The coachman opened the door, gesturing for them to go inside.

He waited until she had settled herself, and then he stretched his legs onto the opposite seat. “No what?” he asked.

He felt her shake her head. “No, I do not want to proceed with what we had talked about earlier. I don’t appreciate your manhandling me, I definitely do not like being treated like a possession for two men to wrangle over, and I do not feel inclined toward you in that way at this particular moment.”

He blinked at the vehemence of her tone. He hadn’t realized she was so affected by what had happened.

Although that wasn’t what she had said, was it?

“It’s because of what I did?” He couldn’t help the rising note of incredulity in his voice. “Not that one who basically said you were—you were—?”

“A loose woman? A trollop? A wagtail?” He felt her shake her head again. “No, his comments were to be expected. But I had thought you knew me. That is, I had hoped you knew me well enough not to intercede.” She sounded hurt, and he felt an answering ache in his heart.

“A wagtail?” he said in a lighter tone. “I must have missed that one. Perhaps I was too young when I was last living here.” He took a deep breath. “I apologize. I didn’t mean—I only meant—”

“I know.” She sounded dispirited. “I know you only meant well. And if I were someone else, I would appreciate your standing up for me there. But I am not someone else. And I thought you knew that.”

He winced at the soft loss in her voice, and he bit his lip, not wanting to say anything that would diminish what she was feeling or try to salvage the situation.

Yes, he wished he were currently sliding his hands up her thighs, perhaps kissing her belly and moving lower, but he didn’t want her to conflate his remorse with his desire for her.

So even though he’d had an erection for the past few hours, and he’d have to do something about that when he got home, he would not press the issue. He thought, or at least he hoped, he knew her well enough to know that she would reflect on tonight and realize what he hadn’t done as much as what he had.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “We should be at your house in a few minutes. I’ll come in the morning to continue the search for Mr. Wattings.” No intimation that there would be anything but their earlier bargain—a pretend engagement in exchange for a hunt for a missing man. He owed her that much respect, since it seemed he didn’t know her as well as he had thought.

“Thank you,” she said at last as they arrived at her house.

Chapter 13