The Indiscretion Read Online Free PDF

itself inside out when he
used it to say surly things.
    "Who's Gwyn?" she asked.
    He tipped his hat back further, till his face – its frown – was in
full light. "You have a good memory."
    "Who is she?"
    Sam sat there slouched, hearing a lady he'd been sure wouldn't
utter another word to him ask about his love life. He chewed the inside of his
cheek, then thought, Why not tell her?
    "The woman I was supposed to marry this morning." He sighed,
feeling blue again for simply saying it. Hell, what sort of fellow left the
woman he'd courted for almost two years at the altar in front of all their
friends and family? He expected a huffy admonishment from Miss Prissy Brit now—
    "I'm so sorry," she said.
    The coach turned sharply, and they both leaned to counter the
force of the motion, with him stretching his leg out to brace himself with the
toe of his boot and her swinging from the hand grip.
    Over the noise of their travel, she asked, "What happened?"
    Sam frowned. Now where had this little lady been five hours ago?
Because that was the one question he had been dying for someone to ask all day,
though not a soul till now had thought to. Her concern, and his needy longing
for it from someone, anyone, shot a sense of gratitude through him so strong he
could have reached out and kissed her.
    He said, "I was on the way to the church, when, out the
window of my hackney, I saw the robbery I told you about. The fellow stopped
the woman on a Plymouth street and
grabbed her purse. She fought him. He was puny but wiry and willing to wrestle
her for it. It made me crazy when he dumped her over. I figured, with me being
a foot taller and sixty or so pounds heavier, I could hop out, pin the hoodlum
to the ground, then be on my way with very little trouble. I wasn't prepared
for his four friends." Sam sighed. "I spent the morning at the
doctor's when I was supposed to be standing at the altar."
    "But your bride—"
    "My bride won't talk to me long enough to hear my explanation."
    Their eyes met and held. Hers were sympathetic. And light brown. A
kind of gold. Pretty. Warm. He watched her shoulders jostle, to and fro, as she
said, "Well, when she saw you like this, she must have—"
    "She didn't see me. She only called me names through her
front door. No one would let me in."
    "How unreasonable."
    "Exactly." What a relief to hear the word.
    "You could send her a note to explain—"
    "She returned it, unopened."
    "You could talk to someone, get a friend to tell her—"
    "No one will speak to me. I had to bribe the stable boy to
get me to the coach station."
    Her pretty eyes widened. "But people have to
understand—"
    Exactly what he wanted to hear, the very words he'd been telling
himself all day. And now that he heard them, he realized how stupid they were.
"Apparently not. 'Cause not a person I know does."
    Bless her, her mouth tightened into a sweet, put-out line.
"Well, how unreasonable," she said again. Oh, God bless her.
    "Yes." But no. He looked down. "It is unreasonable.
Until you realize that I left Gwyn at the altar once before, eight months
ago."
    She straightened herself slightly in her seat, readjusting her
wrist in the hand strap. Aha! her look said. Then she came back loyally to his
side. "You were beaten this time." She paused, frowning. "What
happened eight months ago?"
    "Nothing." He sighed. "I slept in."
    "Didn't you have a best man to help you? Grooms get nervous.
Grooms need help."
    "I wasn't where anyone knew how to get to me." He was
with the caterer's sister, the cook, who also missed the wedding. But, shoot,
he wasn't married yet. It hadn't seemed that wrong. Though, no excuses, missing
the wedding was completely wrong. Twice he'd been wrong now. He admitted it.
Someone should let him admit it, then forgive him.
    He watched the dignified young Englishwoman sit back, as if she
could physically remove herself from riffraff who spoke to strangers about his
embarrassing life.
    Might as well get it all out. "And once