Puck and Prejudice

Chapter Ten

The Two-Necked Goose was a stagecoach inn in Salisbury nestled beneath the shadow of the towering cathedral. The narrow cobblestone

lanes resonated with the clip-clop of horse hooves, while gilded signboards swung in the breeze, enticing passersby with promises

of fine silks, bespoke millinery, and rare curiosities. Lizzy hadn’t missed London since departing for Hallow’s Gate, although

the display of ribbons and fabrics in the fashionable hues of the season at the mercer’s emporium and the scent of linseed

oil and pigment wafting from the open door of the printing press made it undeniably pleasant to be in the bustle of a town

again.

The inn was a hive of activity, filled with a brisk utilitarian ambiance devoid of any debauchery. No dubious characters hunched

around tables twirling whiskers or plotting nefarious schemes as Lizzy had fretted about before drifting off to sleep last

night. Instead, travelers bustled about dragging trunks, anticipating the arriving stagecoaches. Lizzy reached into a concealed

pocket in her dress and pulled out a golden watch, once Cousin Neddy’s prized possession and now a treasured gift from Georgie.

“We are here in good time, are we not?” she remarked in Mr.Taylor’s general direction. She couldn’t think of him as Tuck in her head. It felt too personal. Too intimate. How incredible that she’d marry this man in a few days’ time. Even though their motivations for this marriage were to achieve individual goals, the thought of standing before him and exchanging vows made her feel unsteady.

“Here you go.” Tuck slid out a chair for her at a corner table and she almost stumbled while sitting. Wouldn’t that take the

biscuit, to fall into his arms? Heavens above, she knew somehow that he’d be gentle, but the notion sent a most peculiar sensation

coursing through her, as if tiny butterflies waltzed across her skin.

She had to regain her senses. Immediately.

“I sometimes get ill when in a carriage too long,” she blurted.

Lies.

That had never happened. She’d even ventured out on a boat with Papa before he died, near Portsmouth. Her legs had felt as

steady as if she strode across dry land.

“Want something to drink?” Tuck glanced toward the kitchen door. “Get a bite to settle your stomach? The stagecoach is going

to be enclosed, right? Being cooped up inside might make you feel worse.”

“I’ll endeavor to sleep.” Here, Lizzy was finally truthful. Or at least partially. Her plan for the next few days was to feign

sleep as much as possible. All the better to save herself the embarrassment of encountering strangers in a compromised position

and to keep these confusing sentiments related to Tuck—Mr.Taylor—at bay. “But a pot of tea would be lovely as we wait—souchong,

if they have it.”

As he went to procure sustenance, she surveyed the interior. It was dim due to the ivy outside that grew over the windows. But far from invoking a sense of gloom, the subdued illumination cast the room in a sort of intimate coziness.

Mr.Taylor returned, and it didn’t take long before a girl brought out the tea, along with a few cakes and the usual lemon,

milk, and sugar.

“How do you take your tea?” she asked, pouring two porcelain cups.

“Not sure. Can’t say I’ve drunk much before coming here. Why don’t you give me the works?”

She was torn between the urge to laugh and the desire to scoff, compromising with a gasp. “Milk and lemon?”

“Sure. Sounds good. And sugar.” His gaze trailed around the room’s unpretentious interior as if he wasn’t being infuriating.

“One can have milk and sugar. Or sugar and lemon. But not all three.” On this point she was adamant.

He mulled her words for a moment. “Why not?”

“It’s just not done,” she explained. “The acid in the lemon will curdle the milk.”

“Not if I drink it fast.”

“This is serious. You are not a barbarian.”

“You judge people based on how they take their tea?”

“If it’s done incorrectly, yes,” she snapped. “I’ll not wed a savage, even if it is to gain my freedom.”

Was this the moment when Tucker Taylor would reveal himself to be just another insufferable man? Was he the kind of person

who would argue that black was white, who would resort to personal attacks against a woman making an argument instead of addressing

the merits of the argument itself?

“What do you suggest?”

“A lemon slice,” she answered.

“All right, then. I’ll go with that. Sugar too. Hold the milk.” He seemed wholly unfazed and willing to listen.

She blinked in surprise.

“How are you feeling about everything?” he asked after taking a cautious sip. “That’s good, by the way. You were right.”

She struggled to maintain a neutral expression, trying to hide her confusion. He’d listened to her without getting angry,

frustrated, or closing his mind. “I’m... I’m fine.”

“No. Don’t do that.” He placed the cup on the saucer and leaned forward on his elbows. “Not with me. I don’t want the right

answer. Give me the real one.”

