The weather had definitely taken a turn for the worse. Evan Cameron flicked the curtain over the carriage window and leaned back against the leather cushion. It would be well past dark before they arrived home. Poor Joseph—his driver—would be frozen stiff by then.

Not for the first time, Evan considered calling a halt to this ridiculousness. Traveling in bad—and worsening—weather was never wise, and he hated putting Joseph through such misery.

The village of Postcombe was less than five miles away. They could be there within the hour. He and Joseph could stop there for the night… But Evan had promised his aunt and his mother that he’d be home today, and he wasn’t a man who liked to break his promises.

The carriage began to slow, and Evan frowned. As they drew to a stop, Evan drew the curtain back again and looked outside with a furrowed brow. Two figures trudged along the side of the road, their shoulders bent against the wind, their coats heavily dusted with snow, the taller figure holding the leads of the two horses that trailed behind them. Their faces were angled toward Joseph. Evan didn’t know the man. Something about the woman looked familiar, but he couldn’t get a good view of her from this perspective.

He opened the door and stepped out of the carriage. Both people turned in his direction.

The woman’s neutral expression transformed to a frown, her eyes narrowing to angry slits and her lips growing thin.

“You,” she whispered. If he wasn’t mistaken, her tone was laced with horror.

Who was she? She was beautiful, with generous curves her coat couldn’t conceal, a pretty round face, blond hair peeking out from her woolen cap, and sparkling blue eyes.

Those eyes…awareness slammed into him, and he took a step backward, his arse banging against the edge of the carriage door. “Pudge?” he breathed.

The lovely blue eyes narrowed further, and the man beside her stepped forward. “This is Lady Amelia Witherspoon,” he said gruffly. “I was driving my lady to Cheltham House when our carriage’s axle broke. And you are…?”

Amelia took hold of her coachman’s arm. “It is our neighbor, Mr. Evan Cameron. It appears he has returned from the Continent.”

Evan raised a brow, an automatic response to her frosty tone. “I have.”

Witherspoon. It was her married name. He remembered his mother writing to him about Lady Amelia’s marriage. She had been married in the autumn of 1807. Over four years ago now.

He recalled the feeling the news of her nuptials had given him. It hadn’t been a pleasant sensation. After all, he’d once hoped she would be his someday, and even though he’d given up on that dream, he hated the thought of her in another man’s arms.He’d written back to his mother asking her not to speak to him of Lady Amelia again. She hadn’t asked questions and had abided his wishes. He’d told her once as a lad what he thought of Lady Amelia. She was a wise enough woman not to press him.

And now, that lady stood before him in the flesh, covered with snow, more beautiful than ever, married…and furious, it seemed.

He finally found his tongue, and his manners. “Please, come inside my carriage and out of the weather, my lady. I will ensure you arrive home safely tonight.”

Amelia studied him, and for a mad moment he actually believed she might refuse his offer. And then…she did!

“No,” she said primly. “I’d rather walk.”

Lifting her nose into the air, she turned away from him.

Her coachman’s eyes went wide. He coughed, then lurched after her. The horses trailed behind him. “Milady!”

She glanced up at him but continued walking, her strides long and determined. “John,
I don’t think…” Evan didn’t hear the rest, for she was walking so quickly away from him, the words faded with every step she took.

Evan stalked after her. When he reached her, he grabbed her arm with a firm grip, halted her midstep, and turned her to face him.

She looked down at her arm, then into his face, furious. “Unhand me this instant!”

Holy hell. What was this about? He kept a firm grip on her arm. “You will come into my carriage, my lady. I’ll not have you walking to your death in this weather.”

They were still a good fifteen miles away from Cheltham House and five miles from Postcombe. The snow was falling more thickly by the second.

“As I said, I’d rather walk than take your charity,” she said stiffly, trying to wriggle out of his grip.

He was completely flummoxed by this behavior. Amelia had always been a girl with a sweet and selfless disposition, always kind, always caring more about others than herself. Had marriage turned her into some kind of virago?

He didn’t let her go. He met her eyes evenly, lowering his chin. “I insist.”