Carriage Ride Quotes

But...you could have whatever you wished." "Exactly," he says, nuzzling my neck. "But," I say, "you could turn stones to rubies or ride in a fine gentleman's carriage." Kartik puts his hands on either side of my face. "To each his own magic," he says and kisses me again.

But we were talking about me and my problems." Sophronia looked Monique up and down gravely. "I don't think we're going to solve those in the space of one carriage ride.

Fair evening, Lady Pinkerton. I hope you enjoy satisfyingly deep breaths during your ride home." Part mortified, part despicably impressed, Catherine marched up the last step and slammed the carriage door shut.

A Gift for You I send you... A cottage retreat on a hill in Ireland. This cottage is filled with fresh flowers, art supplies, and a double-wide chaise lounge in front of a wood-burning fireplace. There is a cabinet near the front door, where your favorite meals appear, several times a day. Desserts are plentiful and calorie free. The closet is stocked with colorful robes and pajamas, and a painting in the bedroom slides aside to reveal a plasma television screen with every movie you've ever wanted to watch. A wooden mailbox at the end of the lane is filled daily with beguiling invitations to tea parties, horse-and-carriage rides, theatrical performances, and violin concerts. There is no obligation or need to respond. You sleep deeply and peacefully each night, and feel profoundly healthy. This cottage is yours to return to at any time.

Because, as I would always tell myself so many years later, lying here in my bed: You can't start out again in life, that's a carriage ride you only take once, but with a book in your hand, no matter how confusing and perplexing it might be, once you've finished it, you can always go back to the beginning; if you like, you can read it through again, in order to figure out what you couldn't understand before, in order to understand life, isn't that so, Fatma?

You’re the bravest person I know, little Sister.” I couldn’t stop myself from snorting. I was a sniffling, teary mess—hardly the mark of bravery. Thomas had held me the entire carriage ride home just so I wouldn’t break apart. I’d siphoned his strength and missed it terribly now. Nathaniel shook his head, easily reading my thoughts. Well, I hope not the one regarding Thomas with his arms around me.

She didn’t know how long they stood on that roof, tangled up in each other, mouths and hands roving until she moaned and dragged him through the greenhouse, down the stairs, and into the carriage waiting outside. And then there was the ride home, where he did things to her neck and ear that made her forget her own name. They managed to straighten themselves out as they reached the castle gates, and kept a respectable distance as they walked back to her room, though every inch of her felt so alive and burning that it was a miracle she made it back to her door without pulling him into a closet.But then they were inside her rooms, and then at her bedroom door, and he paused as she took his hand to lead him in. “Are you sure?” She lifted a hand to his face, exploring every curve and freckle that had become so impossibly precious to her. She had waited once before—waited with Sam, and then it had been too late. But now, there was no doubt, no shred of fear or uncertainty, as if every moment between her and Chaol had been a step in a dance that had led to this threshold. “I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life,” she told him. His eyes blazed with hunger that matched her own, and she kissed him again, tugging him into her bedroom. He let her pull him, not breaking the kiss as he kicked the door shut behind them.

I forbid you from frequenting taverns, public houses, or other establishments of vice.” She snorted in amusement. “Establishments of vice? That’s a rather puritanical view of things, isn’t it? I assure you, I was quite safe.” “You were with Ralston!” he said, as though she were simpleminded. “He was perfectly respectable,” she said, the words coming out before she remembered that the carriage ride home was anything but respectable. “Imagine—my sister and the Marquess of Ralston together. And he turns out to be the respectable one,” Benedick said wryly, sending heat flaring on Callie’s cheeks, but not for the reason he thought. “No more taverns.

You can’t start out again in life, that’s a carriage ride you only take once, but with a book in your hand, no matter how confusing and perplexing it might be, once you’ve finished it, you can always go back to the beginning; if you like, you can read it through again, in order to figure out what you couldn’t understand before, in order to understand life.

For a knight to ride in a carriage was against the principles of chivalry and he never under any circumstances rode a mare.

Sometimes the road to happily ever after isn’t smooth and easy. You have to fight through trials and obstacles to get there. There are dragons and big, bad wolves in disguise to defeat. Riding in a carriage with a prince wouldn’t get you over those bumps and twists. Sometimes the road to your happily ever after is on the back of a bike with a badass knight that would kick the prince’s ass if he came near you.

If you would on'y lay your course, and a p'int to windward, you would ride in carriages, you would. But not you! I know you. You'll have your mouthful of rum tomorrow, and go hang.

You dogs!" said the Marquis, but smoothly, and with an unchanged front, except as to the spots on his nose: "I would ride over any of you very willingly, and exterminate you from the earth. If I knew which rascal threw at the carriage, and if that brigand were sufficiently near it, he should be crushed under the wheels.

Now, in calm weather, to swim in the open ocean is as easy to the practised swimmer as to ride in a spring-carriage ashore. But the awful lonesomeness is intolerable. The intense concentration of self in the middle of such a heartless immensity, my God! who can tell it?

Riding in a carriage without an escort is modern. But traveling out and about unescorted is unheard of.

And when he lifted his lips from hers, and she opened her eyes, slow and sinful, he reveled in her beauty, in the way it promised him an eternity when all they had was a carriage ride.

Pandora's dress was disheveled, her bodice askew, and her gloves were missing. A few raised red scratches marred the surface of her shoulder. The pins had been pulled from her ruined coiffure during the carriage ride, allowing a profusion of heavy black-coffee locks to fall to her waist in waves and ripples. Her coltish form quivered like a wild creature held in restraints. She gave off a kind of... energy, of... there didn't seem to be a word for it, but Gabriel could feel the irresistible voltage eating up the space between them. Every hair on his body individuated as he was flooded with the hot, humming awareness of her. Holy hell.

How to explain the sheer tingling joy one experiences when two interesting, complex, and occasionally aggravating characters have at last settled their misunderstandings and will live happily ever after, no matter what travails life might throw in their path, because Jane Austen said they will, and that's that? How to describe the exhilaration of being caught up in an unknown but glamorous world of balls and gowns and rides in open carriages with handsome young men? How to explain that the best part of Jane Austen's world is that sudden recognition that the characters are just like you?

During the carriage ride here, Archer had promised that Arobynn Hamel wasn’t attending, and neither was Lysandra—a courtesan with whom Celaena had a long, violent history, and someone she was fairly certain she’d kill if she ever saw again.

She had to admit that she sometimes saw in them a reflection of herself, cooped up with nothing but the same faces to look at day after day. But today, she’d gone on a carriage ride and opened the door to Daphne. Perhaps her own cage door might be rattling open. Just a little bit?

You asked, why are the poor poor. I was struck by that.” “What I can’t see—what I really can’t see—is why everyone doesn’t ask themselves that, all the time . How can these people bear to go to church and then go about in the streets and see what is there for everyone to see—and get told what the Bible says about the poor—and go on riding in carriages, and choosing neckties and hats—and eating huge beefsteaks—I can’t see it.” “I have brought a book for you to read. I think probably you should not let it be seen in your home. But I think it will speak to you.

In all actuality, Quincy knew that, when riding in a wagon, your thoughts had plenty of room to wander and move and never bump into those of your companions. But in a carriage, with its confined space, people often felt compelled to speak with one another, even when their companion didn't wish it. And Quincy did not wish it. She thought that the truest test of humanity was riding in a coach and saying absolutely nothing to one's traveling companions. Few, if any, had ever succeeded.

Yes. He is Aunt Margaret's doctor, and he would be ours, only we are never ill." Well you look it!" said the man, appraising Elnora at a glance. Strangers always mention it," sighed Elnora. "I wonder how it would feel to be a pale languid lady and ride in a carriage." Ask me!" laughed the man. "It feels like the- dickens!

Hey, Hoid. Can I catch a ride up there with you?” The new coachman shrugged, making room for Wayne on top of the carriage.

Men these days. Albert was the same. "Don't ride in an open carriage for fear of assassins." "Don't have parties." "Don't hit me with the furniture." They need to develop more spine.

