The man burst out laughing. “Such confidence, squire! I stand duly warned!”
They both headed through the inn, jostling past people. Ambrose noted that the other man from the coach, who had been swigging from the silver flask, was standing at the bar, laughing uproariously as he downed a mug of ale. He was in the thick of it with the locals, thought Ambrose wryly. And grabbing as much opportunity as he could to get as many mugs of ale into him as possible before they got back on the coach.
He was almost to the door when he couldn’t resist gazing in the direction of the table where the three women from the coach were sitting together. They were all talking, deep in conversation, including the nun whose infectious laugh was almost drowning out the din of the inn.
Miss Parker glanced up. Their eyes met and held for a brief moment. He noted the unusual colour of her eyes. He had rarely seen a person with grey eyes. They were almost luminous.
Hastily, he looked away. He was being ridiculous. She was a stranger to him, and they would never meet again once this trip was over. But he was forced to admit to himself that this was unusual. His attraction to her had been so immediate and was growing. He was very curious about her, apart from itching to touch her. He couldn’t quite work out who Miss Delia Parker was or her place in the world, and he was usually very adept at reading people. He had grown up in the tenements, after all. That was an education for life about people.
A gust of cold wind almost knocked him over as he left the inn. It was dark now. Night had fallen. The thought of getting back into that cramped carriage filled him with mild despair. He knew he had to focus on the positive—he was finally on his way back to Bradford after all the delays. What did it matter how he got there?
And then he thought of sitting next to Miss Parker again, her leg brushing against his and being overcome with arousal. It was embarrassing, but then again, it was the only pleasant part of the trip. It wasn’t hurting anyone. And she would never be aware of it.
He thought of the way her eyes had darkened when they brushed against each other in the inn. The sharp intake of her breath. Miss Delia Parker might not be indifferent to him. In fact, she might be experiencing the same powerful pull of attraction as he was.
He didn’t know whether the thought of that was good or bad. He didn’t know whether he would be able to resist her if she felt the same way about him. And that might make this trip a bit more complicated than he had been anticipating.
Chapter 10
The coach rattled down the dark road. Delia looked out the carriage window but couldn’t see a thing. It was as black as coal. She yawned into her hand as the coach bumped and lurched. It had been such a long, tiring day. The most startling day she had experienced in her entire life.
Mr Hartfield was seated beside her just as he had been on the first leg of the trip. It seemed all the passengers had their allotted places in the coach. The man on the other side of Mr Hartfield had introduced himself as Mr Adolphus Giles, wine merchant, before promptly falling asleep. He was snoring slightly, his head bumping against the side of the carriage. Delia suspected it was a drunken stupor.
On the opposite side of the carriage, Sister Mary Majella and Miss Tilney flanked the large man, who had introduced himself shortly after they had set off from the inn as Mr Simeon Hawkins, proud owner of a fleet of ships who was in service to Queen Charlotte, no less.
“I had an audience with Her Majesty only a month ago,” he said now, his chest puffing out. “She asked me to tea at Buckingham Palace in London. She wants me to name one of my ships after her, which, of course, I said that I would. What an honour!”
Sister Mary Majella raised her eyebrows. “You had tea with the Queen?”
“I did, indeed,” said Mr Hawkins, his small blue eyes shining like marbles in the dim light. “She is the most gracious lady. To think…a humble man such as me having tea with a queen! My dear departed mother would be beside herself with joy and pride.”
Mr Hartfield stared at him hard. “It’s surprising the Queen would have a private audience with you, Mr Hawkins. Even if you do own quite a few ships.”
“Most unusual,” said Mr Hawkins, smiling brightly. “She must have sensed there is something special about me. I have had that a lot in my life. You would be surprised, Mr Hartfield.”
Delia stared at the large man. She had only met the Queen once herself, for a very brief moment when she had been making her debut, and she was nobility. She was doubly impressed with the fact that Mr Hawkins had a private audience with Her Majesty.
“How many ships do you own, Mr Hawkins?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“A fleet, my dear,” replied the man. “Over ten. They sail all over the world.”
“And you are travelling by public stagecoach?” asked Mr Hartfield in a dry voice. “I would have thought if you owned ten ships and had tea with the Queen, you could afford your own carriage, sir. In fact, I would assume you could afford several of them if you so desired.”
The large man brushed his hand in the air. “I can, of course. But I prefer to travel this way. I get to meet the most interesting people, you see. Like you, my dear man.” He coughed into his hand. “What did you say you do again?”
Delia turned slightly in her seat to look at Mr Hartfield. She was very curious about him and wanted to hear what he was about to say. She had been trying to ignore the frisson within her whenever their legs bumped against each other, but it was hard. Very hard.
“I own a factory in Bradford,” he replied. “A wool mill.”
“Ah, an industrialist,” said Mr Hawkins, nodding. “And why areyoutravelling by stagecoach then, sir?”
“My carriage was stolen in London,” said Mr Hartfield, rolling his eyes. “This was the quickest way to get back home. I do not like to leave my factory for very long.” He sighed irritably. “The whole trip was a damn waste of time. Sorry for the language, Sister.”
Sister Mary Majella laughed. “I won’t make you recite the rosary, my child. That’s the responsibility of a priest.”
Miss Tilney leaned forward. “You are a factory owner, Mr Hartfield? I have heard very grim stories of the way factory owners treat their workers in the North.” She paused. “You do not employchildren, do you?”
The carriage was silent as they all looked at Mr Hartfield, waiting for his reply.