The Winter Companion (Parish Orphans of Devon #4) - Mimi Matthews Page 0,35
over her starched petticoats as she walked past him. Aware of her to the point of distraction.
She was beautiful, though no one else seemed to notice but him.
She was also plainly shocked at the liberty he’d taken with her person.
“Thank you, Mr. Cross. That’s very kind of you. But…I must say, I’m not feeling very clever at the moment.” She cast an anxious glance down the aisle. There were no grooms standing about. No stable boys or other servants to have witnessed his brief breach of decorum. “I suppose I’ve ruined it.”
“Ruined what?”
“My bonnet. I’d have fetched an umbrella, but it didn’t seem necessary. It was only a light drizzle when we left the house.” The words tumbled out more quickly than was her habit. It was the only sign that he’d flustered her. That and the heightened color in her face. “Is there somewhere you can hang it to dry? And my cloak, too?”
“On the…on the door of the loose box.”
Her fingers moved to unbutton her cloak. Her hands were trembling.
Neville felt a stab of guilt. Was she afraid of him? Had he crossed some sort of line—not only in terms of social decorum, but in regard to her sense of personal safety?
They weren’t alone together. Not in the strictest sense. The grooms and stable boys might appear at any moment. But a gentleman could still pose a threat to a lady, even in the most public of settings.
“I d-didn’t mean—”
“Here you are.” She handed him her cloak. “I hope it will be dry enough by the time I return.”
He privately cursed his stammer as he took her wet things and draped them over the door of an empty loose box. If only he were more eloquent, like Alex or Tom. If only he were as confident as Justin. None of them ever seemed to have difficulty when speaking to their ladies—or to any ladies, for that matter.
Paul and Jonesy nosed about nearby, Bertie snuffling right along with them. Neville gave the dogs a cursory look before turning back to Miss Hartwright. He made an effort to speak slowly and calmly. To avoid the difficulties that plagued his speech whenever he got anxious.
“Would you like to see Betty?” he asked.
A look of relief came over Miss Hartwright’s face. “Oh, yes. I was hoping we could. Should I bring Bertie, or—”
“Leave him. They won’t run off.” He led her through the stables to the loose box at the back. It was ideal for a wild pony. She needed to feel safe and protected. And she needed to rest her injured foreleg. Her life, thus far, had been one of tumult. Captured from her home on the moors to be sold at the annual horse sale, she’d been manhandled and beaten—though never into compliance.
The first time he’d seen her had been in the coaching yard at the King’s Arms. A horse peddler had had her trussed up with ropes, and was trying to force her to follow his wooden cart. Betty had been limping badly, but her injury hadn’t stopped her from kicking and snapping her teeth, thrashing about with such violence that she’d shaken the peddler’s cart on its wheels. That’s when the peddler had begun striking her with his stick.
Neville related the story to Miss Hartwright as they walked. He halted and stuttered over the worst bits, his anger rising as he recollected Betty’s mistreatment.
Miss Hartwright listened, brows drawn and mouth compressed into a frown. “It sounds as if he was the one who deserved a beating. I know it’s not very Christian, but I wish you’d given it to him.”
Neville had been hard pressed not to. “I took his stick. I broke it.”
“I’m glad.”
“He’d been st-starving her to weaken her. To make her…submit. I gave her some oats. It’s how I g-got her here.”
“The poor dear. She must have been exhausted.” Miss Hartwright stepped up to the loose box.
Neville stood next to her, both of them peering inside. Betty looked out at them, one ear twitched forward, listening.