Page 62 of A Problem Princess

To distract her from the perils of their flight—and why he always kept one hand beneath his greatcoat—Clayton had told her stories about his life as a soldier and his time fighting in the wars. Instead of tales of glory and gore, as most former soldiers loved to tell to titillate their audience, he shared bits about camp life and training that made her laugh. His anecdotes of his postwar life in London with the Home Office were just as entertaining, and those she enjoyed most of all because she’d met Lord Sidmouth, Lord Liverpool, and several of the other gentlemen who bore the brunt of his jokes.

But she also knew from what he chose to leave out that perhaps he wasn’t as happy as he wanted the world to believe, no matter how successful he was.

Thatwas what puzzled her. Why would a man who’d gained success far beyond other men’s wildest dreams keep relentlessly driving himself for more?

What was he running toward so very hard…or running away from?

“You’ve made a great success for yourself at the Home Office,” she commented thoughtfully, breaking the silence and rubbing absently at her forearm where the wound had almost completely healed.

“Hmm?” He shot a glance at her, then turned his attention back out the window. “I suppose.”

“No,” she countered firmly, her statement a declaration, not a question. “You’ve made a great success for yourself.”

“I’ve been fortunate.”

“You’ve been driven,” she corrected.

“Isn’t ambition an admirable trait in a man?”

“As long as it’s ambition and not obsession.”

This time when he flicked his gaze to her, he didn’t comment.

“Do you want to become Home Secretary after Lord Sidmouth?” she asked bluntly.

He shrugged a shoulder. “That’s the next step upward.”

She studied him closely. For a man who claimed not to care about reaching the pinnacle of his career and becoming arguably the fourth most important person in Great Britain, he certainly seemed driven toward it by every action he took. And yet… “You don’t seem happy to be made a viscount.”

A grimace tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I’m not.”

“Why not? Most men would be honored to receive a peerage.”

“Because I did nothing to earn it.”

“But you did. You saved my life.”Twice.

Not replying, he kept his attention on the passing countryside. His eyes scanned the horizon in both directions as if he expected a gang of marauders to jump out from behind the nearest tree.

Or perhaps he simply wanted to appear that way so she’d stop asking him questions.

Not a chance.“Have you ever guarded Princess Sophia?”

“No.”

She tangled her fingers in her skirt. “Have you ever…kissed her?”

Surprised, he blurted out, “Has anyone?”

“That’s unkind.”

His brow arched. “So is Princess Sophia.”

Cordelia couldn’t argue with that.

He turned back to the gray day, and a long stretch of silence weighed on them like the lowering clouds overhead. Only the rumble of wheels and the occasional splash of a mud puddle broke the silent cocoon around them.

Cordelia studied his profile. Strong jaw, high cheekbone, a lock of blond hair that escaped from beneath the brim of his hat and lay rakishly across his forehead—Dear God, how handsome he was…and how troubled.