A Week to Be Wicked (32 page)

Scotland.

T
he change in Colin was immediate. Minerva watched the expression on his face shift from warm affection to cold determination, in an instant.

She dragged a coy, sensual touch down his chest, hoping to change it back.

It didn’t work.

He pushed to his feet, offering her a hand. “Come, now. Quickly.”

“What? Why?”

“I’ll explain on the way upstairs. We’ve no time to lose.”

Bewildered, she accepted his hand. He helped her up, then gathered all their discarded clothes. “By now your rooms will be prepared. They’ll have fetched your trunks from the road. I’ll see you to your suite, then send a maid to help you bathe and dress.”

“In the middle of the night?”

He glanced out the open window. “Dawn will be coming on soon.”

He put a hand to the small of her back and gathered her close, leading her out of the room and to a grand, sweeping staircase. As they rushed up the steps, Minerva tried not to think too hard about the fact that she was tiptoeing barefoot through one of England’s grandest, most historic estates in nothing but Colin’s lawn shirt. Scandal personified.

But then . . . someday she would be this house’s mistress. Perhaps. Assuming the courtship went smoothly.

Lord, she was so confused.

“And while I’m bathing and dressing, where will you be?”

“I’ll be doing likewise,” he said. “Bathing, dressing. And then seeing to the horses.”

“Horses?”

“Yes. We’ll need to leave as soon as possible.” He stopped. “Which door was it . . . ? Aha. Here’s your suite.”

He led her into an exquisite sitting room decorated in ivory and sage green. Minerva could barely spare a glance to admire the carved moldings, or to emit a sigh of pleasure, as her travel-weary toes sank into the plush carpet pile.

“Colin, we just arrived here. We’ve barely slept in days. Can’t we at least rest before we go dashing off again? This is the most beautiful room I’ve ever seen.”

“You look beautiful in it.” Leaving her standing in the center of the carpet, he made a circle of the room. First, he pulled back the drapes. A silver glimmer of dawn filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Your dressing room’s here,” he said, indicating an open door. “And the bedchamber’s through that. I hope you’ll have more time to explore it the next time we come through.” He passed closed doors, pointing. “Bath. Closet.”

She closed her eyes, then opened them again. “Colin. Where on earth do you mean to take me?”

“To Scotland. To the symposium.”

“But . . . it’s too late. The symposium is today.”

“I know. That’s why we must hurry. We’ll arrive late. It can’t be helped.”

“How would we even arrive at all? No more coaches, Colin. We can’t.” She knew how miserable he’d been in the post-chaise last night. She wouldn’t put him through that again, ever.

“I have a plan,” he said. “You’ll see.”

“But Francine—”

“Still exists. Plaster cast or no plaster cast. Her footprint exists. She left her mark on the world.” He approached and took her hands in his. “And so will you, Min. Perhaps you won’t be assured the prize without the evidence in hand. But you’ll be there, and you’ll make your impression.”

She didn’t know what to say.

A maid appeared in the bathing-room doorway. She cleared her throat and bobbed in a curtsy. “My lady, your bath is prepared.”

Colin dismissed the servant with a nod.

He squeezed Minerva’s hands. “We’ve come this far. We’re not giving up now. This is the story of our future—the one we’re going to tell our friends and dinner guests and children and grandchildren—and the story doesn’t end with defeat. It ends in triumph.
Your
triumph.”

He lifted her hands to his lips. Kissed one, then the other.

She melted inside.

“Just trust me to get you there,” he said. “And then make me proud.”

“T
his?” An hour later, Minerva stood on the Riverchase front steps, dressed in her best remaining traveling habit, made of a dark green twill. She hoped she looked optimistic, if she didn’t quite feel it. “We’re journeying to Edinburgh in
this
?”

She peered into the misty dawn. In the drive sat the highest-sprung, most richly upholstered and gaily-painted phaeton she’d ever seen in her life. The narrow seat, built to accommodate only two persons—one driver, one passenger—must have hovered at least six feet from the ground. The little sporting carriage was hitched to two of the finest, most perfectly matched black warmbloods Minerva could imagine. They looked more like racing stock than coaching beasts.

“That can’t be safe,” she said.

“It isn’t exactly the family model.”