Listen well,” he said when he could finally trust himself to speak. “Before this conversation began, I was fully determined to make her my wife. But were it possible to increase my resolve, your words just now would have done it. Do not doubt me when I say that Lillian Bowman is the only woman on this earth whom I would ever consider marrying. Her children will be my heirs, or else the Marsden line stops with me. From now on my overriding concern is her well-being. Any word, gesture, or action that threatens her happiness will meet with the worst consequences imaginable. You will never give her cause to believe that you are anything but pleased by our marriage. The first word I hear to the contrary will earn you a very long carriage ride away from the estate. Away from England. Permanently.

I am Prince Jalmari ta Korento.” I scoffed. “Sure you are. Do me a favor and ring the butler. Tell him to arrange a carriage. I think I’d like a ride to the courthouse to get a restraining order against Your Majesty.

A man opposite me shifted his feet, accidentally brushing his foot against mine. It was a gentle touch, barely noticeable, but the man immediately reached out to touch my knee and then his own chest with the fingertips of his right hand, in the Indian gesture of apology for an unintended offence. In the carriage and the corridor beyond, the other passengers were similarly respectful, sharing, and solicitous with one another. At first, on that first journey out of the city into India, I found such sudden politeness infuriating after the violent scramble to board the train. It seemed hypocritical for them to show such deferential concern over a nudge with a foot when, minutes before, they'd all but pushed one another out of the windows. Now, long years and many journeys after that first ride on a crowded rural train, I know that the scrambled fighting and courteous deference were both expressions of the one philosophy: the doctrine of necessity. The amount of force and violence necessary to board the train, for example, was no less and no more than the amount of politeness and consideration necessary to ensure that the cramped journey was as pleasant as possible afterwards. What is necessary! That was the unspoken but implied and unavoidable question everywhere in India. When I understood that, a great many of the characteristically perplexing aspects of public life became comprehensible: from the acceptance of sprawling slums by city authorities, to the freedom that cows had to roam at random in the midst of traffic; from the toleration of beggars on the streets, to the concatenate complexity of the bureaucracies; and from the gorgeous, unashamed escapism of Bollywood movies, to the accommodation of hundreds of thousands of refugees from Tibet, Iran, Afghanistan, Africa, and Bangladesh, in a country that was already too crowded with sorrows and needs of its own. The real hypocrisy, I came to realise, was in the eyes and minds and criticisms of those who came from lands of plenty, where none had to fight for a seat on a train. Even on that first train ride, I knew in my heart that Didier had been right when he'd compared India and its billion souls to France. I had an intuition, echoing his thought, that if there were a billion Frenchmen or Australians or Americans living in such a small space, the fighting to board the train would be much more, and the courtesy afterwards much less. And in truth, the politeness and consideration shown by the peasant farmers, travelling salesmen, itinerant workers, and returning sons and fathers and husbands did make for an agreeable journey, despite the cramped conditions and relentlessly increasing heat. Every available centimetre of seating space was occupied, even to the sturdy metal luggage racks over our heads. The men in the corridor took turns to sit or squat on a section of floor that had been set aside and cleaned for the purpose. Every man felt the press of at least two other bodies against his own. Yet there wasn't a single display of grouchiness or bad temper

Six express tracks and twelve locals pass through Palimpsest. The six Greater Lines are: Stylus, Sgraffito, Decretal, Foolscap, Bookhand, and Missal. Collectively, in the prayers of those gathered prostrate in the brass turnstiles of its hidden, voluptuous shrines, these are referred to as the Marginalia Line. They do not run on time: rather, the commuters of Palimpsest have learned their habits, the times of day and night when they prefer to eat and drink, their mating seasons, their gathering places. In days of old, great safaris were held to catch the great trains in their inexorable passage from place to place, and women grappled with them with hooks and tridents in order to arrive punctually at a desk in the depth, of the city. As if to impress a distracted parent on their birthday, the folk of Palimpsest built great edifices where the trains liked to congregate to drink oil from the earth and exchange gossip. They laid black track along the carriages’ migratory patterns. Trains are creatures of routine, though they are also peevish and curmudgeonly. Thus the transit system of Palimpsest was raised up around the huffing behemoths that traversed its heart, and the trains have not yet expressed displeasure. To ride them is still an exercise in hunterly passion and exactitude, for they are unpredictable, and must be observed for many weeks before patterns can be discerned. The sport of commuting is attempted by only the bravest and the wildest of Palimpsest. Many have achieved such a level of aptitude that they are able to catch a train more mornings than they do not. The wise arrive early with a neat coil of hooked rope at their waist, so that if a train is in a very great hurry, they may catch it still, and ride behind on the pauper’s terrace with the rest of those who were not favored, or fast enough, or precise in their calculations. Woe betide them in the infrequent mating seasons! No train may be asked to make its regular stops when she is in heat! A man was once caught on board when an express caught the scent of a local. The poor banker was released to a platform only eight months later, when the two white leviathans had relinquished each other with regret and tears.

Little Dorrit would often ride out in a hired carriage that was left them, and alight alone and wander among the ruins of old Rome. The ruins of the vast old Amphitheatre, of the old Temples, of the old commemorative Arches, of the old trodden highways, of the old tombs, besides being what they were, to her were ruins of the old Marshalsea—ruins of her own old life—ruins of the faces and forms that of old peopled it—ruins of its loves, hopes, cares, and joys.

Taking Off Emily Dickinson’s Clothes" First, her tippet made of tulle, easily lifted off her shoulders and laid on the back of a wooden chair. And her bonnet, the bow undone with a light forward pull. Then the long white dress, a more complicated matter with mother-of-pearl buttons down the back, so tiny and numerous that it takes forever before my hands can part the fabric, like a swimmer’s dividing water, and slip inside. You will want to know that she was standing by an open window in an upstairs bedroom, motionless, a little wide-eyed, looking out at the orchard below, the white dress puddled at her feet on the wide-board, hardwood floor. The complexity of women’s undergarments in nineteenth-century America is not to be waved off, and I proceeded like a polar explorer through clips, clasps, and moorings, catches, straps, and whalebone stays, sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness. Later, I wrote in a notebook it was like riding a swan into the night, but, of course, I cannot tell you everything— the way she closed her eyes to the orchard, how her hair tumbled free of its pins, how there were sudden dashes whenever we spoke. What I can tell you is it was terribly quiet in Amherst that Sabbath afternoon, nothing but a carriage passing the house, a fly buzzing in a windowpane. So I could plainly hear her inhale when I undid the very top hook-and-eye fastener of her corset and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed, the way some readers sigh when they realize that Hope has feathers, that Reason is a plank, that Life is a loaded gun that looks right at you with a yellow eye.

Listen well,” he said when he could finally trust himself to speak. “Before this conversation began, I was fully determined to make her my wife. But were it possible to increase my resolve, your words just now would have done it. Do not doubt me when I say that Lillian Bowman is the only woman on this earth whom I would ever consider marrying. Her children will be my heirs, or else the Marsden line stops with me. From now on my overriding concern is her well-being. Any word, gesture, or action that threatens her happiness will meet with the worst consequences imaginable. You will never give her cause to believe that you are anything but pleased by our marriage. The first word I hear to the contrary will earn you a very long carriage ride away from the estate. Away from England. Permanently.” “You can’t mean what you are saying. You are in a temper. Later, when you have calmed yourself, we will—” “I’m not in a temper. I’m in deadly earnest.” “You’ve gone mad!” “No, my lady. For the first time in my life I have a chance at happiness— and I will not lose it.” “You fool,” the countess whispered, trembling visibly with fury. “Whatever comes of it, marrying her will be the least foolish thing I’ve ever done,” he replied, and took his leave of her with a shallow bow. -Marcus & his mother

Now I know why you have always desired to see Andilain at this time of year. The sweet fragrance of the trees blossoming remind me of the soft skin at your neck. If we should ever travel here I will insist on taking a carriage. You know how I detest riding horses and after two days my backside would be grateful if I never beheld a saddle again.

