“No. He and his friends often tried to run me to earth, threatening to give me a thrashing. And worse.” There was a grim look in her eyes as she added, “They almost had me one time, but the dear old squire came roaring up, waving his whip and threatening to horsewhip the lot of them for treating a lady so.” She smiled reminiscently. “A lady. I was in breeches and boots with mud on my face and hands, but the old squire, he was a gentleman.” She grinned. “Michael and his friends ran like frightened little rabbits.”

He took her hand in his and squeezed. “Sounds like the squire was a good man.” She made no move to pull her hand away.

“He was, and a force of nature to boot. For all that Michael and his friends thought themselves so much better born than the squire, the old man was a true gentleman—something that they could never be. He didn’t leave it there, either; he visited each of their parents and told them what he’d seen, and what he promised if he caught them at it again. His threats worked too. They never bothered me again.”

Instead Stretton had tried to get Hart to do his dirty work. Hart wished now that he’d given Stretton a good thrashing, instead of just a broken nose. His hand tightened around hers.

She smiled, a mixture of triumph and smugness. “That nose never healed properly, you know. It’s permanently crooked. And Michael was always so vain about his good looks. So thank you.” She leaned over and kissed him. Her lips were sweet and soft.

“Now that’s an idea,” he said and pulled her across his lap. He pulled up her skirt and discovered something interesting. “Going old-fashioned today, are we? I like it.”

She pushed his hands away. “In the carriage?” she said sounding shocked. “We can’t do that here.”

“Why not? We’re married.” He cupped her chin and added, “If you don’t want to umm, George, just say so.”

“It’s not that.” She looked away, blushing rosily. “But people might see.”

He followed her gaze out of the window. “You’re right,” he said as if much struck. “There’s all those sheep, for a start. And cows too. We wouldn’t want to shock them, would we?” He reached past her and drew the curtains on her side of the coach, and then did the same for those on his side. He closed the back curtain as well. “There now, that’s better, isn’t it? There’s nothing worse than a shocked sheep or a blushing bovine.”

“Cows don’t blush,” she said, trying not to smile.

“No, but you do, George, don’t you?” he murmured.