Return Of Scandal's Son. Janice Preston

       Chapter Three

      Matthew Thomas studied the overturned carriage.

      ‘Tie the chain there,’ he said to Timothy, pointing to a position on the spring iron at the rear of the carriage and trying to ignore the baroness, who was clearly itching to get involved.

      ‘Timothy,’ she said in an imperious tone, after the footman had attached the chain, ‘you ought to attach that chain further forward—it is too near the back there.’

      Matthew straightened from checking that the chain was secure and turned to face Eleanor, lifting a brow.

      She raised her chin, holding his gaze in typical aristocratic haughtiness.

      ‘If you pull from there it will surely pull the carriage around, rather than upright,’ she said.

      He felt his temper stir and clamped down on it hard. He was not the wild youth he had once been and the intervening years had taught him to control his emotions, particularly in fraught situations like the present.

      ‘When the other chain is attached—as it will be shortly—towards the front of the carriage, it will counteract the pull on this chain. And pull the carriage upright.’

      He deliberately blanked his expression, hiding his amusement at her indignation as she drew herself up to her full height—which was considerable, for a woman. She was barely four inches shorter than his own six feet. Her bright blue cloak had swung open to reveal a curvaceous figure, which Matthew perused appreciatively before returning his gaze to clash with her stormy, tawny-brown eyes. Her dark brows snapped together in a frown.

      His interest had been aroused the minute he had leapt from his curricle and stared down into her face, pale with shock. She was strikingly attractive, although not a conventional beauty—courageous, too, leaping in front of his horses that way. His heart had almost seized with terror as he had fought to avoid her. Admittedly, he had been springing the horses—keen to test their paces—but that fact had not mitigated his fury, which was fuelled as much by the fear of what might have happened as by anger.

      Now his interest was still there, but tempered with reality. He could admire her beauty, as one might admire, and even covet, a beautiful painting or a statue. But he would admire from a distance. He was no longer part of her deceitful world. He turned his attention once more to the stricken carriage.

      ‘We will need some poles to lever the carriage as the horses pull,’ Eleanor declared some minutes later.

      Matthew once more stopped what he was doing. He took a pace towards Eleanor, catching a glimpse of—was that fear?—in her expression as she retreated. Then her lips tightened, and she stepped forward, bringing them almost nose to nose. Pluck? Or was that merely her innate feeling of superiority?

      ‘If—’ he kept his voice low, in order that the others shouldn’t overhear ‘—you are so keen to help, might I suggest you go and hold the horses so Henry can come and assist? Unless, that is, you really are capable of putting your shoulder to the carriage as the horses pull? I would suggest, with the utmost respect, that you are neither built, nor dressed, for such an activity.’

      ‘Hmmph!’ Her gaze lowered.

      ‘Good point about the poles, though, my lady.’ He waved an arm to the rear of the carriage, where two stout poles lay on the ground. ‘The farmer, as you can see, has thought of everything.’

      She followed the direction of his gesture. A flush coloured her cheeks.

      ‘Oh.’ There was a pause. Then, ‘I hadn’t noticed them.’

      Shame pricked Matthew’s conscience. He had not meant to make her feel foolish. He should not have risen to her arrogance—it was not her fault she was a part of that world he so despised. He reminded himself she must still be in shock after the accident.

      They were still standing very close, her perfume tantalising his senses—floral notes interwoven with the undeniable scent of woman. A wave of desire caught him off guard and he spun away, forcing his attention back to the problem at hand.

      The carriage was pulled upright with much heaving and straining, and they examined the extent of the damage. One wheel would need replacing, but the rest of the damage could be repaired. Try as he might to ignore her, Matthew was constantly aware of Eleanor’s presence. He could feel the frustration radiating from her as she peered over his shoulder at the carriage.

      ‘There’s a wheelwright in the village over yonder,’ the farmer, who had introduced himself as Alfred Clegg, said. ‘I’ll send word. The horses can go in the home paddock for the time. Where’re you folk heading?’

      ‘We have rooms bespoke at the White Lion in Stockport,’ Eleanor replied.

      The farmer scratched his head, peering at the sky. ‘That’s a tidy way, mum. And it looks like rain.’

      ‘Do you have a carriage or some such that you could loan or hire to us?’

      ‘’Fraid not, mum. The missus is to market today in the gig. Hay wagon is all I got.’ He looked at her dubiously. ‘It might do for your luggage, and mebbe the maids there wouldn’t object, but...’ He paused, shaking his head. ‘Anyways, my horses couldn’t get all the way to Stockport and back—they’m built for power, not speed.’

      ‘It so happens that I have a room reserved at the Green Man in Ashton tonight,’ Matthew said. ‘It is much nearer than Stockport and it is clean and comfortable—I’m sure there will be enough accommodation for us all. The hay wagon is an excellent suggestion for the luggage and the servants and I can take the ladies in my curricle, if they have no objection to squeezing in.’

      He looked around the group as he spoke. Approval shone on the faces of the majority, the exceptions being the baroness, who looked mutinous, and Fretwell, who was eyeing him with deep suspicion. Lady Rothley had joined them in time to hear Matthew’s proposal.

      ‘That sounds an excellent suggestion, Mr Thomas. Do you not agree, Ellie?’

      Matthew returned Lady Rothley’s smile, praying she would not recognise him. He had known her sons, of course—wild rakes, the pair of them—but he was certain he had never met the marchioness. It was many years since he had been cast out from the world these ladies inhabited and, although in his youth he had borne a striking resemblance to his mother, he had lived a full and eventful life since then. He suspected the similarities were no longer so apparent. At the thought of his mother, his heart contracted painfully before he dismissed his weakness with a silent oath. His family had not believed his innocence; they had banished him from their lives and forgotten his very existence. Bitterly, he forced his black memories into the box where he confined them and slammed the lid.

      ‘I should prefer to continue as planned to Stockport, Aunt,’ Eleanor was saying. ‘Fretwell, you may as well stay here—if Clegg does not object—and then take the remaining horses home tomorrow, as planned, as long as they are all fit.’

      The farmer nodded his consent.

      Fretwell scowled, shooting a suspicious glance at Matthew. ‘I think I should stay with you, milady. For protection,’ he muttered.

      Matthew felt his brows shoot up. What was