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her ears after smoothing it. She was
clothed in trousers and boots, a jumper over her blouse. He watched
her cross and then uncross her arms before she looked down and
around, finally reaching under a low shelf.
    When she extracted a flask, he raised his
brow, watching her straighten, uncork it, and drink.
    She wheezed and coughed, half-bending over,
sucking air in a way that made him silently laugh. She obviously
was not a drinker. The flask was likely her fathers or one of the
grooms. He watched her take three more pulls before she shuddered
and put it back.
    Breathing harsh she muttered, “Blasted men.
Blasted rain.”
    Then, as if she sensed him behind her, she
whirled. “What do you want?”
    He cocked his brow, noting her flushed face.
“I came to see your father?”
    “Why?”
    “Not that it is any of your affair." Deme did
not like her tone. “But I thought I would have him drive me to
Wolford, to issue an invite to Monty for the gathering,
personally.”
    She blinked and then took a breath, letting
it out slowly as if shaking off some emotion. Her tawny eyes seemed
to blink it away at the same time. “It will be heavy in this muck
and mud. The coach. I’ll take you in the light one.” She headed
around him.
    “Feeling that restless, are you?”
    “I’ll just get my coat and then have the team
brought up.” She ignored that.
    Deme put on his hat and went down to the
stables himself. The groom brought a pair of matched blacks and
with the aide of two lads had the thing ready in a trice.
    When she appeared, he noticed her black
hooded coat of oilcloth, ankle length and the driving gloves she
wore. Striding out the door, she nodded to the lad holding the lead
horse and then climbed on her perch.
    He got inside, settled on comfortable
cushions, grudgingly noticing how smoothly she turned them about
and had the coach rolling out. She had driven dozens of times,
hundreds, and usually with less finesse. Yet he supposed she would
not put a team at risk, even to annoy him.
    Whilst he rode in relative comfort, Deme was
also aware she was in the elements. Nothing new there either, but
he found himself pounding on the roof about half way there.
    She stopped the team. He stepped out, looking
up at her on her perch, her face shadowed in the hood.
    “Are you well.”
    “Perfectly.”
    “It’s raining…”
    “Aye. And in winter it snows.” She shrugged.
“I can handle myself and this team, my lord. Your boots are getting
ruined.”
    He muttered and climbed back in. so much for
bothering. He pulled a flask of his own from his breast pocket.
Monty would be shocked if he showed up half way sober. He was not
intending to get foxed—but he was desperate for distraction.
    It seemed like a long ride to Wolford Hall,
and Deme stepped out finally, watching the livered grooms lead the
team to the shelter of Wolford’s fine stables.
    He knocked at the door and was greeted soon
by the housekeeper.
    “Welcome, your Lordship.”
    “Thank you. Is your master about?”
    “In the study, my lord.” She stepped
back.
    He paused while a chore boy wiped his boots
of mud and took his coat. One of them explained the butler had a
cold. He said something solicitous and then followed the lad to
Monty’s study.
    His friend was there, but so too was Lady
Juliette. She looked quite fetching in a quilted bronze gown with
white silk chemise showing. Her riot of red blond hair was pulled
back.
    Monty was in his shirtsleeves and it appeared
they had been playing a cozy game of cards before the fire.
    “Deme.” Monty greeted him.
    “Monty. Juliette.” He nodded to the woman who
had stayed with his family for a while, became friends with
them—and whom he believed he had a slight hand in finally getting
herself and Monty to the alter.
    “Is something amiss at Wimberly?” Monty asked
while Juliette invited him to sit in one of the winged chairs
before the hearth. She turned her own and moved the card table, and
before long, they made a