How a Lady Weds a Rogue Read Online Free PDF

this indignity to bear of her mother’s new profession, if it could be believed.
    “Miss Lucas, I cannot allow you to continue on this journey.”
    Her gaze shot to him. “What?”
    “I cannot—”
    “No, no, I heard what you said. I am merely flabbergasted.”
    “I know not whether to be flattered or insulted by your surprise, ma’am.”
    “Oh. Of course. I beg your pardon, sir.” She seemed to recall herself, and rather swiftly at that. She studied him for a moment, then released a little sigh. But she had no air of crestfallen disappointment about her, a look Wyn had seen on the faces of females often enough in his work over the past ten years. This was no doubt a game to her more than anything else. Perhaps she’d wished only to have a brief adventure and even now secretly welcomed his intervention.
    “I suppose you have learned which coach will return me to my friend’s house?” she asked quietly.
    “It departs tomorrow at ten o’clock.”
    “There will be time for breakfast then. I do so dislike traveling on an empty stomach.” Her voice had quieted.
    “It is for the best, Miss Lucas.”
    She seemed thoughtful for a moment. “The public coach is uncomfortable. I might not have been able to bear it all the way to Bristol, anyway.” She offered him a small sigh that lifted her breasts. “Well, then, good night, sir. Thank you for your assistance.” She held out her hand, he placed the key in it, and she went inside.
    Wyn returned to the taproom and the remainder of the bottle of brandy.
    D iantha leaned up against the inside of her door, a peculiarly empty sensation in her stomach. Her gaze scanned the little bedchamber without interest. She had traveled so rarely, she should be charmed to bits over this turn of events: a night in a real posting house after the most scrumptious dinner possible, in the company of a true gentleman.
    And now she knew where she had gone wrong again. Not her plan this time, but her notions of what a man could be.
    A true gentleman could not be a hero. A true gentleman would, before all else, care for propriety and society’s standards and—most importantly, devastatingly —a lady’s welfare.
    She was not a ninnyhammer, and only a ninnyhammer would fail to see that this journey was not in her welfare. She would be on the road for weeks without a proper chaperone and now not even a maid, and she would complete her travels at a French brothel. As a real gentleman, Mr. Yale had one recourse only: to escort her back to where she belonged. He could not be her hero. Not this time. On this occasion, gentleman and hero were incompatible.
    She should descend to the taproom now and look about for another hero. There must be at least one among the crowd of farmers and villagers. Or she could take the next leg of her journey alone and hope to come across a hero along the road ahead.
    The coach schedule affixed to the wall beside the front door had been easy enough to memorize while she was eating and explaining her quest to Mr. Yale. The Shrewsbury Coach would come through at quarter past five o’clock in the morning. She would be on it. She would find her mother and, finally, speak with her.
    Diantha removed her outer garments and when the maid appeared she sent her away with a penny. Then she lay down on the soft little cot topped with the nicest quilt she’d seen and stared at the ceiling. The white paint was riddled with cracks, like her thinking on the matter of heroes.
    The trouble was, it seemed to her that if any man could be a true hero, it would certainly be Mr. Yale. But perhaps there were no such paragons of epic honor and nobility in the present era. There was no such thing, after all, as the sort of love all those old stories described, the sort between a man and a woman who fell into the most sublime devotion and lived happily ever after. Both of her mother’s marriages proved that to be a myth, not to mention Lady Finch-Freeworth and Sir Terrence’s tepid