“We’ll glow in the dark.” She winced as the first ray of sunlight hit daffodil-yellow lacquer.

“It’s garish and flashy and reckless, yes.” Colin tugged on a bit of leather tack, testing its strength. “But it is the fastest conveyance to be had in England. Won it in a game of cards, a few years back.”

“You
won
it. But do you know how to
drive
it?”

He shrugged and smiled. “We’ll find out.”

Minerva approached the phaeton with no small degree of trepidation. But she forced the nerves down, determined to be brave. Colin was putting all his faith in her. She had to make this worth it.

With a groom’s assistance, she managed to climb into the seat. The team danced with impatience, and the phaeton swayed on its springs. Minerva’s head spun.

Don’t look down
, she told herself.

Of course, the next instant she looked down. Did such prohibitions ever work?

Hoisting himself into the seat, Colin landed next to her. He pulled down the brim of his hat and gathered the reins. “Seventy-three miles. That’s the distance to Edinburgh. If the weather holds, we can cover twelve miles an hour, easily, in this phaeton. Fifteen, if I press. With any luck, we’ll arrive by noon. We can do this, Min. We really can.”

She nodded. “You do . . .” Threading her arm though his, she swallowed hard. “Colin, you do know how to drive this thing, don’t you?”

He smiled. “You keep asking me that.”

“You keep refusing to answer.”

He turned his gaze to the road and flicked the reins, nudging the team into a walk. “I don’t like to
ride
in carriages.
Driving
is a different matter.”

Once they’d rounded the turn in the drive, Colin snapped the reins and gave the horses their head, urging them into a canter.

They didn’t canter. They
flew
.

“Oh!” The wind took her startled laughter and whipped it across the sprawling grounds of Riverchase.

This must be what a bullet feels like.

Powered by those two majestic, elegant animals, the phaeton rocketed down the straight gravel drive like the angels’ divine chariot. The seat was so lightly sprung, Minerva scarcely felt the ruts in the road.

When they reached the end of the drive, Colin slowed the team and guided them onto the main road with skill and ease. He looked as though he’d been born with reins in hand.

She leaned closer, forced to shout over the roar of wind and hoofbeats. “Teasing man. You
do
know how to drive it.”

“Four-in-Hand Club!” he called back, giving her a sly wink. “All the rage in Town.”

Laughing, Minerva clapped a hand over her bonnet, was too exhilarated by the rush of wind and speed to complain. Yes, of course. The rascal was a member of every club that would have him. Gentlemen’s clubs, boxing club, gambling club, adventurers club. Why not a driving club, too?

That was his life, in London. All those clubs. All those friends. All those glittering, opulent amusements.

All those
women
.

As they raced northward, her mind spun faster than the phaeton wheels.

His suggestion of a public courtship thrilled her, to be sure. Attending balls and operas on the arm of the dashing, handsome Lord Payne? The thought alone made her heart skip beats. And she believed him when he said he cared for her. He wouldn’t lie about that.

He’s driving breakneck to Scotland for you
, she told herself.
Of course he cares.

Then again . . . just a few days ago he’d devoted an afternoon to thatching a cottage roof. He’d thrown himself into the menial labor with strength and enthusiasm and good humor. But he hadn’t pledged to spend the rest of his life doing it. Was his sudden attachment to Minerva just a product of the extreme circumstances?

And if she was doubting his attachment, maybe he doubted her love.

Or maybe he simply doubted
her
. Perhaps he doubted she could make a proper viscountess, and who could blame him? For God’s sake, think of that enormous, beautiful house and estate. Who would ever think Minerva could be its mistress? She’d already left the drawing room a shambles and dripped rainwater all over the entry carpet. The servants would hate her.

She couldn’t help but worry over a hundred separate things. Colin must be worried, too. He’d admitted his uncertainty. That’s why he wanted to wait.

Waiting was wise, she reasoned. Delaying an engagement was the sensible, prudent course of action.

So why did it terrify her?

They stopped thrice to change horses and take refreshment, always hurrying back to the road at the first possible moment. The landscape rolling by was green and lushly curved. A recumbent goddess, awakening from her winter sleep.

The wind, by contrast, was a cold, cruel witch.

