“That is true, but it has naught to do with you.”

She flinched even though there was no unkindness in his words, just cold truth.

It has naught to do with you.

He might as well have said you have naught to do with me. It was tantamount to that bit of dismissal.

Some of her reaction must have shown on her face, for his voice softened as he said, “My rise or fall as the future Duke of Birchwood will be on my head. Don’t hold yourself responsible for such an occurrence.”

“That may be, but I’m certain you do not relish episodes like today.” With people gawking and whispering and no doubt in a hurry to be off to gossip about him.

“Any talk of that bit of drama will subside,” he reassured with a shrug. “Something bigger will come along. Always does.”

The carriage suddenly jerked forward hard and came to an abrupt halt.

“Oof!” The motion launched her from her seat and tossed her across the space directly into Sinclair’s lap.

It was an uncomfortable position. Her legs were awkwardly arranged, her knees on the floor between them, her face buried in his chest, nose bumping smartly against him.

“Miss Langley!” he exclaimed, his hands seizing her arms and pulling her up as though she were featherlight, which she knew was not the case. “Are you hurt?”

“N-no.” She gave a tremulous laugh. “This London traffic is a hazardous thing.”

He hauled her up higher against him, plopping her down on his lap. Thankfully, it eased the discomfort of her cramped legs as he settled her over him, however much inappropriate.

There was no need for him to hold her like this. Not any longer. There was no need for them to be tangled up like this, however cozy and exciting. And yet she couldn’t move . . . and he wasn’t lifting herself or himself away.

“I’m fine,” she reassured him, releasing an agitated breath and rubbing at the tip of her nose.

Concern was writ all over his face, creasing his brow. Those deep-set eyes of his, so dark and intent, churned her insides. His hands flexed on her arms, and she looked down, noting how very much she was splayed against him, indecently nestled in his lap, her skirts a great pile of muslin around them.

She inhaled, sucking in a great breath, and that was a mistake. He smelled so very nice. Like soap and leather and . . . him. Even with her hand over her nose, his scent enveloped her.

His gaze flicked to her hand, and he frowned. “Did you hurt your nose?”

“Bumped it,” she murmured.

His hands flexed anew, tightening ever so slightly on her biceps. The warmth of his palms and fingers penetrated through the fabric of her sleeves. In fact, all of her felt warm, flushed.