Chapter 4

R upert peered at Clarissa across the dim carriage. Her eyes looked a bit muzzy, and her color wasn’t very good unless your favorite color happened to be blue, in which case, her color was excellent.

“I say, Miss Weatherby, are you all right?”

“Fine,” she gasped. “Just fine. Why do you ask?”

“Because you’re looking like one of those Pictish fellows.”

“Oh?” Clarissa looked like she was nodding off. “H-how so?”

“Mostly that you’re blue.” He patted the bench beside him. “Why don’t you come and sit over here? My cloak is big enough to spread over both of us.”

“That’s probably wise,” Clarissa muttered, but instead of coming over to join him, her eyes drifted closed and she slumped down in the corner of her own seat.

Rupert had the feeling this was not a good idea. It was like they’d told him when he visited Switzerland—if you were hiking in the Alps, no matter how tired you thought you were, the one thing you didn’t want to do was lie down in the snow for “just a minute.” People who lay down in the snow for “just a minute” didn’t get back up.

Gad, but this was improper. But she looked to be pretty far along the path toward freezing to death, so improper was somewhat low on his list of concerns.

“Here,” he said, taking her by the shoulders. She was a little thing, but she was pretty well insensible, and it was deuced awkward maneuvering her dead weight across the cramped space.

But after a minute of giving it the old heave-ho, he managed to settle Clarissa on the bench seat next to him. Only then did it occur to him that he could’ve just gone and sat next to her. Ah well, wasn’t that the way it always happened with him?

He spread his cloak—mink-lined and warm enough for the winter he’d spent in Oslo—over both of them, then wrapped an arm around Clarissa’s shoulders. It was a mark of how cold she was that instead of trying to strangle him, she made a little whimpering sound, then wrapped her arms around his chest and buried her face in his shoulder.

It felt good to have her in his arms. It felt strangely right, as if she was supposed to be there. And, of course, she wasn’t. That was an echo of another life, one he’d been on the brink of, but ultimately, wasn’t supposed to have. The one where she was Clarissa Dupree, and she was glad to have Rupert in her life.

Ah, well. At least he could be useful to her for body heat, if nothing else. That was something Rupert liked—feeling useful. He’d managed to do it for the past two years, and it was deuced addicting.

As he drifted off to sleep, images of a world in which Clarissa actually wanted him flitted through his head.

Clarissa was having the most pleasant dream.

She was inside a confectionary shop, perusing a display case full of bonbons, marzipan, and delicate biscuits dusted with sugar. It was warm inside—probably because of the oven in back—and everything smelled delicious. The only thing marring the experience was the incessant pounding. Were they kneading some dough in the back room? Chopping almonds, perhaps? Shouldn’t they have finished that before they opened to customers?

Blinking herself awake, Clarissa found herself in the dim carriage. The pounding was someone knocking at the door. Other elements of her dream proved correct as well—she was warm, through some miracle, and the sweet smell?

That was Rupert Dupree, who was yawning and stretching beside her. Clarissa saw that he had brought her over to sit beside him, covering both of them with his cloak and even holding her close for good measure. She flushed as she disentangled her arms, one of which had slipped inside his coat, from his person. It was probably necessary that they had huddled together, as she was fairly certain she had been on the brink of freezing to death.

But it was difficult to square the fact that this gallant gesture had come from the most repulsive man she knew.

The button on her sleeve snagged on something, preventing her from scooting away as quickly as she would have liked. She drew in a lungful of air, getting another whiff of his cologne, as her nose was mere inches from his jawline. He smelled just like an almond biscuit. She would’ve expected a dandy like Rupert Dupree to slather himself in Bay Rum. Thank God he hadn’t; she couldn’t stand the pungent scent.

Sitting up, Clarissa saw that she was snagged on some sort of necklace. As she struggled to disentangle herself, the pendant popped open, proving to be a locket. A painting of a pale blue eye stared back at her within the silver frame.

Noticing her predicament, Rupert clucked. “How did that get loose? Let’s see here.” He peeled one of his black leather gloves off and went to work unwinding the chain from around her button. Clarissa was wearing gloves, too, but his fingertips brushed the bare skin on her wrist, causing her to shiver, this time not from the cold.

He managed to free her sleeve, and she scooted to the far side of the bench seat, not leaving the warmth of his cloak. She studied him out of the corner of her eye as he closed the locket and tucked it back inside his shirt. Who was this strange man? He seemed a bundle of contradictions.

