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grave nod. “I’ll see to it.” He spoke in rapid-fire Hindi to the footman, conveying the necessary instructions to retrieve her belongings, as well as those of Mrs. Singh. Then he quirked one dark brow at Calla. “Anything else?”
    “No. That’s quite satisfactory, thank you.”
    “Very good.”
    He guided her through the doorway. It was the lightest of touches—a courtesy, really. Just the soft pressure of his palm against the small of her back to gently propel her forward. Yet even that slight contact had the power to set her knees shaking.
    Absurd. She brushed off her unprecedented reaction to the strain of their meeting, the lateness of the hour, and her general fatigue following her long journey. She was three and twenty. Not a young girl given to fits of giddiness over something as inconsequential as a touch. Or even a kiss. Even she, as overshadowed as she’d been by the beauty of her sisters, had been kissed before.
    But not like that, she reminded herself. Not with such mastery, such practiced ease. The speed at which she’d yielded, no, melted , into his embrace was more than a little unnerving.
    She cut a quick glance at Lord Keating as they moved through the crowded foyer, taking solace in the fact that she was not the only one affected by his presence. The man was a baron. Surely there were many in attendance who outranked him socially. Yet none were shown the deference he received. He strode through the assemblage like a large, predatory beast out for an evening stroll through a warren of rabbits. The fawning crowds wordlessly parted before him to ease his way through.
    He retrieved their cloaks and ushered her and Mrs. Singh outside. Feeling flushed and uneasy, Calla welcomed the blast of frosty air that greeted her. Despite the lateness of the hour, a long queue of phantoms, cabriolets, carriages, and coaches continued to arrive and offload passengers. She tilted her chin to survey the bustling street. As she did, icy droplets pelted her skin and stung her cheeks. She blinked in surprise, drawing back to allow Derek to assist Mrs. Singh into the coach before her.
    “Is this snow?” she asked, holding up her palm. “I’ve never seen it before.”
    He frowned and drew up his collar, hunching deeper into his coat. “Sleet,” he corrected, his curt reply indicating he wasn’t enjoying the turn of the weather nearly as much as she was.
    He handed her into the coach, then stepped in behind her and swung the door shut. Calla settled herself beside Mrs. Singh, wholly unprepared for the intimate prospect of sharing a bench with her future groom. The driver gained his seat and gave the reins a quick snap. The team of matching chestnut geldings pulled into traffic.
    With little else to occupy her thoughts, she cast a discreet glance at the stranger sitting across from her.
    Derek Arindam Jeffords. Lord Keating. Her future husband.
    His presence seemed all-engulfing, far too large for the modest confines of the coach in which they traveled. He’d tucked his legs to one side after they’d boarded the vehicle, but that didn’t prevent their knees from brushing with each rut in the road and sway of the coach. The scent of his damp, masculine skin drifted around her, setting her nerves even further on edge. No matter how she tried to divert her thoughts, he was all she was aware of.
    She clenched her hands in her lap, reminding herself that h er goal would soon be realized. Once they were married, the looming threat of debt and servitude—both for herself, and for her mother and sisters—would be avoided. But somehow that knowledge did little to engender an emotion of celebratory bliss. Instead, the realization that she would spend the rest of her days as Lord Keating’s wife sent a tight, fluttering vibration through her belly, filling her with equal measures of dread, disbelief, and nervous apprehension.
    C onscious of the heavy silence that resonated between them, she decided a little polite banter