Recognising the voice, Dorothea wished the ground would open up and swallow her.

The effect of the statement was instantaneous. The hold on her arm was immediately withdrawn as the dark shadow of the Marquis of Hazelmere materialised at the edge of the group.

‘Oh! Sorry, Hazelmere! No idea she was a lady.’

This last sentence, uttered sotto voce, made Dorothea’s cheeks burn. She pulled up her hood as the men in the group peered to see which lady could thus claim Hazelmere’s protection.

The Marquis, unhurriedly strolling across the group to her side, largely obscured her from view. Arriving beside her, he turned to the group and continued in the same languid tone, ‘I feel sure you would all like to offer your apologies for any embarrassment you have, however unwittingly, caused the lady.’

A chorus of, ‘Oh, yes! Definitely! Apologies, ma’am! No offence intended, y’know!’ greeted this bald statement.

Simms, having noticed the problem rather late in the day, now hung on the fringe of the group, waiting to render any assistance at all to one of his most valued customers. The Marquis’s eye alighted on him. ‘Ah, Simms! A round of ale for these gentlemen after this slight misunderstanding, don’t you think?’

Simms took the hint. ‘Yes, m’lord! Certainly! If you gentlemen would like to come this way I’ve a hogshead of a new brew I’d much appreciate your comments on.’ With this treat on offer, he had little difficulty in herding the group towards the taproom.

As they moved away Anthony, Lord Fanshawe appeared at his friend’s side, a questioning lift to his brows. One moment he had been walking across the stableyard beside Hazelmere, heading towards a hot dinner, when Marc had suddenly stopped, uttered one furious oath and then plunged through the crowd towards a small group of revellers near the coachyard. Although nearly as tall as his friend, with Marc ahead of him, he had had no chance to see what had attracted his attention. As he drew closer he heard Marc at his most languid. He assumed there was a lady in it somewhere, but it was only when Hazelmere turned to address some remark behind him that he realised he was effectively protecting her from the eyes of the stableyard.

Hazelmere turned to him. ‘Check they’re all in, will you, Tony? I’ll join you in the parlour in a few minutes.’

Fanshawe nodded and without a word turned back towards the inn. The languid tones had disappeared entirely, replaced by Hazelmere’s normal speech with the consonants somewhat clipped. That single glimpse of his childhood friend’s face had confirmed his suspicion. The Marquis of Hazelmere was in a towering rage.

As he had reached her side Hazelmere had unobtrusively taken Dorothea’s arm, initially holding her beside him. When the group had made their apologies and moved away he drew her back so that she was shielded by his height and the voluminous driving cloak which hung in many tiers of capes from his broad shoulders. Conscious only of a desperate need to quit the scene, she tried to retreat into the coachyard. He turned but did not release her. With the light behind him, his face was unreadable. ‘One moment and I’ll escort you indoors. I’d like a word with you.’

Even to Dorothea, unwise in the ways of the Marquis, the words had an ominous ring. She was furious with herself for falling into this scrape and mortified that, of all men, it should be Hazelmere who had rescued her from it. And in such a way!

He turned back to speak briefly with another tall man who came up. Then, much to her relief, as her legs felt strangely weak, he ushered her into the coachyard.

Once in the comparative privacy of the rapidly clearing inner yard, he stopped and drew her around to face him. She almost gasped as the light from the inn door lit his face. The hazel eyes were hard and reflected the light from the inn; his lips were set in an uncompromising line. It was obvious to the meanest intelligence that he was furious, and equally obvious that she was the object of his wrath. ‘And what, may I ask, were you attempting to accomplish out there?’ The sarcastic tones stung like a whip.

Far from being cowed, Dorothea immediately took umbrage. She flung up her head and her eyes snapped back. ‘I was seeking my coachman, if you must know, to tell him I wish to leave this inn very early tomorrow, to avoid precisely the sort of attention that I was most regrettably unable to avoid tonight!’ She was slightly breathless by the end of this speech, but continued to give the odious Marquis back look for look.

His eyes narrowed. After a slight pause he continued in less harsh tones, ‘It seems very remiss of Simms not to have warned you to keep to your chamber with your door locked.’

She had to swallow before she was able to answer, but she managed to return his hard gaze. ‘He did tell me.’