Minerva huddled under a woven rug for warmth, but the chill clawed straight through it. When the road straightened and he could spare some slack on the reins, Colin drew her close, putting his arm about her shoulders. She nestled into his side, comforting herself with his familiar warmth and scent. Watching his gloved hands guide the team with arousing, confident motions.

She slid an arm about his waist, hugging him tight. It didn’t matter what happened today, or tomorrow. This—just
this
—was worth everything.

They neared Edinburgh just as the midday sun reached its zenith.

“Almost there,” he said, climbing back into the seat after stopping to ask directions of a tradesman. “Ready for your grand moment?”

“I . . .”

I don’t know, I don’t know. They don’t know I’m a woman. I’ve lost all my notes and sketches. They won’t believe me about Francine without the evidence. And after traveling seventy miles in a single morning, my hair must be a perfect fright.

They’re all going to laugh. Oh God. I just know they’ll all laugh.

Terror had her insides knotted. But she refused to give her fears a voice. She’d promised Colin she wouldn’t speak ill of herself again.

“I think so. If you’re with me, I’m ready for anything.”

He drew the horses to a halt, right in the middle of the street.

“Are we there?” she asked, looking about.

“Not quite.” With a single gloved fingertip, he turned her face to his. “But I didn’t think I should do this on the doorstep of the Royal Geological Society.”

He bent his head and kissed her. Right there in the street and with such sweet, tender passion, all her worries receded, pushed aside by the swelling emotion in her heart.

“Better?” he asked, gathering the reins.

She nodded, feeling her confidence return. “Thank you. I needed that.”

Another few minutes’ travel down crowded, cobbled streets, and Colin pulled the team to a stop in front of a stately brick edifice. He tossed the reins and a coin to a waiting boy before rounding the phaeton to help her alight.

“Hurry, now. You’re just in time to make a fashionably late entrance.”

Arm in arm, they raced up the steps. Minerva was so occupied trying not to trip over her skirts, she didn’t notice a doorman—or anyone, for that matter.

Until a deep voice drew them to a halt.

“I beg your pardon. Just where do you think you’re going?”

Chapter Thirty-one

M
inerva winced. She should have known it couldn’t be so simple.

“We’re here for the geology symposium,” Colin told him. “And we’re running late, due to a travel mishap. So if you’d kindly step aside . . .”

The bearded man stood firm. He thumped a paper clipped to a writing board. “I’m sorry, sir. But admittance is for Society members only.”

“I am a member.” Minerva came forward. “I’m a member of the Society. My name’s M. R. Highwood. It must be on your list.”

“You?” Behind his gray beard, the man flushed an unseemly shade of red. “You would claim to be M. R. Highwood?”

“I would do more than claim it. I am Miss Minerva Rose Highwood. I can’t believe the name would be unfamiliar to you. My findings have been published in no fewer than five issues of the
Royal Geological Journal
in the past seventeen months.”

“Really, Min?” Colin’s hand brushed the small of her back. “Five times? That’s brilliant, darling. I’m so proud.”

She blushed a little. At least
someone
appreciated her accomplishment. Someone marvelously handsome and kind and intelligent and, against all odds, purportedly devoted to her.

This pompous oaf standing before her, waving his silly list . . . he couldn’t intimidate her. Not anymore.

“Madam, there must be some misunderstanding. The members of this Society are all gentlemen.”

“There has definitely been a misunderstanding,” she said, smiling patiently now, “but the misunderstanding isn’t mine. For the past two years, I’ve paid my dues and submitted my findings and engaged in written correspondence as a full member of this organization. I have never claimed to be male. If the membership made the mistaken assumption otherwise, I cannot be responsible for it. Now will you kindly allow me entrance? I have a paper to present.”

“I don’t think so.” He pulled up straight and turned to Colin. “We cannot allow this. Unless she has some—”

“Excuse me, why are you talking to him?” Minerva interrupted. “I’m standing right here, and I can speak for myself.”

The man sighed heavily. “My dear girl, I—”

“I’m not a girl. Nor am I ‘dear’ to you, unless—” Good Lord, she hoped this red-faced prig wasn’t Sir Alisdair. Sir Alisdair had seemed so much more reasonable than this. “Listen, Mr. . . . ?”

“Barrington.”

