Chapter 34

Andrew would have been back at Wych House late on Christmas Eve if not for one of the job horses going lame.

And then, after he'd secured a new pair, one of wheels had developed a distinct wobble. That had meant Andrew had to stop and wait for the wheelwright to be rousted from his Christmas Eve dinner—with the promise of thrice his going rate for his efforts—to see to the curricle.

By the time the wheel was secured it was dark. That did not stop him from resuming his journey. But the heavy snow that began to cover the already slushy road when he was still six hours from Wych House forced him to seek shelter at an inn with damp sheets, watery ale, and weak coffee.

"What a miserable night that was," Andrew muttered to his companion the following morning. His sigh of disgust was accompanied by billowing clouds of steam as the curricle rolled slowly through the early morning chill.

Scrapper, who sat on the seat beside him when he wasn't sprawled out using Andrew's thigh as a pillow, turned at the sound of his voice and then scratched behind his ear with his hind leg.

Andrew frowned down at the mutt. "You better not have picked up fleas when you slinked down to the kitchen last night, my boy. And don't think I didn't notice the way you eyed that pretty little bitch dancing around the ostler's feet."

Scrapper gave him a look that said butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

"Scattering offspring around the countryside is bad ton , sir."

The dog hoisted one hind leg and commenced polishing his jewels.

Andrew laughed. "That will put me in my place."

The inn had not only afforded an uncomfortable sleep, it had also given him far too much time for introspection—not his forte by a longshot. Or perhaps it had been just enough time to think and consider and ponder what he had rushed up to London to do. And why.

Did he feel a certain degree of guilt for having masturbated naked in front of an innocent? Yes, a little, although that was easily overcome by the erection that he sprouted every single time he relived the memory.

Was he displeased that she might feel tarnished by the experience? Yes, that was more of a consideration and far from humorous.

But those concerns were nothing to one very startling admission: he could hardly wait to see her tomorrow.

And the day after.

And…shockingly…ad infinitum.

She was prickly, snappish, and yet more addictive than anyone he had met.

Even Mariah?

The question had floored him. Not because Stacia could not compare to his long-dead lover, but because Andrew had never even thought to compare them.

The truth was that his memory of Mariah had grown as fly-specked and dulled as an ancient mirror.

As if thinking that thought had summoned her, the night before, as he had thrashed in the damp, unpleasant bedding, he had dreamed of Mariah for the first time in years. Or at least he had felt her presence in his dream, although he had no recollection of seeing her face. The dream had left an aftertaste of sorrow. Not passionate longing or aching desire, or even love. It had felt like the sort of regret he sometimes felt when he had parted with friends or family.

Was that what Mariah had come to say to his sleeping self? Had she come to take her leave? Was the only thing holding her Andrew's cracked and faded recollections of a love that had bloomed for less than two months more than a decade earlier?

Forty-one days they had lived under the same roof before he had been banished and fled to the Continent.

He had stayed in the army less than a year before coming home for good, his hatred for his cousin the only thing keeping him alive at that point.

Andrew wondered, as he rolled along in the frigid dawn, if his life the last decade had really been living?

He already knew the answer to that—the past months with his cousin had taught him how hollow his existence had become. It did not escape his sense of irony that the first woman he had wanted in over a decade had rejected him at least three times.

If she rejected him a fourth time, then Andrew would wait a year for her, as she bade him, demonstrating that his offer was not a product of availability and convenience, but a choice.

Yes, he would wait for her. A year or even more if need be. Waiting a year did not mean he could not enjoy her company in the meanwhile, did it? Although her living in Bath, with Lady Addiscombe in proximity, certainly militated against such a possibility.

Even if he could not see her, he would wait.

Perhaps then she would believe that his memory, admittedly shot full of holes, had a place that was exclusively, enduringly hers.

His mood lifted along with the dawn, and he was just beginning to believe he would make it in plenty of time to enjoy a lazy bath before the ball that evening when he rounded a corner and reined in so sharply the curricle skittered dangerously on the wet and slushy road.

"Bloody hell," he muttered as he calmed the horses, set the carriage brake, and hopped out to help a clearly harried coachman assist his passengers out of the window of an overturned carriage.

By the time Andrew had made a detour of nine miles to deliver the effusively grateful widow and her daughter to her brother's house—what she was doing travelling on Christmas Day was a story he never fully understood—it was once again past dark.

The number of carriages clogging the driveway when he finally guided his weary pair into the courtyard at Wych House told him the ball was in full swing.

A groom trotted out to take the horses' heads and Andrew hopped out, dislodging a sleepy, yawning Scrapper in the process.

He tossed the man a coin and hurried toward the house. "Oh," he said over his shoulder. "See that Scrapper is fed—and make sure he doesn't muscle his way into the house."

The groom laughed. "Aye, my lord. A juicy bone will win him over."

Andrew hurriedly gave himself a sponge bath, shaved, dressed in his evening kit, and then took a moment to study his reflection in the mirror.

He was hollow eyed from long days and miserable nights on the road, but he was clean, tidy, and as respectable as he ever looked.

Andrew glanced at his prize for a long moment and then shoved it into the nightstand drawer.

And then he took the small jewel pouch off his dressing table and dropped it into his pocket.

Now he was ready.