The expression on his face became even stonier. ‘I can only marvel at your lack of care for your own reputation. I’ve already warned you that your hoydenish ways will not do in wider society.’ He had grasped both her arms just above the elbow in a far from gentle grip. For one appalled moment she thought he was going to shake her. Instead, after a pause heavy with tension, he spoke again, his tone a study in suppressed fury. ‘I can only repeat what I’ve said before: under no circumstances whatever should you venture outside unattended! And add a rider to the effect that if I ever find you alone like that again I will personally ensure that you won’t sit down for a sennight!’

She gasped, green eyes wide in utter disbelief, whereupon he continued, his tone savage, ‘Oh, yes! I’m quite capable of doing so.’

Looking up into the implacable face, the hazel eyes almost black, she realised that the threat was no bluff. But by now she was every bit as angry as he was. By what right did this imperious man order her around and threaten her? Imperious, arrogant and totally insufferable! Normally the most collected of women, she struggled to shackle her anger and direct it specifically towards its source.

But Hazelmere gave her no time to vent her fury. Becoming aware that he was still holding her in full view of the coachyard, thankfully almost deserted, he abruptly turned her towards the inn and, one hand hard at her elbow, swept her indoors. ‘Which chamber has Simms put you in?’

Unable as yet to command her tongue, Dorothea indicated the door at the top of the small stairway.

‘Very wise! That’s probably the safest chamber in the inn tonight. You may not have a peaceful night, but with luck it should be free of unwelcome interruptions.’

Glancing at her furious white face and over-bright eyes, Hazelmere drew her on to the stairs. On the second step she swung around, thinking to give him a piece of her mind while he was on the lower step and not towering over her. But, correctly guessing her intention, he had slipped past her and continued to draw her upwards on to the small landing.

The landlord suddenly appeared in the corridor, heading for the back of the inn.

‘Simms!’

‘Yes, m’lord?’

‘A glass of your best brandy. At once.’

‘Yes, m’lord!’

Dorothea thought the request extremely odd, but dismissed it as yet another example of his lordship’s vagaries. She was more concerned with giving voice to her frustrations. Turning to face him across the small landing, she was disturbingly aware of his presence so close, and disliked having to look up such a long way to meet his eyes.

‘Lord Hazelmere! I must tell you that I find your manner of addressing me quite unacceptable! I do not at all accept your strictures on my conduct. Indeed, I do not know by what right you make them. Tonight was an unfortunate accident, that’s all. I’m quite capable of looking after myself-’

‘Would you really rather I had left you in the hands of Tremlow and company? You wouldn’t have found it entertaining, I assure you.’ Hazelmere, deciding that she could not be allowed to talk herself into hysterics, broke in smoothly over her diatribe. His words, uttered in a stonily bored tone, acted like a cold douche, effectively stopping her in mid-sentence.

He was again afforded a view of her thoughts as they passed clearly over her face. He watched the realisation that it was, in fact, due to him that she was not at this moment in quite desperate straits finally sink in. He had not thought it possible, but she paled even further. Watching her closely, he saw Simms approaching. He took the proffered glass, dismissing the landlord with a curt nod and the words, ‘I’ll want to speak to you in a few minutes, Simms.’ Turning, he held out the glass to her. ‘Drink it.’

‘No. I don’t drink brandy.’

‘There is always a first time.’

When she continued to look rebelliously at him he sighed and explained. ‘Whether you know it or not, you’re exhibiting all the symptoms of shock. You’re white as a sheet and your eyes look like green diamonds. Soon you’ll start to shake, and feel faint and very cold. The brandy will help. So be a good girl and drink it. If you won’t, you know perfectly well I’m quite capable of forcing you to.’

The glittering green eyes widened slightly. There had been no change in his tone and she felt no direct menace, as she had before. Then, looking into his eyes, she gave up the unequal struggle. She took the glass and, shivering slightly, raised it to her lips and sipped. Hazelmere waited patiently until she drained the glass, then removed it from her hands and dropped it into one of his cloak pockets.

As she looked up he remembered her unfinished errand. ‘I take it you’re travelling to London?’

She nodded. His face had softened, the harshly arrogant lines of ten minutes before had receded, leaving the charmingly polite mask she suspected he showed the world. She felt as if he had, in some subtle way, withdrawn from her.