There were no such stipulations made when we discussed the agreement." "Nor were they expressly not made. I am making them now. You received what you requested. Or, have you forgotten?" The words sent a shiver down her spine. He was standing behind her, and she could feel the warm kiss of his breath on her bare neck, sending a river of heat through her. "I have not forgotten." The words came unbidden, and she closed her eyes. He laid a hand on her arm and, with virtually no pressure, turned her face to him. When he met her eyes, the anger that had been there was gone, replaced by something much more complex. "Neither have I. And not for lack of trying." Before she could begin to consider the meaning behind his words, he settled his mouth upon hers, robbing her of thought. "I've tried to forget that kiss... and the carriage ride... and the fencing club... but you seem to have taken up residence... in my memory." As he spoke between long, drugging kisses that consumed her senses, he guided Callie across the study and into a large chair near the fireplace. Kneeling in front of her, he cupped one cheek in a strong, warm hand, and met her gaze with a searing look. Shaking his head as though he couldn't quite understand what had come over him, he kissed her again, growling low in the back of his throat. Her hands found their way into his thick, dark hair as he caught her bottom lip in his teeth, nibbling and licking at it until she thought she might perish from the intensity of the feeling. She whimpered at the sensation, and he rewarded the sound by deepening the kiss, giving her everything she desired. He broke off the kiss as one of his hands found its way under her skirts, caressing up the inside of her leg. He shifted her against him, running his lips across her cheek to the curl of her ear, sucking and nibbling and licking as he spoke to her, the scandalous words more sensation than sound. "Such soft skin..." he said, as his fingers played along the inside of her thighs, driving her mad with desire as heat pooled at their juncture. "I've been wondering what you felt like here..." He shifted to gain better access to the skin high on the inside of her thighs, so close to the spot where she most wanted him. "Now that I know... I'm going to be consumed with thoughts of how this soft, lovely skin will feel against me..." He placed a soft, lush kiss on the column of her neck as his hand moved higher, closer to the center of her.

One hour later Sophie was in Benedict’s sitting room, perched on the very same sofa on which she had lost her innocence just a few weeks earlier. Lady Bridgerton had questioned the wisdom (and propriety) of Sophie’s going to Benedict’s home by herself, but he had given her such a look that she had quickly backed down, saying only, “Just have her home by seven.” Which gave them one hour together. “I’m sorry,” Sophie blurted out, the instant her bottom touched the sofa. For some reason they hadn’t said anything during the carriage ride home. They’d held hands, and Benedict had brought her fingers to his lips, but they hadn’t said anything. Sophie had been relieved. She hadn’t been ready for words. It had been easy at the jail, with all the commotion and so many people, but now that they were alone . . . She didn’t know what to say. Except, she supposed, “I’m sorry.” “No, I’m sorry,” Benedict replied, sitting beside her and taking her hands in his. “No, I’m—” She suddenly smiled. “This is very silly.” “I love you,” he said. Her lips parted. “I want to marry you,” he said. She stopped breathing. “And I don’t care about your parents or my mother’s bargain with Lady Penwood to make you respectable.” He stared down at her, his dark eyes meltingly in love. “I would have married you no matter what.” Sophie blinked. The tears in her eyes were growing fat and hot, and she had a sneaking suspicion that she was about to make a fool of herself by blubbering all over him. She managed to say his name, then found herself completely lost from there. Benedict squeezed her hands. “We couldn’t have lived in London, I know, but we don’t need to live in London. When I thought about what it was in life I really needed— not what I wanted, but what I needed— the only thing that kept coming up was you.

Thomas heard the stamping of hooves of horses, a shout of warning, and the Institute carriage came crashing through the Portal barely remaining on all four of its wheels as it came. Balios and Xanthos looked very pleased with themselves as the carriage spun in midair and landed, with a jarring thud, at the foot of the steps. Magnus Bane was in the driver’s seat, wearing a dramatic white opera scarf and holding the reins in his right hand. He looked even more pleased with himself than the horses. “I wondered if it was possible to ride a carriage through a Portal,” he said, jumping down from the seat. “As it turns out, it is. Delightful.” The carriage doors opened, and rather unsteadily, Will, Lucie, and a boy Thomas didn’t know clambered out. Lucie waved at Thomas before leaning against the side of the carriage; she was looking rather green about the gills. Will went around the carriage to unstrap the luggage, while the unfamiliar boy—tall and slender, with straight black hair and a pretty face—put a hand on Lucie’s shoulder. Which was surprising—it was an intimate gesture, one that would be considered impolite unless the boy and girl in question were friends or relatives, or had an understanding between them. It seemed, however, unlikely that Lucie could have an understanding with someone Thomas had never seen before. He rather bristled at the thought, in an older-brother way—James didn’t seem to be here, so someone had to do the bristling for him. “I told you it would work!” Will cried in Magnus’s direction. Magnus was busy magicking the unfastened baggage to the top of the steps, blue sparks darting like fireflies from his gloved fingertips. “We should have done that on the way out!” “You did not say it would work,” Magnus said. “You said, as I recall, ‘By the Angel, he’s going to kill us all.’ “Never,” said Will. “My faith in you is unshakable, Magnus. Which is good,” he added, rocking back and forth a little, “because the rest of me feels quite shaken indeed.

Thus it happened that a crowd of Christian zealots, led by one Peter the Lector, blocked the homeward path of the carriage in which Hypatia was riding, dragged her from it, and (as if to seek divine sanction for their act) hauled the hapless woman into a church where they stripped her naked and battered her to death with roofing tiles. This done, they continued their frenzy by tearing her corpse limb from limb, orgiastically transporting her body out through the church portals and burning its fragments.

drawn from the African idiom, their profession, or color." (The family of Julien Raimond complied grudgingly by switching from the "Raymond" of their French father to "Raimond.") A 1779 regulation made it illegal for free people of color to "affect the dress, hairstyles, style, or bearing of whites," and some local ordinances forbade them to ride in carriages or to own certain home furnishings. By the time of the Revolution free-coloreds were subjected to a variety of laws that discriminated against them solely on the basis of race.4

Oh, well, it might look like a patterned world, laid out in prim design, but to those living there it could never be so simple. They were as alive as she: that old peasant contriving to outwit the cold; that woman anxiously counting her comical flock lest one goose escape her vigilance; all those who slept, or toiled, or loved under the low-hung roofs or the sharp turrets. Those people out there, if they caught sight of her own face pressed close to the window pane, might be speculating about her. To them she was part of the pattern of the lumbering train with its trail of smoke and little boxlike carriages. Perhaps they envied her, riding at ease to distant Paris. How little they knew of that! How little she herself know what awaited her at the end of the journey!

Ronan was waiting in his family’s stables. He played with the gloves in his hands as he stood watching Kestrel and Arin ride toward him. “I thought you would take the carriage,” Ronan said to Kestrel. “To go riding? Really, Ronan.” “But your escort.” His eyes cut to Arin sitting easily on the stallion. “I didn’t think any of your slaves rode.” Kestrel watched Ronan tug at the gloves’ fingers. “Is there a problem?” “Now that you are here, certainly not.” Yet his voice was strained. “Because if you don’t like the way in which I have come, you may ride to my house the next time you invite me, then escort me back to your estate, then see me safely home again, and go back the way you came.” He responded to her words as if they had been flirtatious. “It would be my pleasure. Speaking of pleasure, let’s take some together.” He mounted his horse. “Where is Jess?” “Sick with a headache.” Somehow Kestrel doubted that. She said nothing, however, and let Ronan lead the way out of the stables. She turned to follow, and Arin did the same. Ronan glanced back, blond hair brushing over his shoulder. “Surely you don’t intend for him to join us.” Arin’s horse, perfectly calm up until this point, began to shift and balk. It was sensing the tension Kestrel couldn’t see in its rider, who looked impassively at her, waiting for her to translate Ronan’s words into Herrani so that he could pretend it was necessary. “Wait here,” she told him in his language. He wheeled the horse back toward the stables. “You should vary your escorts,” Ronan told Kestrel as Arin rode away. “That one stays too close to your heels.

