and then hopped onto his perch.
Maggie hadn’t been for a drive in an open carriage in many years. Her own phaeton had been sold long ago, and at Beasley Park, since her illness, she’d been restricted to riding in a closed coach lest she overexert her lungs. She’d missed the freedom of it most dreadfully, and as St. Clare put the bays through their paces, her embarrassment at being so close to him was rapidly replaced by exuberance.
She sat up tall in her seat, the wind whipping the curled feathers in her bonnet and playing havoc with her carefully pinned hair. “Oh, is it not glorious!” she exclaimed. “To be up so high and going so fast!”
“You’re not afraid?” St. Clare asked, expertly maneuvering his team through the streets.
“Why should I be? Your curricle is well sprung and you seem skilled enough with the ribbons. And your horses…” She gazed at them in frank admiration. “What sweet goers they are. Devilish quick and not a bit choppy.”
“At this speed, most ladies would be holding white-knuckled to the side.”
“Would they indeed, my lord? What poor-spirited ladies you’ve been driving with.”
St. Clare’s bays chose that moment to take exception to a passing carriage pulled by four matched chestnuts. They skittered and danced, ears flattened and teeth bared. He steadied them easily, guided them past the carriage, and then, with awe-inspiring expertise, feather-edged a corner as he turned toward the entrance into the park.
“You mistake me, Miss Honeywell. I was speaking in generalities. In truth, you’re the first lady I’ve taken driving since my arrival in London.”
Maggie’s smile dimmed. It wasn’t true, of course. How could it be? Even last night at the theater, he’d been in the company of beautiful women. “How long have you been in London, my lord?”
“A month, approximately.”
“And before that?”
He cast her a fleeting glance. “I was most recently in Italy.”
They passed through the gates of Hyde Park at a brisk trot, St. Clare’s bays exhibiting a forward-action that any connoisseur of fine horseflesh would envy.
Maggie unfurled her dainty silk parasol and tipped it back against her shoulder as she looked around. There were quite a few other carriages about, including a barouche occupied by three young matrons, and a high-perch phaeton driven by a gentleman who clearly had no idea what he was doing, but the traffic was nothing like it would be during the fashionable hour. “Why did you ask me to come at four o’clock instead of five?”
“Why did Miss Trumble respond to my note instead of you?” he retorted.
Maggie stilled, feeling a faint trembling in her stomach. “How do you know it was Miss Trumble who responded? It was signed with my initials, wasn’t it?” She waited for him to answer her, but he did not. Goaded, she said, “There’s no great mystery, I assure you. Miss Trumble often does little things to assist me if she fears I’ve overtaxed myself. She’s the best-natured creature in the world.”
St. Clare focused on calming his horses as they trotted around the young matrons’ slow-moving barouche. Once past it, he began to direct his team farther away from the rest of the afternoon traffic.
“When I invited you for a drive yesterday evening,” he said, “I was hoping you and I might have a bit of privacy. A few uninterrupted moments in which to talk to one another. It didn’t occur to me until this morning that at five o’clock, with all of the ton in attendance, privacy would