She hesitated a moment before admitting, “I’m a bit overwhelmed.”

A hint of approval flickered in his eyes. “Good girl.”

A thrill shot down her spine at the utterance of those two simple words. A curious thing, because she could sense within herself

a strange and inexplicable urge to earn Tuck’s favor. Not at the cost of her own sense of self, but from a desire to bask

in his approval. In fact, the thought of hearing those words again gave her such pleasure that she feared she might ask for

them, propriety be hanged.

Yet she was wary of giving him too much power, hesitant to lose the upper hand in whatever seesaw game they were playing,

especially considering the audacious path upon which they were to embark.

At least Georgie and Jane had blessed this scheme.

“What are you thinking about now?” he asked.

She tucked her chin and widened her eyes, a flirtatious gesture she’d observed other women employ at balls or dinner parties

when playing the coquette. It always worked too, because, in her experience, men were easily swayed by such tactics.

Mr.Taylor sat back, seeming unimpressed. “What are you doing?”

“Looking at you.”

“Why the weird face?”

His blunt question caught her off guard. She tilted her head, adopting the picture of innocence, like a woman in a rococo

painting. “I don’t know what you mean. This is how I look.”

“Yeah, sure.” He passed a thick hand over his strong jaw with a snort. She noticed a small cut near his chin, likely from

shaving.

She squared her shoulders, resisting the compulsion to lean in and gently blow on the wound.

“I think you wonder what I think of you,” he stated, not a question.

“I’m curious about a great many things in this world, Mr.Taylor,” she replied primly. “If you wish to share what you perceive

as fact, I’ll listen, although I may find it of little use.”

His nostrils flared, gaze sharpening. Their verbal volleys felt like both a conversation and a game, leaving her dizzy despite

having drunk only tea.

In a blink-and-miss-it moment, he ran a finger down her left hand. She glanced up, her coy smile slipping at his intense expression.

She donned her most useful mask, the one that betrayed no thoughts.

He didn’t break eye contact. “I think you have more courage in that little pinkie than most people have in their entire body.”

She forced a brief laugh, pressing her knees together, but the tension persisted, and worse, intensified. The spot where he’d

caressed her still felt warm. If one touch had this effect, what about more prolonged contact?

“That’s quite a claim,” she said. “And unfortunately incorrect, as I’m afraid of many things. You’ve yet to see me encounter a spider, or a duck.”

“Duck?” His eyes crinkled with smile lines. “That sounds like a story.”

“When I was a child, a mallard bit me. I was at a park in London, enjoying a particularly delicious muffin, when it gave chase.

The sensation of its beak pinching the backs of my legs is something I’ll never forget.” She shuddered. “So, you see, I’m

not exactly the type to lead the Spanish Armada into battle.”

He cocked his head. “Everyone thinks I’m good at what I do because I have quick reflexes. But the reason I act fast is because

I can predict. And I predict because I make it a point to study my opponents. I study them off and on the ice. I review games.

I don’t quit until I know the competition better than they know themselves. People sometimes want to believe my success is

due to luck, talent, or genetics. Nah. It’s due to observation.”

“And I’m an opponent?”

His expression softened. “No, you’re on my team.”

She scuffed her boots against the floor in a nervous rhythm. “And what team is that?”

“Team Mutual Benefit. You win if I win. I win if you win. Our goal is that I return home and you get to pretend I’m dead.”

“You’re not too offended?” she murmured.

“I’d like to think you could enjoy me for the time we have. That I’m the kind of man you’ll miss when I’m gone.”

She wouldn’t show how much his words touched her. “I’ll tell you one secret,” she replied breezily. “I don’t look good in

black. I probably won’t be in mourning long.”

His serious expression didn’t alter. “I know how much you’re risking by taking this trip, Pocket Rocket. And if things go wrong, what it could mean for your future, even for your family. I want to be straight before we climb into the stagecoach and go three feet from this place. I’m glad you’re on my team.”

The worst happened. Tears sheened her eyes before she could force them back. “I’m sorry,” she blurted, fumbling for a handkerchief.

“I don’t know where those came from.”

“My guess? You haven’t had enough people in your life who root for your success. They’re more about their own selfish goals.

But look at yourself. You’re a force of nature. When we met, you stayed cool, calm, and collected. You assessed the situation,

figured out a plan, and executed. And now you’re here ready to take on a trip to Scotland. And you know what? It’s not because

you trust me—although you absolutely should. No, it’s because you trust yourself, and that takes a special kind of strength.”