Taking a deep breath and gritting her teeth, Henrietta patted the side of the hedge, and said in her best governess voice, "Did you know that this is an exceedingly rare species of bush?"
Miles looked quizzically at the prickly green mass. "Really?"
"Yes! It's called, um…"
"Shrubbus verdantusl" supplied Charlotte eagerly. "Is it any relation to Hedgus pricklianus?" inquired Miles. "Don't be silly," said Henrietta loftily. "There's no such thing as Hedgus pricklianus."
"Right." Miles nodded very solemnly, but Henrietta could see his lips twitching with suppressed laughter. "Not like Shrubbus — what was it again? — victorious? that well-known botanical wonder."
Would it be an impediment to their future married bliss if she clouted him over the head with a fallen tree branch?
Miles was starting to make little snorting noises, like a dragon about to blow. "How" — sputter — "clever of you to disguise yourselves so that you don't scare away the shrubbery."
"Touchy things, hedges," agreed Henrietta.
The snorts and sputters took over. Even the horses joined in, bucking and snorting, until Miles recovered enough to grab for the reins, still clutching his ribs with his spare hand. Henrietta caught Miles's eye as he rolled with mirth, and reluctantly grinned back. Oh, fine, so it was funny.
Penelope gave her a "This is what you want to fall in love with you?" look.
"What in the blazes are you really doing out here?" asked Miles, when he'd calmed the horses. "Aren't you supposed to be having a voice lesson?"
"Oh, no." Henrietta fell back a step, one grass-stained hand to her lips like an actress in a bad melodrama. "What time is it?"
Penelope fished the pretty enamel watch she wore on a chain around her neck out of her bodice and flicked it open. "Six-fifteen."
"Oh no, oh no, oh no," repeated Henrietta. She looked frantically from side to side, as though a magic carpet might suddenly appear out of the air and whisk her back to Uppington House. "I was supposed to be home fifteen minutes ago."
Miles leaned over the side of the phaeton, hair flopping in typical disarray across his face. "I can drive you home, if you'd like."
Next to him, the marquise emitted a delicate but forceful sniff.
That decided it. "Thank you," said Henrietta firmly. "I would be most grateful. Unless…"
She looked quizzically at her two best friends.
Penelope shook her head and flapped a hand at her in a gesture of dismissal. "You go ahead." She looked at Charlotte. "We'll finish our nature walk."
"So many shrubs still unexplored!" chimed in Charlotte.
Thank you, Henrietta mouthed, as Miles swung down from the phaeton. With a hand on her elbow, he boosted her up into the high equipage next to the marquise, who was studiedly looking the other way, as though engrossed in the glories of the landscape.
Having gotten Henrietta settled in the curricle, Miles climbed up to resume his seat. There was just one problem. There was no seat to resume. The phaeton had been designed for two, not three.
"Could you scoot over?"
Henrietta slid down the seat the half-inch or so that separated her from the marquise, leaving a grand total of three inches for Miles. "I don't think there's any more room to scoot," she said apologetically. "I can always get out and walk."
The horses were beginning to grow restless at being kept standing so long.
"Never mind." Miles plunged into the seat. Henrietta let out an unintentional whoosh of air as she careened into the marquise. The marquise said nothing, but her lips got very tight and her eyes very narrow.
"See? All cozy," said Miles heartily, twitching the reins to set the horses moving. Hen gave him a wry look. The marquise sat very straight, and arranged her violet-gloved hands in her lap, looking anything but cozy. Scrunched between the two of them, Henrietta felt like a recalcitrant child who had been caught eavesdropping and was being hauled home. Which, she admitted unhappily, wasn't all that far from the truth. The thought was not an uplifting one.
"What lovely gloves," Henrietta ventured, in an attempt to paint a thin veneer of sociability over the situation. She scrunched her own grass-stained gloves into the folds of her skirt, hoping the marquise wouldn't notice. "Did you bring them with you from Paris?"
"I brought very little with me from Paris," replied the marquise frostily. "Revolutions leave one little time to pack."
"Oh," said Henrietta, wishing she had never spoken at all. "Naturally."
"Everything was taken from us — the chateau, the townhouse, the paintings, even my jewels. I fled Paris with barely the clothes on my back."
On the marquise's lips, her flight sounded more sultry than sordid, conjuring images of artfully tattered rags fluttering from barely concealed curves, Venus in distress fleeing her shell. Henrietta's heart sunk somewhere beneath the horses' hooves, each thud of their shoes against the cobbles a pressure against her chest. How could she have hoped to compete?
"It sounds dreadful," Henrietta said woodenly. "How did you contrive to escape?"
To add injury to insult, the marquise's hipbone was sharper than any hipbone had a right to be, and, wiggle though she might, Henrietta couldn't seem to get away from it. Every time she managed to evade the marquise, there was Miles on her other side, glowering at the reins as though they had done something to offend him.
As Henrietta struggled to maintain a polite conversation with the marquise — and avoid being skewered — Miles went from quiet to cross to surly. If they were alone, Henrietta would have poked him, and demanded to know what was wrong. As it was, she couldn't get her hand free to poke him even if she wanted to. It was stuck somewhere between her skirt and Miles's thigh. The strap of her reticule bit into her fingers, which were rapidly growing numb.
Henrietta gave her hand an experimental tug.
Miles growled.
"Did I scratch you?" Henrietta said over a description of the charms of the dead marquis and the dead marquis' chateaux.
"No," grumbled Miles, somehow managing to utter the syllable without ever opening his mouth.
"Are you all right?" Henrietta twisted in her seat to look at Miles. Miles continued to look at the reins.
Miles was having a difficult time remembering the meaning of "all right." He was broiling in his own private hell. For once, it was nothing to do with the French. It was entirely Henrietta.
Devil take it, he'd ridden with Henrietta dozens of times before — hundreds! He'd never had the slightest bit of difficulty keeping his mind out of uncomfortable places that made his cravat — and other bits of his attire — feel suddenly too tight. Of course, on those other rides, there hadn't been three people in a seat meant for two. On those other rides, Henrietta hadn't been pressed intimately against him, so intimately that he could feel every curve of hip and thigh outlined with burning accuracy against him. Miles tried scooting, subtly, to the side, but there was nowhere at all to scoot; they were welded closer together than a pickpocket to a purse.
Just when Miles thought that there was nothing more unbearable than the feel of her jammed up against his side, the blasted vehicle swayed. A warmly rounded bit of Henrietta's anatomy brushed against his left arm. Then, she wiggled again.
And Miles realized it could get worse. Much worse. He was in that peculiar circle of Dante's Inferno reserved for those who had been caught thinking lustful thoughts about their best friend's sisters. True, he couldn't recall Dante mentioning that one specifically, but he was certain it had to be in there. This was his punishment for dwelling on certain details of Henrietta's appearance that he shouldn't have been dwelling on. In fitting punishment, measure for measure, breast for breast, he now had to endure their proximity in excruciating detail, and the worst of it was, he couldn't do a single thing about it.