You look lovely tonight, my lady,” Kellan said for her ears alone as he took her into his arms-not too close, of course. His flattery pleased her but did not discompose her as Grey’s did. Rose smiled sincerely in response. “Thank you, sir. Might I say that you are in very fine looks as well.” “You always know exactly the right thing to say to woo me, Lady Rose.” He grinned as they moved through a turn. “Have a care, else you’re likely to break my heart.” “If it is so easily broken, perhaps you should hold it a little more dear,” she advised archly. He winced, but it was apparent that he had taken the remark with the humor she intended. “She mocks me.” “You are mistaken, sir. I am merely thinking of your best interests.” They shared a smile and were silent for a turn. “I am surprised that Ryeton allowed you to come tonight.” Rose raised a brow. “The duke does not dictate where I can and cannot go.” Grey might be her benefactor, but he was not her guardian. “That is good to hear,” Kellan replied, ignoring the edge to her tone. “So he cannot prevent you from taking a drive in Hyde Park with me tomorrow afternoon.” She chuckled. “No, I suppose not. But first, you might want to ask me if I care to take a drive with you.” “Do you?” She did. Did that make her awful? Just a few minutes ago she’d been missing Grey and thinking about how much she cared for him, and now here she was flirting with Kellan and fluttering over the prospect of going for a carriage ride. It wasn’t fickleness, she told herself. It was practicality. She was doing what she was supposed to do. Kellan had yet to lay any claim to her feelings or her heart, but she owed him the opportunity to try. She would never get over Grey and find love if she didn’t try as well. And it wouldn’t hurt Grey to see another man take interest in her. Perhaps a little jealousy would do him good.

He took her horse. Kestrel saw the logic. Her carriage had been abandoned on the road and the stables were largely empty, since many horses had gone with her father. Javelin was the best of those that remained. In war, property goes to those who can seize and keep it, so the stallion was Arin’s. But it hurt. He studied her warily as he saddled Javelin. The stables rang with noise: the sounds of other Herrani readying horses to ride, the beasts whickering as they smelled human tension, the thumps of wood under hooves and feet. Yet Arin was silent, and watched Kestrel. The first thing he had done after entering the stables was grab a set of reins, slice the leather with a knife, bind Kestrel’s hands, and place her under guard. It didn’t matter that she was powerless. He watched her as if she weren’t. Or maybe he was just contemplating how hard it would be to bring a captive on horseback into the city and down to the harbor. This would have given Kestrel some satisfaction if she hadn’t been very aware of what he should do. Knock her unconscious, if he wanted to keep his prize. Kill her, if he had changed his mind. Imprison her, if she was too much trouble either way. She saw his solutions as well as he must.

I don’t have to be able to see you to feel your disapproval, you know.” Tristan finally broke the silence. The two hour carriage ride had been painfully quiet. Tristan leaned his head against the back of the leather seat. “I have my reasons, and I don’t intend to share them with my valet.” Ellis grunted, but remained quiet. “She is better off without me.” Four beats later, Ellis responded. “There is no reason to share your thoughts with a mere valet, my lord.” “I cannot give her the life she deserves.” “As you say.” “Her ladyship seems to think my blindness makes no difference.” “Please pardon the pun, my lord, but how very insightful of her.” “I shall fire you when we reach London.” “I shiver with anticipation.” How was it he could not seem to even have his own employees agree with him? And“I don’t have to be able to see you to feel your disapproval, you know.” Tristan finally broke the silence. The two hour carriage ride had been painfully quiet. Tristan leaned his head against the back of the leather seat. “I have my reasons, and I don’t intend to share them with my valet.” Ellis grunted, but remained quiet. “She is better off without me.” Four beats later, Ellis responded. “There is no reason to share your thoughts with a mere valet, my lord.” “I cannot give her the life she deserves.” “As you say.” “Her ladyship seems to think my blindness makes no difference.” “Please pardon the pun, my lord, but how very insightful of her.” “I shall fire you when we reach London.” “I shiver with anticipation.” How was it he could not seem to even have his own employees agree with him? And why did he permit such insolence? “May I make a suggestion, my lord?’ “No, you may not.” “I suggest you take a day or two to ponder your actions, and then perhaps send for her ladyship.” “Definitely being fired when we reach London.” “I shall look forward to my new duties.” Tristan tapped his foot, boredom setting in. “Did you pack any books? Perhaps you can read to me to pass the time.” “I noticed an open copy of One Thousand and One Nights in the library this morning, but since I know her ladyship was reading it, I left it there.” “Her ladyship was reading it to me,” he bristled. “Ah,” Ellis said, with no regret in his voice. “If only her ladyship were with us now. With the book…” “Never mind. I could use a nap.” “Yes, my lord. A nap might restore your good humor.” “When I fire you, there will be no reference.” “I have no expectation of one, my lord.” Tristan settled back, knowing full well that

People strut and swagger in front of others, but rarely alone. These are social gestures. Walking, the slowest form of travel, is the quickest route to our more authentic selves. We can't return to some long-lost paradise that probably never was. But we can walk. We can walk to work. We can walk our daughter to school. We can walk alone, to nowhere in particular on a crisp and breezy autumn afternoon. We walk to forget. We walk to forget the cranky boss, the spat with the spouse, the pile of unpaid bills, the flashing warning light in your Subaru, indicating either that the tire pressure is low or the car is on fire. We walk to forget, if only momentarily, a world that is "too much with us," as William Wordsworth, another fine walker, put it. We walk to forget ourselves, too. I know I do. The surplus fifteen pounds resistant to every diet known to man, the recidivist nasal hair, the decade-old blemish that suddenly, for reasons known only to it, has decided to self-actualize on the crown of my bald head, spreading like an inkblot. All forgotten when I walk. Walking is democratic. Barring a disability, anyone can walk. The wealthy walker has no advantage over the impoverished one. Rousseau, despite his literary success, always saw himself as "the son of a worker," what we now call blue-collar. People like that didn't ride in fancy carriages. They walked. They walked as I do now: attentively, one step at a time, relishing the sturdiness, and the springiness, too, of serious earth.

I'm unaccustomed to being cooped up all day-I really must insist that you permit me to enjoy a short walk." "Not on your life," Fletcher growled. From the sound, Breckenridge realized the group had moved closer to the tap. "You don't need to think you're going to give us the slip so easily," Fletcher said again. "My dear good man"-Heather with her nose in the air; Breckenridge could tell by her tone-"just where in this landscape of empty fields do you imagine I'm going to slip to?" Cobbins opined that she might try to steal a horse and ride off. "Oh,yes-in a round gown and evening slippers," Heather jeered. "But I wasn't suggesting you let me ramble on my own-Martha can come with me." That was Martha's cue to enter the fray, but Heather stuck to her guns, refusing to back down through the ensuing, increasingly heated verbal stoush. Until Fletcher intervened, aggravated frustration resonating in his voice. "Look you-we're under strict orders to keep you safe, not to let you wander off to fall prey to the first shiftless rake who rides past and takes a fancy to you." Silence reigned for half a minute, then Heather audibly sniffed. "I'll have you know that shiftless rakes know better than to take a fancy to me." Not true, Breckenridge thought, but that wasn't the startling information contained in Fletcher's outburst. "Come on, Heather-follow up." As if she'd heard his muttered exhortation, she blithely swept on. "But if rather than standing there arguing, you instead treated me like a sensible adult and told me what your so strict orders with respect to me were, I might see my way to complying-or at least to helping you comply with them." Breckenridge blinked as he sorted through that pronouncement; he could almost feel for Fletcher when he hissed out a sigh. "All right," Fletcher's frustration had reached breaking point. "If you must know, we're to keep you safe from all harm. We're not to let a bloody pigeon pluck so much as a hair from your head. We're to deliver you up in prime condition, exactly as you were when he grabbed you." From the change in Fletcher's tone, Breckenridge could visualize him moving closer to tower over Heather to intimidate her into backing down; he could have told him it wouldn't work. "So now you see," Fletcher went on, voice low and forceful, "that it's entirely out of the question for you to go out for any ramble." "Hmm." Heather's tone was tellingly mild. Fletcher was about to get floored by an uppercut. For once not being on the receiving end, Breckenridge grinned and waited for it to land. "If, as you say, your orders are to-do correct me if I'm wrong-keep me in my customary excellent health until you hand me over to your employer, then, my dear Fletcher, that will absolutely necessitate me going for a walk. Being cooped up all day in a carriage has never agreed with me-if you don't wish me to weaken or develop some unhealthy affliction, I will require fresh air and gentle exercise to recoup." She paused, then went on, her tone one of utmost reasonableness, "A short excursion along the river at the rear of the inn, and back, should restore my constitution." Breckenridge was certain he could hear Fletcher breathing in and out through clenched teeth. A fraught moment passed on, then, "Oh, very well! Martha-go with her. Twenty minutes, do you hear? Not a minute more." "Thank you, Fletcher. Come, Martha-we don't want to waste the light." Breckenridge heard Heather, with the rather slower Martha, leave the inn by the main door. He sipped his ale, waited. Eventually, Fletcher and Cobbins climbed the stairs, Cobbins grumbling, Fletcher ominously silent. The instant they passed out of hearing, Breckenridge stood, stretched, then walked out of the tap and into the foyer. Seconds later, he slipped out of the front door.

