Page 61 of Cocky August Rake

Four days.

For four days, he had intentionally not set foot in The Domus.

He had met with solicitors. He had visited his brother. At night, he had gone to bed hard, furious, and far too well-acquainted with his own hand.

Because he would not change his mind.

He could not change his mind.

All he needed to do was keep driving.

Instead, the moment he saw her walking, he had struck his fist against the carriage roof and ordered the driver to stop.

He belonged in Bedlam.

Now she stood beside the open door, her face flushed from the weather, a reticule looped over one wrist and a folded paper clutched in her gloved hand.

Tendrils of blonde hair curled out from beneath her bonnet.

So the darker hair she wore at The Domus was a wig.

This was her true color, pinned neatly at her nape. Soft. Nearly platinum in the afternoon light.

Reginald liked it.

Far more than he ought.

“My lord,” she said.

He took a second to look down the street.

No maid. No footman. No Boris looming behind her as he damn well ought to be.

Reginald frowned.

“You are alone.”

Rose glanced behind her, then to either side. “So I appear to be.”

His mouth tightened. “You should not be walking unaccompanied.”

Rose stared at him.

Then she laughed.

Not a polite laugh. A real laugh, bright and sudden enough to make two passing ladies turn their heads.

“I fail to see what is amusing.”

She stepped closer to the carriage and lowered her voice. “I am not one of your Mayfair ladies, my lord. Or had you forgotten?”

No.

He had not forgotten.

Heat tightened low in his body.

“I am just going to the apothecary,” she added. “Two streets over.”