Straightening his coat, Rupert leaned forward and opened the carriage door. The person knocking proved to be the coachman. “Begging your pardon, sir, but the wheelwright’s here. He had a wheel sized to fit, but he needs to put it on. You’ll both have to get out.”

“Ah. Jolly good,” Rupert said, rolling his shoulders. He slid out from beneath his cloak, ducking his head as he climbed out the door.

“You forgot your cloak,” Clarissa said, holding it out to him. The rush of cold air that swept under it made her immediately regret the gesture, but pride demanded that she surrender it.

“You take it,” Rupert said, holding out a hand to help her from the carriage.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly. I have my own cloak, after all, and—”

“I insist.” Rupert took the cloak from her but only to wrap it around her shoulders. Lud but that felt good—the warmth of the cloak around her, and the brush of his hands on her shoulders.

She peered at him in the dim light of the carriage lamps. A scattering of snowflakes swirled around his head, one occasionally settling in his golden hair. She saw that the temperature had dropped sufficiently that the snow was now piling up in drifts.

“But what about you?” she asked.

He waved this off. “Don’t worry about old Rupert. I just came from Switzerland, and this time last year, I was in Norway. I’ll be fine.”

“I see. Thank you,” she added hastily.

She was spared from having to make further conversation by the coachman, who called Rupert over to help lift the carriage so the wheelwright could do his work. Clarissa watched from a discreet distance. Rupert made no complaint about being asked to grasp the underside of the muddy carriage and lift. As if to prove that he was used to the cold, he peeled off his tailcoat with a good-natured remark about keeping it clean, tossed it into the carriage, and took up his position at the back corner of the carriage. He performed the task cheerfully and solicitously asked the guard if he was all right when his foot slipped in the mud.

Clarissa had to own that Rupert Dupree wasn’t what she had expected. He had somehow managed to make a good impression in spite of the fact that, in line with the rumors about him, he did not appear to be of the greatest intelligence.

An hour ago, Clarissa would have said that intelligence was the most important quality she looked for in any friend. Yet Rupert Dupree had her questioning her own judgment in this regard. In fact, were it not for the fact that she already hated him, Clarissa rather thought she would have liked him.

This was not Clarissa’s only alarming revelation about Rupert Dupree. The sun was just starting to rise, giving her an unimpeded view as he strained to lift the mail coach. The mortifying thought that her nemesis filled out his buckskin breeches rather splendidly drifted unbidden across her mind—a result, no doubt, of some combination of exhaustion and hypothermia. She knew she should avert her eyes but found the prospect strangely difficult. His posterior was not what you would call large, but nor was it scrawny. The word taut came to mind. An unbearable urge to reach out and squeeze it came over her, and she grasped a handful of his cloak to contain the strange urges welling inside of her.

The carriage suddenly shifted. Grunting, Rupert bent his knees, straining to hold it aloft as his muscles shifted and flexed beneath the buckskin. A warbling sound emerged unbidden from her lips, and she made a hasty attempt to disguise it as coughing.

It took around fifteen minutes to swap out the wheel. Rupert rubbed snow on his hands to rinse off the mud before he handed Clarissa into the carriage.

He frowned as he settled into his seat. “I say, I hope you weren’t overheated in my cloak.”

“Not at all,” she said, her voice emerging slightly breathless. “Why do you ask?”

He made a circular gesture toward his own face. “You’re a bit flushed is all.”

“Oh.” She could hardly say, it’s because I’ve been staring at your arse for the last quarter of an hour . She cleared her throat, blushing even harder. “Er, speaking of your cloak…” She tried to hand it back, but he held up a palm in refusal. “It’s all right,” she insisted. “We’re inside now, and we’ll be getting underway soon.”

He shook his head as he pulled on his jacket. “It’s not going to get any warmer in here just because the carriage is moving.”

Clarissa bit her lip. He was right. Still, she hated the fact that she’d been unprepared almost as much as she hated being beholden to someone, much less to Rupert Dupree. “I cannot in good conscience deprive you of your cloak for such a long duration.”

He shook his head. “I’d a thousand times rather I go without it than you. Did you know that you turned blue earlier?”

She started. “Did I?”

“You did. So, let’s have no more talk of you going without that cloak. Old Rupert will be all right.”