Dom, are you out here?” called a voice from somewhere beyond the stables. Damn it all. It was Tristan. Swiftly Dom donned his shirt. “Be quiet,” he whispered to Jane, “and he’ll go away.” Tristan’s voice sounded again, even nearer now. “I swear to God, Dom, if you ride off to London in the dark and make a liar out of me before Ravenswood, I will kick you from here to France!” “He won’t go away,” Jane whispered back, a hint of desperation in her voice. “He promised Ravenswood that you wouldn’t head for London with broken carriage lamps, and now he’ll want to make sure that you don’t.” Which meant his arse of a brother wasn’t going to stop looking for him. Any minute now, he’d be striding into the harness room. Then Jane would have to marry Dom. As soon as the thought entered Dom’s head, it apparently occurred to her, too, for she paled and stepped near enough to whisper, “Please. Not like this.” He stared at her ashen face, and his stomach sank. He couldn’t force her to wed him. After what had happened between them years ago, she would never forgive him for taking her choice away from her yet again. Besides, he didn’t want to force her into anything. The only way he could prove that he didn’t intend to run roughshod over her for the rest of their lives was to walk away now. Even if it killed him. Bloody hell. “I’ll draw Tristan away from the stables,” Dom said tersely as he shoved his stocking feet into his boots. “That will give you a chance to finish dressing and sneak back into the house.” Relief spreading over her face, she bobbed her head. He buttoned up his shirt. “It will also give you a chance to decide what you want.” Gathering up his coat, waistcoat, and cravat, he added in a low murmur, “But know this, Jane. I am not, nor ever intend to be, a man like your father. Somewhere inside of you, you must…” He winced. “You surely do know it.” He waited long enough to see uncertainty flicker in her eyes. Then he strode out of the harness room and closed the door behind him.

Jenna is acting strange. Weeping, moping, even remarks tending toward belittlement Melmoth might tolerate (although he cannot think why; she is not his wife and even in human females PMS is a plague of the past) but when he caught her lying about Raquel—udderly wonderful, indeed—he knew the problem was serious. After sex, Melmoth powers her down. He retrieves her capsule from underground storage, a little abashed to be riding up with the oblong vessel in a lobby elevator where anyone might see. Locked vertical for easy transport, the capsule on its castors and titanium carriage stands higher than Melmoth is tall. He cannot help feeling that its translucent pink upper half and tapered conical roundness make it look like an erect penis. Arriving at penthouse level, he wheels it into his apartment. Once inside his private quarters, he positions it beside the hoverbed and enters a six-character alphanumeric open-sesame to spring the lid. On an interior panel, Melmoth touches a sensor for AutoRenew. Gold wands deploy from opposite ends and set up a zero-gravity field that levitates Jenna from the topsheet. As if by magic—to Melmoth it is magic—the inert form of his personal android companion floats four feet laterally and gentles to rest in a polymer cradle contoured to her default figure. Jenna is only a SmartBot. She does not breathe, blood does not run in her arteries and veins. She has no arteries or veins, nor a heart, nor anything in the way of organic tissue. She can be replaced in a day—she can be replaced right now. If Melmoth touches “Upgrade,” the capsule lid will seal and lock, all VirtuLinks to Jenna will break, and a courier from GlobalDigital will collect the unit from a cargo bay of Melmoth’s high-rise after delivering a new model to Melmoth himself. It distresses him, how easy replacement would be, as if Jenna were no more abiding than an oldentime car he might decide one morning to trade-in. Seeing her in the capsule is bad enough; the poor thing looks as if she is lying in her coffin. Melmoth does not select “Power Down” on his cerebral menu any more often than he must. Only to update her software does Melmoth resort to pulling Jenna’s plug. Updating, too, disturbs him. In authorizing it, he cannot pretend she is human. [pp. 90-91]

Areli kicked her dragon upwards and followed Aquilina and Fides through the lanterns and rock, out into clean mountain air. Aquilina had picked only the two, whom she said were hands down the greatest riders on the team, to ride with her. Areli didn’t know how to respond to that, except to turn red and cover her mouth with surprise. And now she was flying, not in an arena, but in free air, a privilege given to only the best professional riders. They flew over the city. The buildings looked like small blocks and the carriages looked like gold-colored ants roaming about. The sweep of the cool air was refreshing against Areli’s face. They flew over the trees leading to Emperor Abhiraja’s forest, which looked like nothing but a tossed salad from their view. And then they were over Emperor Abhiraja’s trees. Back at the boarding facility, before they left, Aquilina told them there was only one rule if they were to ride with her . . . keep up. Aquilina veered down towards the trees. Fides took after her and Areli followed. Areli sat hard into her seat and pulled the reins to her right. She leaned her leg into Kaia’s left shoulder and held on tight to the saddle horn. Kaia leaned her body and they knifed through the air. Areli shifted her legs and hands, chasing after Fides and Aquilina. They slipped through a tiny gap in the tops of the massive trees. Areli saw the red of Fidelja’s dragon ahead of her, and then it disappeared. She saw shades of brown and green coming up fast. Areli pulled on the reins, keeping her hands light, and sunk into the seat, leveling off their descent into the forest. She immediately started kicking Kaia forward as she saw Fides dragon’s tail wrap past a tree. Areli commanded Kaia in a way she never had before. Using every skill she ever learned, she cued Kaia right, then left, then into a roll to get through two narrowly placed trees, and then up, always following the blur of red in front of her. They came out above the trees again and then they swooped back down. This time it was into the Columns of Abhi. They curved around the large rock structures like a knife full of butter caressing a freshly baked roll. Areli didn’t think she could feel this exhilarated. But there was something utterly breathtaking about flying without walls, without spectators or trainers. This was true freedom, according to Areli. Freedom from homework, freedom from fears, freedom from worries. This was the place where she could be . . . just to be.

Though she could feel Dom darting glances at her the whole time, she couldn’t face him, couldn’t even look at him. Not just now, when she was still in turmoil about what they’d done. About what he’d said to her at the end. It will also give you a chance to decide what you want. That was the trouble. She didn’t know what she wanted. Well, she did know--she wanted to marry Dom the courteous gentleman. But not Dom the Almighty. She wanted the Dom who mourned for the six children who’d lost their mother needlessly, not the Dom who was sure Nancy was a whore because she’d married his bastard of a brother. But what if both parts were him? What if she couldn’t have one without the other? Why, he hadn’t even said he loved her! Then again, neither had she, so she could hardly fault him for that. Their past was still too raw, and they were both still afraid. Perhaps he’d been waiting for her to say it. She’d certainly been waiting for him. Because then she might really believe he meant to make a life with her again, and not go running off at the first sign of disaster. Like, perhaps, if Nancy proved to be bearing George’s son. “Since it’s such a beautiful morning,” Dom said, “I was thinking that someone might prefer to ride in the phaeton with me. What do you think, Jane? Shall you join me?” He was asking. Deliberately asking, not ordering. And she could feel his expectant gaze on her, indeed, feel everyone’s expectant gazes on her. But her thoughts were too jangled right now, and an enforced ride with him would only jangle them more. Especially since they’d be trapped together for half the day. She wouldn’t be able to escape. Not that she necessarily wanted to escape. Did she? Oh, Lord, she couldn’t handle this at the moment. “Actually, I was looking forward to chatting with your sister in His Grace’s coach. If you don’t mind.” Only then did she meet his gaze. It showed nothing of his thoughts, which made everything worse. She’d begun to recognize that bland expression; he only wore it when he was protecting himself. And if he felt a need to protect himself, then she’d hurt him. She swallowed hard. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him. Perhaps she should ride with him. Clear the air. Perhaps she was being a coward. “Whichever you prefer,” he said curtly. Then he walked briskly down the steps to his waiting phaeton, leapt in, and set it going. And the decision was made for her. Again. No, she couldn’t blame this one on him. This one was entirely hers. She’d sent him running away. Everyone knew it, too, which was nowhere more apparent than in the carriage once they were all settled in and headed off.

