Page 21 of Not a Fine Gentleman

In a low voice, Jackson said, “Best not to let them know who you are. Follow my lead.”

Before Margaret could reply, the Justice of the Peace called to Jackson.

“Sir, a moment?”

Jackson stood and replied to the JP, “Of course. But as you can see, my wife has sustained some injuries, and I’d like to get her to the nearest inn where she may rest.”

Margaret barely managed not to let her mouth drop open. Wife? Of course. His gentle attentiveness had all been part of that ruse. He’d been playing a role, like an actor, for the JP. Her pleasure popped like a bubble. She clenched her hands and clamped down her jaw. It shouldn’t rankle. After all, he was a low-born working man with the manners of a boor and the hands of a field worker. As soon as she safely reunited with her family, she’d dismiss him and never give him another thought. Ever.

The Justice of the Peace asked Jackson a few questions. Finally, the JP nodded to Margaret. “Ma’am. Do you have anything to add?”

Margaret spoke in a higher range than usual and put in a breathy quality to her voice as she once did when prowling ballrooms looking for a gentleman of rank and wealth to charm her way into a proposal. “Oh, no, sir. My beloved husband” —she shot an overly adoring gaze at Jackson— “said it all so beautifully that I have nothing at all to say.” She batted her eyelashes at him.

Jackson blinked, and his eyes widened just enough to reveal his surprise. He recovered and shrugged at the JP with a smile. “We’re newly married.”

“Er, thank you both.” The JP strode away to speak to another passenger.

With his brows raised, Jackson let out a half-laugh. “You should have been on the stage.”

“I might say the same about you.”

Scoundrel. Of course, he knew she was playacting and not speaking in earnest. She’d been foolish to believe, even for a few seconds, that he could be tender instead of a complete cad. He was far beneath her notice. A servant. A peasant. A worm. There, that felt better.

The coroner drove away with the dead. The injured, with assistance, boarded various wagons and carts under the supervision of the physician.

“There doesn’t appear to be anything more that we can do for the others.” Jackson held out a hand as if to pull her to her feet. “There’s another inn up the road about a mile. Let’s go find out when the next mail coach or stage comes through. We may need to spend the night.”

Ignoring his hand, Margaret climbed to her feet on her own strength. She didn’t need his false help or pretended concern.

She gave him a mocking smile. “Of course, dear husband. Pray, try to keep up.” She started marching without looking to see if he was behind her.

“Darling,” he said in an overly affectionate voice. “You’re going the wrong way.” He tugged on her hand to stop her and pointed. “It’s this way.”

She scowled. “Are you certain?”

“Quite certain, my dear.”

She shook off his hand. “Lead on then, dear husband,” she mocked. Infuriating man!

Unruffled by her sarcasm, he strode next to her on the highway. They walked steadily, leaving behind the aftermath of the accident. Rocks and rough ground battered her feet beneath the soles of her evening slippers. Each step bit more deeply into her flesh. A pity she never thought to search for a pair of half boots while at the pawnshop getting new clothes.

She refused to look down at her feet for evidence of injury. Nor would she allow herself the luxury of limping. Jackson would not have the satisfaction of knowing of her discomfort.

Setting her jaw, she focused on the road, stepping around the largest and sharpest rocks while trying to keep up with Jackson’s long-legged pace. Sure, he walked just fine in his sturdy leather boots with thick soles. At the moment, she might have been tempted to rob a peasant woman for her shoes if one should happen along. But no, she was resilient enough to bear her difficulty with grace and dignity. Even if it killed her.

Jackson’s voice broke through her concentration. “Are you in pain?”

“No,” she snapped.

“Your head isn’t hurting?”

Oh, that. Her head throbbed but nowhere near as badly as her feet. She admitted to neither. He might touch her again with his surprising—and false—gentleness. Of course, with no one nearby to witness his ruse, likely not.

“Nothing I cannot bear.” She lifted her chin and stared straight ahead.

“Good. Keep up, then.” He strode ahead of her.

Scoundrel. Cad. Blackguard.