“Mr. Barrington.” She smiled with relief. “I’m here to present my findings at the symposium. I’m an esteemed member of the Society, with an impressive record of scholarship, and I have something of value to contribute to these proceedings. I also happen to be female. I’m a woman who knows a great deal about rocks. I suggest you find the stones to deal with it.”

Beside her, Colin choked on a laugh. “Well done, love. Brava.”

“Thank you.”

Mr. Barrington looked decidedly less amused. “This symposium is restricted to members of the Royal Geological Society and their guests. And as membership is restricted to gentlemen, so this door is barred to you.”

“Come now.” Colin intervened. She recognized him bringing forth his most commanding, lordly tone. “We can settle this some other way, surely. I happen to be rather fond of joining clubs. Now, what must a man do to become a member of your Society?”

“There’s a lengthy application process. A letter of inquiry must be made, including a personal statement of research interests and any relevant publications. References must be provided—three, at the minimum, and no more than—”

“Yes, yes. Here’s my application, if you’d be so good as to take dictation. I’m Colin Frederick Sandhurst, Viscount Payne. As for geological interests, I’m told my estate sits atop the largest vein of usable granite in all Northumberland. For references, I name my cousin, Lord General Victor Bramwell, the Earl of Rycliff. Second, my dear friend the Duke of Halford. And thirdly . . .”

Minerva cleared her throat. “Ahem.”

“Thirdly, M. R. Highwood,” Colin finished.

“Sir, I—”

“Ah.” Colin raised a finger. “I believe that’s ‘my lord’ to you.”

“My lord, I’m sure the Society is honored by your lordship’s interest. However . . .”

“Did I mention that in lieu of the regular dues and as a concession to my expedited application process, I’m willing to pledge an annual sustaining subscription of . . . say, a thousand pounds?”

Mr. Barrington seized.

“Oh, very well. You drive a hard bargain, Barrington. Make it three.” He smiled broadly in the face of silence. “Well. Now that that’s all settled, I’ll be entering the symposium. Miss Highwood will come as my guest.”

“But, my lord, unmarried women cannot attend as guests. It’s not proper.”

“For the love of ammonites, man! That’s just stupid. Why on earth would the Society need to protect unmarried women from bone-dry lectures regarding soil composition? Do your members find themselves whipped into some sort of dusty frenzy, from which no delicate lass would be safe?”

Mr. Barrington tugged on his coat. “Sometimes debate does get heated.”

Colin turned to her. “Min, can I just hit him?”

“I think that’s a bad idea.”

“Run him through with something sharp?”

“Probably a worse idea.”

“Then there’s no getting around it.” He sighed.

“I know. You’ll just have to go in and give the presentation for me.”

“What? No.” He shook his head. “No, I can’t do that.”

“Of course you can. You’ve heard me read it so many times. I know it contains a great many polysyllabic words, but you’ll rise to the challenge.”

“Minerva, these are your findings. These are your peers. This should be your moment.”

“Yes, but . . .” Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, and she impatiently blinked them back. “They won’t let me in.”

“They won’t let
unmarried
ladies in. So marry me. Right here and now.”

She stared at him, shocked. His Bristol-diamond eyes shone, brilliant and sincere. “Marry? But we . . . we can’t possibly—”

He took her hands. “This is Scotland, Minerva. We don’t need a license or a church. We only need witnesses. Barrington here can serve as one, and—”

He turned, just as another man opened the door and joined them on the stoop.

“What’s going on here?” the newcomer asked in a deep, solemn voice.

Minerva’s eyes swept him from boots to crown. He was tall and handsome and . . . well, tall and handsome some more. He struck quite the fine figure, silhouetted in the door.

He asked, “Barrington, who are these people?”

“Oh, good,” Colin said. “This fine-looking fellow can serve as our second witness. We have Mr. Barrington, and we have”—he clapped the newcomer on the shoulder—“Mr. . . . ?”

The man blinked at Colin’s presumptuous gesture. “I’m Sir Alisdair Kent.”

Minerva clapped a hand over her shocked laughter.

“Right.” Colin’s hand made two slow, heavy pats on Sir Alisdair’s shoulder, as he sized the man up with a sweeping gaze. “Right. You would be.” He heaved a sigh and turned to Minerva. “This is probably where I should step aside and let you two get more acquainted—”

No!

“But I won’t,” he finished.