RESISTANCE TO CHANGE? “The canal system of this country is being threatened by the spread of a new form of transportation known as ’railroads’ and the federal government must preserve the canals. . . . If canal boats are supplanted by ’railroads,’ serious unemployment will result. Captains, cooks, drivers, hostlers, repairmen, and lock tenders will be left without means of livelihood, not to mention the numerous farmers now employed growing hay for the horses. . . . As you may well know, Mr. President, ’railroad’ carriages are pulled at the enormous speed of 15 miles per hour by ’engines’ which, in addition to endanging life and limb of passengers, roar and snort their way through the countryside, setting fire to crops, scaring the livestock and frightening women and children. The Almighty certainly never intended that people should travel at such breakneck speed.” The above communication was from Martin Van Buren, then governor of New York, to President Andrew Jackson on January 21, 1829. In 1832 Van Buren was elected vice president of the United States under Andrew Jackson’s second term. In 1836 Van Buren was elected president of the United States. It is also interesting that the first railroad into Washington, DC, was completed in time to bring visitors from Philadelphia and New York to Van Buren’s inauguration. Sources: Janet E. Lapp, “Ride the Horse in the Direction It’s Going,” American Salesman, October 1998, pp. 26–29; and The World Book Encyclopedia, Volume 20 (Chicago: World Book—Childcraft International, Inc.), 1979, p. 214. 2

Her face was still rosy from the carriage ride and exertion of the swing. In his view, this Margaret Macy was far more appealing than the powdered, perfectly coiffed lady of the ballroom. She looked unaffected, spirited, and breathtakingly beautiful. Had her father not been in the room he likely would have said so.

had not the outrageous flair of Sybilla, and since George was a natural horseman it seemed almost inevitable that they should more often than not end up side by side, at some distance from the others. William never came, preferring to work at his painting, which was his profession as well as his vocation. He was gifted to the degree that his works were admired by academicians and collected by connoisseurs. Only Eustace affected to find it displeasing that his only son preferred to retire alone to the studio arranged for him in the conservatory and make use of the morning light, rather than parade on horseback for the fashionable world to admire. When they did not ride, they drove in the carriage, went shopping, paid calls upon their more intimate friends, or visited art galleries and exhibitions.

Out of the first carriage stepped Bran, his hair loose and shining under a rakish plumed hat. He was dressed in a magnificent tunic and glossy high blackweave riding boots, with a lined cloak slung over one shoulder. He grinned at me--then he turned and, with a gesture of practiced grace that made me blink, handed out a lady. A lady? I gawked in dismay at the impressive hat and muffling cloak that spanned a broad skirt, and looked down at myself, in an old skirt Oria had discarded, a worn tunic that I hadn’t bothered to change after my sword lesson that morning, and my bare feet. Then I noticed that Julen and Oria had vanished. I stood there all alone. In fine style Bran escorted the mysterious lady to the new slate steps leading to the big double doors where I stood, but then he dropped her arm and bounded up, grabbing me in a big hug and swinging me around. “Sister!” He gave me a resounding kiss and set me down. “Place looks wonderful!” “You could have let me know you were bringing a guest,” I whispered. “And spoil a good surprise?” he asked, indicating the lady, who was still standing on the first step. “We have plenty of room, and as you’d told me in your letter the place isn’t such a rattrap anymore, I thought why not make the trip fun and bring ‘em?” “‘Them?’” I repeated faintly, but by then I already had my answer, for the outriders had resolved into a lot of liveried servants who were busy unloading coaches and helping stablehands. Through the midst of them strolled a tall, elegant man in a heel-length black cloak. I looked at the familiar gray eyes, the long yellow hair--it was the Marquis of Shevraeth.

-You should consider yourself fortunate that I am still willing to give you a ride. -Will we be making the journey by horse and carriage or

Here I stand, regretting our missed opportunity to walk. A year ago I would have happily run up in the hills, whether it rained or not. And I was thinking that I could go out, in spite of the weather, but I wouldn’t enjoy it like I used to.” She gestured in amicable agreement. “There’s no fault in misliking the feel of a water-soaked gown.” “That’s part of it,” I said, seizing on the image. “Last year I wore the same clothes year round. My only hat was a castoff that Julen found me somewhere. I loved the feel of rain against my face, and never minded being soaked. I never noticed it! Now I own carriage hats, and walking hats, and riding hats, and ball headdresses--and none of them except the riding hats can get wet, and even those get ruined in a good soak. My old hat never had any shape to begin with, or any color, so it was never ruined.” I turned to face the window again. “Sometimes I feel like I didn’t lose just my hat, I lost my self that horrible night when I walked into Bran’s trap.” Nee was silent. I ran my thumb around the gilt rim of the cup a couple of times, then I made myself face her. “You think I’m being foolish?” She put her palms together in Peaceful Discourse mode. “Yes I do,” she said, but her tone was not unkind. “One doesn’t lose a self, like a pair of gloves or a pin. We learn and change, or we harden into stone.” “Maybe I’ve changed too fast. Or haven’t changed enough,” I muttered. “Have you compromised yourself in any important way?” she asked. I opened my mouth to say Of course, when we were forced to give up our plans to defeat Galdran, but I knew it would be an untruth as soon as it left my lips. “I think,” I said slowly, “I lost my purpose that day. Life was so easy when all I lived for was the revolt, the accomplishment of which was to bring about all these wondrous miracles. Nothing turned out to be the way we so confidently expected it to. Nothing.” “So…” She paused to sip. “…if you hadn’t walked into that trap, what would be different?” “Besides the handsomeness of my foot?” I forced a grin as I kicked my slippered toes out from under my hem. No one could see my scarred foot, not with all the layers of fine clothing I now wore, but the scars were there. She smiled, but waited for me to answer her question. I said, “I suppose the outcome in the larger sense would have been the same. In the personal sense, though, I suspect I would have been spared a lot of humiliation.” “The humiliation of finding out that your political goals were skewed by misinformation?” “By ignorance. But that wasn’t nearly as humiliating as---” my encounters with a specific individual. But I just shook my head, and didn’t say it. “So you blame Vidanric,” she said neutrally. “Yes…no…I don’t know,” I said, trying not to sound cross. “I don’t.” I looked down, saw my hand fidgeting with the curtain and dropped it to my side.

Perhaps the only people who need go thirsty through the street where there is a drinking fountain, are the fine ladies and gentlemen who are in their carriages. They are very thirsty—but cannot think of being so vulgar as to get out to drink. It would demean them, they think, to drink at a common drinking fountain—so they ride by with parched lips. Oh, how many there are who are rich in their own good works and cannot therefore come to Christ!

But those are lies!” Imweshi turned with a frigid smile. “Of course they are! But who cares? Does it matter to them?” She gestured toward the window. “Who are they going to believe? Us? We well-fed, clean, healthy, wealthy, coach-riding Kyn? Perhaps you with all your savage finery can convince them that the mechanical beasts that draw this carriage are something other than dark sorcery. What will you say to them, my truth-telling Wielder? Will your truth feed them, clothe them, give them warm homes? What would they rather hear: that Lojar Vald and his kind have driven them halfway into their graves out of greed and selfish ambition, that the promises of another life are mere manipulations to ensure their subservience, or that a small group of backward barbarians are the only thing between them and their salvation? If you stood in their place, who would you believe?” The carriage crested a hill and left the foundries and the empty-eyed Humans behind. Tarsa

Her mother lectured her for the entire ride to the Wentworth ball. No dancing more than twice with the same man, else she’d be ruined. If she forgot herself and drank too much champagne, she’d be ruined. Ruined… ruined. The word grew more tantalizing every time she heard it. Ruined meant that no man would want to marry her. Ruined meant that she could abandon this shallow facade of belonging with polite society. Ruined meant her dowry would be her own. Ruined meant she could write as much as she pleased. Angelica smiled in the dark carriage. She would embark on her quest tonight. Surely the mission couldn’t be that difficult.

