Surprised dark eyes left the road to focus on her. "You don't mince your words."
She shrugged. "You're the adult. It's up to you to find some way through this."
He gave a grunt of amusement. "For a woman who looks likely to snap in a gentle breeze, you punch above your weight, Lady Deerham."
His compliment, backhanded as it was, pleased her. All her life, people—men—had told her she was pretty. Very few had remarked on her strength.
This time when they changed horses, Mr. Townsend stepped down from the carriage and came around to offer her a hand. "We'll have something to eat."
"I'd rather keep going."
Was that admiration glinting in his eyes? Her heart kicked, before she reminded herself she had more important things to worry about than Mr. Townsend's opinion of her. "Ten minutes for a hot drink and some bread and cheese won't hurt."
"Ten? I thought the limit was five."
His face remained perfectly straight as he assisted her to alight into a yard bustling with men and horses. "I'm feeling generous."
Fenella dipped her head as she entered the crowded hostelry on Mr. Townsend's arm. Someone making a late return from the Ascot races might recognize her. But nobody paid any attention to the well-dressed couple. As they stepped inside, Mr. Townsend murmured to the landlord, and she found herself in a private parlor, small and cozy with a roaring fire.
"I'll check the horses. Sit down and warm up. I won't be long."
"Thank you," she said, crossing the room to stand before the fire. She sucked in a breath, relieved that she was no longer crushed up against Mr. Townsend. She couldn't blame him for that insidious proximity. She'd insisted on coming. But it was much easier to remember she was a widow with a child and not a giddy girl when he stood safely on the other side of the room.
She stripped off her gloves and extended bare hands toward the flames. The heat set the blood in her chilled fingers tingling.
When the door opened behind her, she didn't look around.
Until a man who wasn't Mr. Townsend addressed her in the slurred tones of the deeply inebriated.
* * *
As Anthony turned into the short corridor leading to the parlor, some drunken ass ahead of him let out a triumphant bray of laughter. Alarm tightened his gut. Hell, he'd only been away a few minutes.
He lengthened his stride and careered round the corner to hear some tipsy, extravagantly dressed coxcomb announce, "Well, what do we have here? A pretty yella-haired strumpet looking for company. I've had the devil's luck today, boys."
The well-bred imbecile stood between two equally gormless companions who craned past him to see into the room where Anthony had left Lady Deerham.
Everything inside Anthony's head turned red. He barged up to the t
rio and shoved them out of the way. How dare anyone accost Fenella? Couldn't they see that she was his?
That thought jolted him into pausing before he started flinging his fists around and creating bloody mayhem.
"I'll say this once, then the trouble's on you," he grated out, battling the impulse to thump the idiots into oblivion anyway. "Go back to the taproom now."
One glance at Anthony and the two offsiders edged away on unsteady legs. "Your pardon, sir. A mistake. No offense meant," one bleated.
Their vocal friend swayed on the spot. Too far gone in his cups to see the danger, he leveled a bleary gaze at Anthony. "Demme, you're a dashed big 'un."
He was young. All three were. Barely twenty if he reckoned aright. But after sailing the world, Anthony was regrettably familiar with the trouble even very young men could cause. His aggressive stance didn't relax. "I won't ask again."
The young man raised a shaky quizzing glass to his eye, then, recklessly, directed his inspection into the room. His lustful smile told its own story. "The doxy's a prime article. I'll give you a thousand guineas for her."
Before Anthony could pulverize the upstart, clear laughter rang out from inside the room. "My husband may just take you up on that, sir. But in the meantime, why don't you go and sleep it off?"
Astonishment kept Anthony's fists by his sides. Fenella's courage should no longer catch him unawares, but still she took his breath away. The lout was right—she was a prime article.
At the sound of Lady Deerham's unmistakably upper-class voice, the youth flushed blotchy red and backed away from the door. He cast a quick glance at Anthony and this time, he took in how much muscle threatened to obliterate him. "Your pardon. I saw the ladybird…uh, the lady on her own, and I thought—"