Her heart flipped. Thank heaven.

He wrapped her gloved hands in both of his and stared deeply into her eyes.

“Minerva, I love you. I’d been waiting to tell you so at a better moment. In some more romantic time and place.” He threw a glance at their surroundings. “But here and now will have to do.”

“Here is fine,” she managed. “Now is good.”

He squeezed her hands. “I love you. I love that you’re clever and loyal and curious and kind. I love that you’re often so fearless and bold and strong—but I also love that you’re occasionally not, because then I can be strong for you. I love that I can tell you anything. Anything at all. And I love that you always have something surprising to say. I love that you call things by their right names. That you aren’t afraid to call a tit a tit, or a cock a—”

“I beg your pardon,” Sir Alisdair interjected, “but what in God’s name are you on about?”

Minerva couldn’t help but laugh.

“Do you mind?” Colin told the man irritably. “I promised this woman months of tender courtship, and thanks to your Society and its inane, archaic rules, I must cram it all into the space of five minutes. The least you could do is not interrupt.”

Sir Alisdair spoke directly to Minerva. “Is this man harassing you, Miss . . .” He paused. “It is
Miss
Highwood?”

“Yes,” she said gently. “Yes, it is
Miss
Highwood. I apologize for the confusion. And I’m so sorry if I’ve caused you any . . . disappointment.”

His mouth quirked as he looked her up and down. “Merely surprise, Miss Highwood. Merely surprise.”

“Yes, yes. She’s a very surprising woman.” Colin cleared his throat. “Once again, man. Do you mind?”

Smiling, Minerva pulled Colin a few steps away. “Never mind him. Carry on.”

Once they had a bit of privacy, his eyes gentled. “As I was saying, pet. I love that you call things by their right names. That you’re bold enough to call a tit a tit, and a cock a cock. But most of all, I love that even after this mad, reckless week with me—even with your heart and reputation and future hanging in the balance—you were brave enough to call love love.” His hands framed her face. “Because that’s exactly what this is. I love you, Minerva.” A look of exultant joy lit his eyes, as though he’d just unearthed the scientific discovery of a lifetime. “We love each other.”

A knot rose in her throat. “Yes. We do.”

“I want to be with you, for the rest of our lives.”

“I want that, too.”

“Then here.” He released her hands. Catching his glove between his teeth, he tugged it loose and then discarded the thing entirely. His fingers went to the signet ring on his little finger, and he twisted it back and forth. And back and forth. He grimaced. “This may take a moment.”

“Colin, really. You don’t have to—”

“Almost have it,” he said through gritted teeth. His face was red and contorted with effort. “Wait . . . wait . . .”

He turned away and crouched, still tugging at the ring. Minerva began to grow worried for him.

“There.” Panting for breath and wearing an expression of triumph, he held up the ring for her inspection. “I haven’t removed this ring since I was a boy. It was my father’s of course, and it came to me after his death. It started out on my thumb, then made its way down every finger. It’s been on that last finger so long, it almost became a part of me. But now I want you to wear it.”

“Oh, I couldn’t.”

“No, you must.” He turned her hand palm up and dropped the ring in it. “It’s my most cherished possession, Min. You must wear it. That way, I’ll always know the two things dearest to me are in the same place. It will be a true help. Most convenient.”

She stared at the ring. Then she stared at him, breathless with emotion.

“Didn’t—” He cleared his throat. “Didn’t you want to marry me?”

“Of course I do,” she hastened to assure him. “Of course I want to marry you. But I thought you wanted to wait, go slowly. Have a proper courtship. It seemed so important to you.”

“This”—he gestured at the door and the symposium going on within—”is important to you. Which means it’s everything to me.”

Stunned, she watched as he sank to one knee.

“I love you, Minerva. Stay with me forever. Let me cherish you always. Give me the lasting joy of calling you my own.” He slipped the signet ring on her gloved finger. “But marry me today. So I can share you with the world.”

She gazed down at him, her heart swollen with love—and her mind decided that the world would never see a better man.

With a few hasty vows uttered right here on these steps, he offered to make all her dreams come true. And she could make Colin all hers. Forever.

“Well, girl?” Behind them, Mr. Barrington thumped his board. “Do you mean to marry the fellow or not?”