You speak like a man who has lived all his young life blissfully unaware of the chiffon-laden, flower-infused, complexities that will now be introduced to our existence. I can only liken the prospect of planning a wedding for women to the unholy glee experienced by sailors on leave or shipwreck survivors returning at long last to civilization. My pocketbook and your mental processes are about to take a flogging and no mistake. My only advice to you is to nod an affirmative to all questions posed to you on any subject remotely connected to the event, to smile enthusiastically when presented with something to view and to never, under any circumstances, ever forget any number of upcoming social obligations which are about to be rolled out before us like a vast, uncomfortable tapestry of parties and teas. All of which will be in your honor, by the way. It will be the subject of every dinner, carriage ride and romantic evening out until the thing is finished. You will come to loath the vicar, caterer, florist and a host of other tradesmen that, up until now, you never knew existed. And you must never complain, act bored or appear in any way to suggest that it is anything but a pleasure. Yes, my boy, I only hope you’re up to it. Very soon, you’ll be thinking of your time in the trenches with fondness and sentimental tenderness. Your only source of comfort will be in knowing that I, too, shall be sharing your unhappy condition.

Stagecoaches evolved into larger omnibuses in the 1830s. Their enclosed carriages accommodated twelve to twenty-eight inside passengers protected from the weather, backs to the windows facing each other across a central aisle. By 1852, in Lower Manhattan, some thirty companies operated more than seven hundred omnibuses. Rides weren’t cheap: a 12-cent fare, at a time when workers earned a dollar and craftsmen only $2 a day, limited the omnibus to businessmen, young professionals, and their families.

My host at Richmond ... could not sufficiently express his surprise that I intended to venture to walk as far as Oxford, and still farther ... When I was on the other side of the water, I came to a house and asked a man who was standing at the door if I was on the right road to Oxford. "Yes," he said, "but you want a carriage to carry you tither". When I answered him that I intended walking it, he looked at me significantly, shook his head, and went into the house again. I was not on the road to Oxford. It was a charming fine broad road, and I met on it carriages without number ... The fine green hedges, which boarder roads in England, contribute greatly to render them pleasant. This was the case in the road I now travelled ... I sat down in the shade under one of these hedges and read Milton. But this relief was soon rendered disagreeable to me, for those who road or drove past me, stared at me with astonishment, and made many significant gestures as if they thought my head deranged ... When I again walked, many of the coachmen who drove by called out to me, ever and anon, and asked if I would not ride on the outside ... a farmer on horseback ... said, and seemingly with an air of pity for me, " 'Tis warm walking, sir;" and when I passed thorugh a village, every old woman testified her pity ... The short English miles are delightful for walking. You are always pleased to find, every now and then, in how short a time you have walked a mile, though, no doubt, a mile is everywhere a mile, I walk but a moderate pace, and can accomplish four English miles in an hour

I want to take my readers on a ride, but, in the end, I want to throw them from the carriage.

There's also a tendency for writers to treat history as a pleasant backdrop for our stories, rather than something real and complex and often terrible. January made sure this book was more about power than pianofortes and carriage rides. --Interview at the end of the book

On January 2, 1843, the Prophet made an interesting statement to Elders Orson Hyde and Willard Richards concerning blacks—one that may have even specifically referenced Elijah Abel. Hyde apparently wanted Joseph Smith’s take on the “situation of the negro.” The Prophet replied, “They [the blacks] came into the world slaves, mentally and physically. Change their situation with whites, and they would be like them. They have souls, and are subjects of salvation. Go into Cincinnati or any city, and find an educated negro, who rides in his carriage, and you will see a man who has risen by the powers of his own mind to his exalted state of respectability. The slaves in Washington are more refined than many in high places, and the black boys will take the shine off many of those they brush and wait on. To this Elder Hyde is reported as saying, “Put them on the level, and they will rise above me,” to which Smith replied, “If I raised you to be my equal, and then attempted to oppress you, would you not be indignant and try to rise above me?” The Prophet went on to declare that, in his opinion, blacks should be equal with whites—“I would … put them on a national equalization.” He appears, however, to have favored segregation: “I would confine them by strict law to their own species.” Such separation was evidently meant to prevent tension between whites and blacks, which the Prophet seems to have considered inevitable in the event of “equalization.” Elijah Abel had just moved from Nauvoo to Cincinnati, and it is entirely plausible that Smith was referring to Abel personally when he suggested his listeners “go into Cincinnati” where “you will see a man who has risen by the powers of his own mind to his exalted state of respectability.

Anne’s hike to Winthrop helped me forget their gallows humor. The tension was exquisite as Captain Wentworth realized that Anne had refused another’s hand in marriage. He needed to show her he still cared, but in a way she would accept—an invitation from his sister for a ride home. He offered a hand into the carriage. They touched and the horses walked on . . . Swoon!

Once upon a time there was a little girl who loved her horse. (This is a very dull way to start a story, but it’s true.) She loved riding her horse, she loved brushing her horse, she – well, she didn’t much love mucking out the stall, but for her horse, she would do it. And that, her aunt told her, was the true measure of love. And that was how Susannah Westforth knew she loved Sebastian Beckett. She had known it even at the tender age of nine, when the Becketts moved into the estate on the other side of the village, known as Custard House. (Yes, Custard House.) She knew it when he – a mature and authoritative thirteen-year-old – would obligingly play cards with her on rainy days, or when he would muss her hair and say, “Well done, Susie!” as she took down her opponent in bowls. She knew it when they were both home for school holidays, and he let her tag along to whatever boyish endeavor happened to be going on with the local farmers’ children, acting as her protector and advocate all at once. And she knew it now, at the age of sixteen, watching him rumble away in his carriage to go off on his Grand Tour. Susannah would have done anything for Sebastian. Possibly even mucked out one of his horse’s stalls, although thankfully, he never asked her. “Oh,

Instead of the carriage Beatrix had expected, there was a single horse on the drive, Christopher’s large bay gelding. Beatrix turned to give him a questioning look. “Don’t I get a horse? A pony cart? Or am I to trot along behind you?” His lips twitched. “We’ll ride together. If you’re willing. I have a surprise for you.” “How unconventional of you.” “Yes, I thought that would please you.” He helped her to mount the horse, and swung up easily behind her. No matter what the surprise was, Beatrix thought as she leaned back into his cradling arms, this moment was bliss. She savored the feel of him, all his strength around her, his body adjusting easily to every movement of the horse. He bade her to close her eyes as they went into the forest. Beatrix relaxed against his chest. The forest air turned sweeter as it cooled, infused with scents of resin and dark earth. “Where are we going?” she asked against his coat. “We’re almost there. Don’t look.” Soon Christopher reined in the horse and dismounted, helping her down. Viewing their surroundings, Beatrix smiled in perplexity. It was the secret house on Lord Westcliff’s estate. Light glowed through the open windows. “Why are we here?” “Go upstairs and see,” Christopher said, and went to tether the horse. Picking up the skirts of her blue dress, Beatrix ascended the circular staircase, which had been lit with strategically placed lamps in the wall brackets where ancient torches had once hung. Reaching the circular room upstairs, Beatrix crossed the threshold. The room had been transformed.