Clarissa swallowed back the bile rising in her throat. She could not believe what she was about to suggest. “Perhaps we could… sit next to one another.”

He twisted his lips to the side. “I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You wouldn’t,” Clarissa hastened to reassure him.

“Because what I did earlier… That was just desperate measures and all that. As I mentioned, you were turning blue—”

“And I appreciate what you did. I must confess that, although I was too proud to ask for assistance, I was not doing well and was beginning to grow concerned.” She cleared her throat, then forced herself to say, “Thank you, Mr. Dupree. This time, as I am already warm, I feel confident that it would be sufficient to sit next to each other in a more… customary manner.”

He frowned, studying her for a beat. “If you’re sure…”

“I am.”

He slowly moved from the rear-facing seat to the forward-facing one where Clarissa sat. The seat wasn’t wide, but he was careful to leave a good six inches between them, which was all that the carriage allowed. Clarissa handed him the edge of his cloak, and they settled it across themselves like a blanket.

They were both wide awake and staring at each other awkwardly. “So…” Clarissa began, casting about for a topic.

“So,” Rupert replied cheerfully.

“I noticed your locket earlier,” she hedged. “The one with the eye miniature. My sister, Kate, is a good artist. She paints those sometimes, for people who want a memento of their sweetheart.”

She looked away. Brilliant, Clarissa . That sounded like she was digging, trying to find out if he had a sweetheart. Not that she cared in the least!

Genial as always, Rupert fished the locket out from between the buttons on his shirt. “I remember Lady Milthorpe singing your sister’s praises two years ago. I’m sure her miniatures must be very popular.” He flipped the locket open, showing her. “Mine was a gift from my Aunt Imogen. That’s her eye you see there. She said this way, she could always watch over me.”

Clarissa exhaled, relieved that the conversation was back in safer territory. “It sounds as though you two are close.”

The lopsided grin returned, although it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We were. She died two years ago. A malignancy, the doctors said.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Rupert nodded. “As am I. Auntie Im was my mother’s sister. My mother died when I was eight—”

“Mine died when I was five,” Clarissa noted.

“Ah.” Rupert inclined his head graciously. “Then you understand.”

Clarissa nodded sadly.

“After my mother died, Auntie Im was the one who looked out for me.”

“Not your father?” Clarissa asked.

Rupert shrugged. “My father wasn’t horrible to me or anything like that. But I’ve always known I was a disappointment to him. He prefers my older brother, Francis.”

Clarissa decided it would not be tactful to ask why he was such a tremendous disappointment to his father. “I see. If it makes you feel any better, my father is utterly horrible. He sold our house so he could take an around-the-world voyage. He’s a naturalist, you see. Not a very good one.”

Rupert frowned. “He sold your house? Where were the four of you supposed to live, then?”

Clarissa laughed bitterly. “That was left to us to figure out. Fortunately, Lady Milthorpe invited us to a house party, where Eleanor met the Duke of Norwood. Had they not wound up marrying, we would have been in a world of trouble.”

Rupert’s lips were bunched up in a pout. “I say, that’s bad form on your father’s part. Tremendously bad form, leaving you unprotected and whatnot.”

“I won’t argue with you there.” He had shut his locket and was starting to tuck it away. The metal had an unusual gleam under the dim carriage lights. “Say, what kind of metal is that? It doesn’t look quite like silver.”

“It’s not. It’s actually steel.” Rupert gave a rueful chuckle. “The first one she gave me was silver, but I managed to destroy it during my school days. I probably should’ve taken it off for the wall game, but you can’t leave anything valuable lying about at Eton. It’ll get nicked, sure as eggs are eggs. So, Auntie Im had a replacement made out of steel, and it’s held up much better.”

“Practical as well as kind.” Clarissa tried—and failed—to stifle a yawn. “I have a feeling I would have liked her.”

“I’m sure you would have done. But look at me, yammering on when you’re tired. I’ll let you get some rest.”

Clarissa didn’t deny it. She slumped back into the corner and pulled the cloak up to her chin.

But there was one thing she wanted to do before she drifted off. “Mr. Dupree?”

“Hmm?” he said, suppressing a yawn of his own.

She could not believe she was about to utter these words. “Thank you. For everything.”

“You’re most welcome, Miss Weatherby.”

Those were the last words Clarissa heard before she drifted off to sleep.