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The Elopement
    S he stared out the window in numb fascination. The falling leaves twirled and dashed against the carriage in a multicolored shower, a tempest churned by the racing horses and spinning wheels.
    “I used to love the fall,” she murmured. The forest road was narrow—only room for one vehicle—and potholed, and the ride was bumpy and jarring. She shivered, drawing her cloak closer. “But I’ve decided I don’t like the cold.”
    He drew her toward him just as the wheels jerked again, and she fell hard into his chest. His arms tightened to keep her there. “You’ll be warm soon enough. I’ll make certain of it.” He kissed the fine curling hair at her temple, trailed kisses down her jaw, below her ear, kisses that made her shiver. “How glad I am to have you alone at last. I could not have borne another moment of watching you across the room without being able to touch you.”
    “How long do you think before they discover we’re gone?”
    “Does it matter? We’re not going back. Not until it’s done.”
    “How disappointed they’ll be.”
    “Does that trouble you?” His voice was a whisper, his breath warm against the exposed skin just below her ear. “I confess I find it amusing. Think of Mrs. Stephenson suffering apoplexy over it.”
    “They’ll think she was our accomplice. Papa will blame her.”
    “Who cares?” He laughed gently. His hand was at her shoulder, pushing away the cloak she’d drawn close, the tips of his fingers brushing her bare collarbone.
    She caught her breath at his touch. What he had always been able to do to her, the things he made her feel . . . “I’m sorry for her, that’s all.”
    “Be honest,” he said. “You’ve never liked Mrs. Stephenson at all.”
    “That’s not true. I . . . Well, there’s nothing to dislike in her really.”
    “No? Not her pious pronouncements? Not her too-avid curiosity? Come, my love, you know you relish the thought of those frog eyes of hers popping just a little.”
    She found herself laughing reluctantly at the image he painted. “Yes, well, all right. A little.”
    “And her husband too. I can hear him posturing already: ‘Why, did anyone see them go? We didn’t even see them go!’ ” He imitated Robert Stephenson’s voice so perfectly—that bumbling, perpetual surprise, as if the world were a constantly popping jack-in-the-box.
    She laughed again. “How cruel you can be!”
    “Ah, but you like my cruelty,” he said, leaning close again, running his lips against her cheekbone. “It was what drew you to me in the beginning—do you remember? The supper at the Martins’?”
    She did not need his reminder. She would never forget the first time she saw him, standing so negligently at the railing of the balcony outside the Martins’ ballroom. His dark hair had been disheveled. She knew now that even on the best days it was too unruly for macassar to tame it, but that night she’d thought only that it looked as if someone had been running their fingers through it. He’d worn a vest of deep blue brocade and a beautifully tailored coat.
    She had come out for some air; the room had been so stifling, heavy with the scents from the gasolier and a hundred different perfumes and colognes, sweat and the lingering aromas of the roasted boar and pungent fish soup at supper. The balcony had been dark, the light from inside not quite reaching the railing where he stood. She had not known he was there until she’d stepped out and he’d said, “I fear this balcony is already spoken for.”
    He’d moved into the light, and she had stopped short.
    She’d not only been startled at his sudden appearance, but also disconcerted by how handsome he was. How had she never seen him before? “Pardon me, I’ll—”
    “But there’s room for another, I think, if you don’t mind company. I confess I’ve no wish to go back inside, even to accede to the wishes of a fair lady.”
    “I don’t wish to