He pulled up the team briefly so Gillian could speak with her aunt’s sister, and watched her closely as she conversed. She was the granddaughter of an earl, and her manners were suitable, if a little rough. Training would help her overcome most of her gaucheness, although Weston recognized instinctively that he only wanted to tame her spirit, not break it.

Why shouldn’t he offer for her? She was a pleasant companion, appeared to be well read and conversant with the topics of the day, a fact that came to light when she shyly admitted that she read her uncle’s daily Times whenever she could. Weston approved of her inquiring mind and curious nature—up to a point. It would be his task to see to it that she learned her proper duty and place as his countess. She would be a good mother to his son, he mused as he gave the signal to the leader, and would provide him with the heir he needed. Her pleasant, unassuming nature boded well for her happiness; she would be content with life in the country, a dutiful wife who would tend to his needs and not interfere in his life.

Indeed, the more he thought about it, the harder pressed he was to find any fault with her at all. She was witty, amusing, and at the same time possessed a gentle nature and dignity that…

“Stop!” she screamed in his ear, startling him into compliance. Gripping his arm, she leaped over his legs and flung herself off the phaeton.

Dear God, she was going to get herself killed weaving in and out of the heavy traffic like that! Weston snarled an oath to himself, tossed the ribbons to his tiger, and leaped out after his soon-to-be-bride before she was flattened.

He was shaking by the time he reached her side, but whether from anger or fright he didn’t know. He suspected it was both, and clenched and unclenched his hands in an attempt to keep from strangling her on the spot. He took a deep, calming breath, mopped his handkerchief across his perspiring brow, and reminded himself that he was by nature a calm man, a placid man, a man fully in control of his emotions, and he would be damned before he allowed the daft Amazon to get the better of him.

“What the devil do you mean, leaping off the phaeton like that, madam?” he bellowed at her. “Have you no brains, woman? You might have been killed!”

Gillian looked up from where she was kneeling on the sidewalk next to a ragged street urchin and scowled at him. “Hush, my lord. You’re frightening the child.”

Weston boggled at her. Did she just order him to be quiet? He shook his head. No one, not even a clearly deranged woman like Gillian, would be so foolish.

“Miss Leigh,” he ground out between his teeth, trying desperately to leash the raging volcano of temper seething inside him. She’d taken at least ten years off his life, scaring him with her heedless actions. “Would you be so kind as to inform me why you saw fit to leave the safe confines of my phaeton to dash recklessly across the road?”