Michelle Styles - A Question of Impropriety

Her fingers encountered a solid object and she grabbed on with all her might. She rebalanced and looked, hoping for a branch. But instead her hands clung to the sleeve of a white travelling cloak. It was a choice between two evils—the indignity of falling into the thick black mud and the impropriety of clinging to an unknown man’s arm. Impropriety won.

‘It would be a shame to stain your dress, I believe.’

Without waiting for a reply, the man’s hands moved to her waist, and lifted her up. Her breast and thigh grazed his broad chest. Her senses reeled, then righted. She refused to give way to panic. She kept her body rigidly still and willed him to release her, but the arms stayed strong about her.

‘You may let me go.’ Her voice resounded, high and shrill, in her ears as she glanced up into deep grey eyes. A strange sensation stirred, deep within her, curling around her insides with insidious slowness. She swallowed hard and beat it back. ‘Please.’

‘After I have had my reward.’

‘Reward?’ Her tongue seemed to be three times thicker than normal. The day was rapidly becoming a nightmare. Surely this man, this gentleman, had to understand that she was a proper lady? She was not going to be punished. Again. ‘Why do you insist upon a reward?’

‘For rescuing you. Surely my gallant action warrants the merest trifle.’

He lowered his lips and his mouth skimmed hers—a brief touch, but one that sent a blaze of fire coursing throughout her body. Panic engulfed her. She turned her head and beat her fists against his chest.

‘Put me down this instant!’

‘If that is what you truly desire.’

Diana gulped and struggled to hang on to some sense of dignity. It was the only thing that could save her. A truly worthy and refined woman was never in danger. Ever. ‘It is.’

‘Never let it be said that I do not accommodate a pretty wench’s wishes.’

Her rescuer withdrew his arms and she was unceremoniously deposited on a green knoll. Her skirt flew up and revealed her legs up to her calves. Diana hurriedly pushed it back down and hoped that the man had been gentlemanly enough not to look. Silently she promised never to read novels again, never to utter oaths, if only she would be delivered from this nightmare. It was all her fault. She had broken her rules of ladylike behaviour and this was what happened to women who behaved inappropriately.

Diana forced her breath in and out of her lungs and regained some small measure of control. She could not show that she was discomforted. Exhibiting emotion only made situations like this one worse.

‘I did not mean quite so quickly.’

‘But I did as you requested. Beauty, thy name is perverse.’

‘You have rescued me. Now you may depart.’

His black boots remained still. She glanced up at her rescuer, praying that he was a stranger, someone she might never encounter again. Broad shoulders filled out the finely cut white coat with fifteen capes and two rows of pockets. Tapered down to buckskins and the pair of black Hessian boots. He sported a white neckcloth with black spots, immaculately tied. Diana’s gloom deepened. It was the sort only worn by a member of the Four Hand Club, the premiere carriage-driving club in the country.

She studied his dark features again and recognised the distinctive scar that ran from his forehead to his cheek.

Her insides twisted. That little place inside her that she normally kept locked and barred cracked opened. The man was Brett Farnham. Had to be. Diana pressed her hands into her eyes. She slammed the door of that place shut and willed the terror to go.

‘Is something troubling you, Beauty?’ The warmth in his voice lapped at her senses. ‘Forgive me if I have offended, I merely sought to assist you.’

‘Nothing, nothing at all.’ Diana forced her face to relax and her lips to smile. Politeness must be her shield. A lady was always polite. ‘Why should anything trouble me? Today has been without blemish or stain.’

‘Aside from becoming stuck in a pool of mud.’ A smile crossed his features.

‘Aside from that.’

Diana resisted the temptation to bury her face in her hands. She had allowed herself to be carried and kissed by one of the most renowned rakes in the country, a man who had founded the notorious Jehu driving club at Cambridge University and who had set the fashion for speaking cant, tying neckcloths, a close confidant of both Brummell and Byron. Her late fiancé had revered him, and ultimately that reverence had been responsible for his destruction.

After all the years she had spent here, trying to forget that London had ever happened. Then Brett Farnham appeared and everything came crashing back as if it were yesterday. But whatever happened, she had to remember that it was her actions that decided her fate. If she held fast to her rules, she would be safe. If she had learnt one thing in London, it was that. ‘Please, I beg you—go and forget about my predicament.’

He continued to stand there, looking down at her from a great height. ‘I am no fool. You disliked being rescued.’

‘Normally a gentleman waits to be asked.’

‘A gentleman acts when he sees a lady in distress. He attempts to prevent greater harm.’ His gaze roamed over her body. And Diana was fervently glad that she was wearing her dark brown gown with its high neck. ‘It would have been a shame if your dress had become mud-splattered.’

Diana forced her eyes from his face. She struggled to breathe as her throat constricted again. It was nothing more than polite words, the sort that rolled off his tongue a dozen times a day. She was a fool to worry. This encounter would not happen again. London remained in her past. All was safe here. Her place in society was secure as long as she maintained her poise.

‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. Polite. Calm. She had to banish any hint of emotion and behave as if they had encountered each other at a tea party or some other social function. It was the only way.

‘Remain here and I will free your gig.’ A dimple showed in his cheek. ‘You may thank me properly…later.’

‘You do not need to do that. I am perfectly capable of freeing my horse.’ She struggled to stand and started forwards, but he blocked her way, preventing her from reaching the gig. She cleared her throat, and tried to ignore the sudden trembling in her stomach. ‘If you would kindly move, I have no wish to be in your debt.’

He lifted one eyebrow. ‘Ah, so you intend on ruining your boots after all the trouble I went to. And your…uh…pretty dress. I wouldn’t let a Beauty do that.’

‘I am quite capable of getting myself out of the difficulty.’ Diana crossed her arms, ignoring his flirtatious tone. A Beauty, indeed. She was no pretty farmer’s daughter or green girl ripe for the plucking. No doubt in another moment, he would give his dishonourable intention speech and steal another kiss. This time, longer, deeper. The thought of the consequences made her blood run cold, even as a tiny piece of warmth curled around her. She regarded her hands. This was all her fault. She should have been paying attention to the road. This is what happened when she forgot her rules of ladylike behaviour.

‘It looked different to me. It appeared as if you were heading for deep water and sinking fast.’ He put his hand on his heart and made an exaggeratedly contrite face, no doubt expecting her to smile. ‘Consider my reputation as a gentleman. How could I allow a Beauty such as yourself to meet with such a fate?’

‘I am hardly a fainting violet who does not know how to handle the ribbons. I can free the gig…in time.’

He cleared his throat and looked pointedly at the vehicle with its wheels half-submerged in the mud. The position made it perfectly clear that she had driven straight at the puddle. She hated to think how long it would take to clear it. Or the difficulties she would have with Jester, who appeared intent on devouring every last speck of meadow-sweet grass.