Stolen Away: A Regency Novella Read Online Free Page B

illness?”
    “There’s her Aunt Sylvie?”
    “She’ll do.”
    “But she’s quite a healthy sixty.”
    “Then have her struck by lightning—or something else startling. I really cannot think of what just now.”
    “But where ever will you be?
      Audrey offered a grim smile and said, “Where else—chasing after Chloe!”
    * * *
     
    With her face turned toward the carriage window and her scented handkerchief pressed to her mouth, Chloe struggled for control over her body.
    The voice, so melodious with its hint of Irish lilt, came from the opposite corner of the coach, a touch of amusement in the tone, and scraped across her nerves like a knife across slate. “Sulking still, dear one?”
    Dragging the handkerchief from her lips, she shot the man a glare. “Do not speak to me, you...you...” Stomach churning, she turned away again, pressing the lace to her mouth as she muttered, “I wish I were dead.”
    He laughed. Laughed! She glared at him again over the froth of lacy handkerchief. But he only lounged against the worn leather seat, arms crossed, long legs, still in black evening breeches, white stockings, and dancing pumps, stretched before him. “Now, now. You had your ball, did you not, as I gave you my word you would.”
    “Your word!” She made a rude sound and turned away. “You may at least have the decency to open a window!”
    “What—so you can scream rape, is it? You’ll have to wait for that. Least ‘till we’ve stopped for the night.”
    Tight lipped, she glared at him. How had she ever thought that mocking face handsome? In truth, he had too swarthy a complexion. And too narrow a face. Lanky. Yes, he was lanky. Black hair spilled forward, falling into his eyes, unfashionably straight, and now she saw that he must have a heart as black as those inky eyes of his.
    “Very well. Then I shall be ill inside the coach,” she said, and pressed her handkerchief to her mouth. The scent turned her stomach so she wadded the lace in a fist and threw it to the opposite side of the coach.
    His easy smile faded for a moment. A flash of white, even teeth brightened the coach. “Try again, now. I’m not some green one who’ll believe such a story as that.”
    Swallowing hard, Chloe pressed her hand to her mouth even harder, but she would loose the battle soon enough. Sweat beaded cold on her forehead. She hated traveling. Hated what swaying in a closed coach did to her. Hated how her head pounded and her insides churned. I warned him , she thought. The wave of nausea swept through her and she only wanted relief.
    He must have seen the truth in her face, or her eyes. With a muffled curse, he sat up, moving faster than she would have thought he could, leaning across her to struggle with the latches to the glass window.
    The bile rose. With a hiccup, she choked it back once. Her throat burned. She hated being ill.
    With another curse, he gave up on the window and threw open the door, yelling at the coachman to stop.
    She no longer cared. He jumped out and his hands wrapped around her to lift her down, but she could do no more than turn and be sick onto the opposite seat. She burst into choking, hot-faced tears.
    “Ah, sweet Jaysus. I would pick a bloody heiress who can’t keep down her accounts.”
    Eyes watering, sniffing now, Chloe pushed past him, stumbled out of the coach, and staggered onto the grass verge of the road. Dawn lit the eastern sky. She glanced at it, hating it, hating herself, but most of all hating this Irishman who had promised her a masquerade ball—and who had spirited her away last night.
    Turning, she fisted her hands and propped them on her hips. “I want to go home.”
    One black eyebrow cocked. “Too late, dear one. It’s a night we’ve been together in this coach, and you’ll wed me if you care to be welcomed again by anyone in the polite world.”
    She wiped her fingers across her cheeks, brushing aside the tears. Her hair clung to her forehead, her curls limp. The