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himself.
    If only Bertha was here! If only
she
was the one to take this trip. After his actions in the dark library, the raging in his blood made Osterley absolutely certain that he should not be the one to take Felicity to Croft Park. Once Felicity had left him, he had marched up to Bertha’s room, raised his hand to knock on the door . . . and held.
    What was the point? She would only refuse, unbending old woman that she was. Or worse, she’d ask why he was driven to waking her at two in the morning.
    So, four hours later, he was dressed to go to Croft Park. As was Felicity.
    She hadn’t acted surprised to see that it was him taking her, not Aunt Bertha. No, instead she’d simply been silent as he handed her up in the carriage, as if going to the gallows. And silent she had remained until now.
    He had thought she was quiet because she was pouting over having to leave London. But now . . . perhaps it was not petulance. Perhaps instead it was dread, sadness.
    As Felicity stared out the window at the retreating buildings of Mill Creek Crossing, Osterley didn’t know what to do. Or how to make it better for her.
    “Er . . . we can stop,” he said gruffly, his entire body suddenly feeling awkward and over large next to her. “Not here of course, but in the next town or so. The coachman would likely enjoy a hot cup of coffee. And you can . . . get some air?”
    “I’m not going to faint, Osterley.” Her expression remained the same, her eyes still on the window, but her voice had a hint of warmth to it. That particle eased his fears.
    “Right. No air to be had in any case. It’s not as if you can take a stroll in this downpour,” he babbled. And then, for some inane reason, his brain pulled up a memory. “You’d likely get as soaked as if you jumped into the lake fully dressed.”
    A small smile pressed itself against her lips, fighting to take over her face. “I only did that because you dared me.”
    “No, I dared John. He was fourteen. You were six. Why would I dare a six-year-old?”
    “All I heard was ���Grove—I dare you to jump into the lake.’ And since it was hot, and as a girl I have to wear a dozen more layers of clothes, I assumed you meant me.”
    “And since you were wearing so many more layers, you fell with a splat into the mud.”
    “And neither you nor John would come to get me,” she replied pertly.
    “Well, it was awfully muddy,” he replied curtly. “Your head and shoulders were above water, you were fine.” He slid her a glance then. Her color was, if not back to normal, then at least, back in existence. A glint of old mischief sparkled in her eyes.
    “You will be fine now, too,” he said, leaning in, his words a low whisper.
    She nodded, then turned her eyes back to the window, and the passing countryside in the rain.
    They drove on through the rain, letting the silence act as comfort now, Osterley occasionally leaning over and mentioning an old memory, calming Felicity’s nerves, and surprisingly his, too. Perhaps it was the rain that did it, or perhaps it was the stories. Or perhaps, it was the fact that, unbeknownst to them, sometime while passing through Miller’s Creek Crossing, Osterley had taken Felicity’s hand, holding it fast between them.
    *  *  *
    What would normally be a brisk five-hour journey was doubled by the inclement weather. Additionally, they did stop once to change horses, and make certain the coachman had not perished from the rain (a hale man, he was fine, and somewhat disapproving of such concern. Although he did seem glad for the hot mug of coffee). The rain stalled that process, too, and as such, they crossed the old stone bridge that marked the entrance to Croft Park nearly in time for supper that night.
    Pulling up to the front of the gray stone manse, Osterley and Felicity moved quickly into the foyer, where dripping wet, they were greeted by the household staff.
    “Ah, Mrs. Smith,” Osterley said as he shook the water off