Miss Carlyle's Curricle: Signet Regency Romance (InterMix) by Karen Harbaugh Read Free Book Online Page B

sure.” He took her hand and bowed over it, but did not release it. “May I look at it?”
    “You are not a physician,” Diana said, then gasped again at the pain as she tried to pull away.
    “True, but I know something of injuries and of healing.” A grim look settled about his mouth for a moment, and Diana wondered how he had come to know of such things. She relaxed and allowed her hand to remain in his.
    He took off his gloves, then slowly, carefully, her glove, his head bent a little, his eyes concentrating on her hand. Diana glanced at him, glad he was not looking at her, for she felt . . . a strange unease, a shiver that should have made her want to pull away from him, but did not. If he had looked at her she did not know what he would have seen on her face—embarrassment, perhaps, but not exactly that. She pressed her lips together firmly—how silly she was!
    The earl turned over her hand and pressed it gently, then looked at her questioningly. “Does it hurt?” he asked.
    “A little.”
    He slid his thumb a bit, a caressing movement, catching on her skin; his thumb seemed slightly callused. He pressed down, a little harder.
    “Ah!”
    “It hurts there, then.” He took her hand between his, rubbing lightly. “Bruised, I believe, but not badly.” His rubbing became more firm, and Diana could not help staring at how the long, elegant fingers of one hand smoothed over the palm of hers, while his other cradled the back of her hand like an egg in a nest. The strokes of his fingers were hypnotic, moving over the hollow of her palm, up and around the pads just at the base of her fingers and her thumb. She closed her eyes, letting out a slight breath, her hand relaxing, limp, at last.
    “Is that better?”
    Her eyes shot open. “Yes, of course—that is, yes,” she stammered. He still held her hand; she quickly pulled it away.
    He smiled widely, then grew somber, but she could not help thinking he was smiling still, somehow. She felt heat rise in her face and she turned away to the curricle. “Thank you,” she said, remembering her manners.
    “You are welcome,” Lord Brisbane replied. He tapped the curricle with a finger. “It must have been a magnificent carriage. I can see, here, how it was joined.” He ran his fingers over a seam of the carriage body, and Diana thought of how those fingers had moved over the palm of her hand. “This is very fine workmanship.”
    She drew in a resolute breath and let it out, determined to banish the odd, unsettled sensation that had seized her. “Yes,” she replied. “My uncle always went to the finest carriage makers in London. To buy anything less, he believed, was a false economy. A carriage made with the best workmanship and parts will last at least twice as long as one of the inferior make—” Her breath caught. Except for this one, she thought.
    “Except for this one,” he said quietly, and her eyes flew to his, startled that his words had echoed her thoughts. His expression was kind and held, she thought, a measure of pity.
    She did not want his pity. She lifted her chin and said, “This shall last as long as a new one, for I intend to have it repaired.”
    Lord Brisbane nodded. “It is not badly damaged, true, and I am sure once it is back to its fine form it will bring in a pretty penny.”
    This was precisely what Diana had intended to do, but somehow it irritated her to have
him
say it. It was
hers
, her uncle had given it to her, and it was the only thing she had of him except for memories. She would not even have a home, only if this Lord Brisbane so decreed. Rebellion rose: the curricle was
hers
and
she
would say what would be done with it, not him.
    She smiled grimly. “I shall repair it—and then
drive
it.”
    Lord Brisbane’s brows rose, in skepticism, she thought. “I believe that is not wise.”
    Diana looked him in the eyes, her chin tilting a fraction higher. “I am very experienced in driving it, believe me. My uncle taught me,