For God’s sake, you are as bad as Louisa.” Joseph took his gaze from Harrison’s fancy town coach—and what was a mere portraitist doing with such a rig?—and surveyed Moreland’s features. “I beg your pardon?” “Your affianced wife, Louisa. She’s incorrigible. The girl has loving family on every hand, every hand, and yet she must make her own way. Has always had to forge her own path and I suspect she’s met her match in you, so to speak.” The duke was trying to communicate something, while Joseph was trying to make out the crest on Harrison’s coach. “Your presence here is still not well advised, Your Grace. Hanging felonies will likely be committed.” Moreland thwacked a riding crop against gleaming field boots. “Listen to me, young man: You have no father, no brothers, no uncles, not even a damned third cousin to see you through this. If a prospective papa-by-marriage is all you’ve got, then by God, that’s what you’ll take.” There was something heartening and familiar in the way Moreland delivered a scold. Warmth, unexpected and welcome, bloomed in Joseph’s chest. “Your Grace, may I say first, thank you, and second, you are as bad as Louisa yourself.” “Where do you think she came by it? One wonders what you’ll have to say to Arthur if he ever bestirs his bones to leave his carriage.” The

There’s something else, too, Miss Emmie.” Stevens had gone bashful now, and Emmie was intrigued. “Here.” Stevens beckoned her to follow him out the back of the stables, to where a separate entrance led to a roomy foaling stall. “He said you needed summat other’n t’mule, and you’re to limber her up, as Miss Winnie will be getting a pony soon.” A sturdy dapple-gray mare stood regarding Emmie from over a pile of hay. She turned a soft eye on Emmie and came over to the half door to greet her visitors. “Oh, Stevens.” Emmie’s eyes teared up again. “She is so pretty… so pretty.” “He left ye a message.” Stevens disappeared back into the barn and came out with a sealed envelope. “I can tack her up if ye like.” Emmie tore open the envelope with shaking fingers. How dare he be so thoughtful and generous and kind? Oh, how dare he… She couldn’t keep the horse, of course; it would not be in the least proper, but dear Lord, the animal was lovely… My dear Miss Farnum, Her name is Petunia, and she is yours. I have taken myself to points distant, so by the time I return, you will have fallen in love with her, and I will be spared your arguments and remonstrations. She is as trustworthy and reliable a lady as I have met outside your kitchen, and at five years of age, has plenty of service yet to give. Bothwell has been alerted you will be joining him on his rides, should it please you to do so. And if you are still determined not to keep the horse, dear lady, then consider her my attempt at consolation to you for inflicting Scout on the household in my absence. St. Just He’d drawn a sketch in the corner of Scout, huge paws splayed, tongue hanging, his expression bewildered, and broken crockery scattered in every direction. The little cartoon made Emmie smile through her tears even as Winnie tugged Scout out behind the stables to track Emmie down. “Are you crying, Miss Emmie?” Winnie picked up Emmie’s hand. “You mustn’t be sad, as we have Scout now to protect us and keep us company.” “It isn’t Scout, Winnie.” Emmie waved a hand toward the stall where Petunia was still hanging her head over the door, placidly watching the passing scene. “Oh.” Winnie’s eyes went round. “There’s a new horse, Scout.” She picked up her puppy and brought him over to the horse. The mare sniffed at the dog delicately, then at the child, then picked up another mouthful of hay. “Her name’s Petunia,” Emmie said, finding her handkerchief. “The earl brought her from York so I can ride out with the vicar.” “She’s very pretty,” Winnie said, stroking the velvety gray nose. “And not too big.” The mare was fairly good size, at least sixteen and a half hands, and much too big for Winnie. “Maybe once I get used to her, I can take you up with me, Winnie. Would you like that?” “Would I?” Winnie squealed, setting the dog down. “Did you hear that, Scout? Miss Emmie says we can go for a ride. Oh… We must write to the earl and thank him, Miss Emmie, and I must tell Rose I have a puppy, too. I can knight Scout, can’t I?” “Of course you may,” Emmie said, reaching for Winnie’s hand. “Though you must know knights would never deign to be seen in the castle kitchens, except perhaps in the dead of winter, when it’s too cold to go charging about the kingdom.” “Did knights sleep in beds?” “Scout can stay with Stevens above the carriage house when you have repaired to your princess tower for your beauty sleep.” “I’ll ask Scout.” It

Yes, my lord, and riding on sleek steel rails in a well-sprung carriage would be the height of comfort. So smooth!” said Moist. “Perhaps people could even sleep in a suitable carriage, if there was such a thing?” he added. He was surprised that he’d said this out loud, but, after all, he was a man who saw possibilities, and now he was seeing them in spades. And he saw the face of Lord Vetinari brighten considerably.

God.' She'd tasted of oranges and honey and he'd felt her shake beneath his hands. He'd wanted to strip her right there in the carriage with his men riding outside. She was driving him mad. He couldn't look at her anymore without feeling the pull. And yet he could not send her away- everything inside him rebelled at the thought. She had to stay with him so that he could protect her. So that she could illuminate his darkness just a little.

Some have speculated that had he succeeded, the road, not the railway, might have remained the conventional way to travel, that the runaway expansion of the railway might never have taken place. In a book called The Suppression of the Automobile: Skulduggery at the Crossroads, David Beasley argues that road transport was more potentially profitable, and failed only because powerful political interests were determined to stop it. ‘If the steam carriage proponents in Parliament had forged a lasting alliance between the radical Whigs and Conservatives,’ he says, ‘the railways would have been stopped in their tracks.

Dave and the others walked around the building. The building was surrounded by clumps of bushes and vines grew up its walls, but it looked like it had once had a lovely garden. When they reached the other side of the building, they saw a minecart track. It led from inside the building and then went off across the savanna, disappearing into the distance. The track seemed to lead right up to the huge white walls. The minecart track was twice as wide as they usually were. Suddenly an old music box embedded into one of the walls crackled into life, almost making Dave jump out of his skin. “Welcome to Redstone Land Station!” said a recorded voice. “You’re about to have the most fantastic vacation of your life, enjoying all the fun rides and experiences that our theme park has to offer. Ride on a rollercoaster! Stay at our luxury hotels! Chill out by our swimming pools! Or, if you’re feeling adventurous, why not join one of our tour groups and take a two-day horse ride to Bedrock City? This mysterious city has been abandoned for centuries. What kind of people used to live there? Nobody knows! But what we do know is that our Bedrock City tours are a fantastic deal — only forty emeralds per person, and kids get to go free! And if you’re feeling even more adventurous, you can take one of our tours to the Far Lands. Yes, beyond Bedrock City is one of the four edges of the world, a mysterious place where anything can happen! But I’m getting ahead of myself. For now, jump on the train and enjoy the leisurely ride to Redstone Land. The buffet carriage is at the back and is stocked with delicious food and drink! Terms and conditions apply. Redstone Land is not responsible for any injuries or loss of life experienced during one of our Bedrock City or Far Lands tours.” “Okay, that was weird,” said Carl. Suddenly the old music box spluttered into life once more and began to play the same message: “Welcome to Redstone Land Station! You’re about to have the most fantastic — “ WHAM! Carl slammed one of his golem fists into the music box, making it go POOF. A record fell out, and Carl picked it up and flung it across the savanna.

He took Mother for a ride in his first automobile, some early ancestor of Foolish Carriage. As Dad and Mother, dressed in dusters and wearing goggles, went scorching through the streets of Boston, bystanders tossed insults and ridicule in their direction... ..."Say, Noah, what are you doing with that Ark?" That did it. Dad slowed the car and cocked his checkered cap belligerently over one eye. "Collecting animals like the good Lord told me," he screamed back. "All I need is a jackass. Hop in.

Are you mad?” Briar gasped. “I’m not going to marry either of you!” She shook her head frantically. “I have no plans to marry in the immediate future. I most certainly will not limit my prospects to… to… Well, I’m sorry Percy, but…” “Me?” Percy retorted. He pointed across the carriage. “What about him? He’s a gardener! You can’t tell me you prefer him to me.” “Neither of us are ideal suitors,” Wren said firmly. “I am sure on that Percy and I can agree.” “Well, I certainly—” Percy began, only to be silenced by a glare from Wren. He pursed his lips. “But yer prospects, I’m afraid, Lady Briar, are limited to the men in this carriage. Or I suppose ye could extend yer field of choice to the men riding with us. Though some are sure to be married already. Angus, for one.” “Angus!” Briar exclaimed. “I have no wish to marry Mr. Macleod, thank you very much. Not that he isn’t a good man in his way, I’m sure,” she added hastily. “Oh, yes,” Percy said dryly. “He has only kidnapped you and Mr. Spencer here, then gone back on his word to me. He’s sure to make you a wonderful husband.” “Shut up, Percy,” Briar snapped. “I am not taking a husband.” “Ye shall, and ye must,” Wren said tersely. “It’s no’ a matter of wanting or no’ wanting. Ye’ve been placed in a terrible position, Lady Briar. What would yer brother say?” “He’d likely just shoot first and talk later,” Briar said sweetly. “And in this case, I might not blame him. I have reached the point in our journey where I should like nothing more than to be taken back home. Preferably immediately.

mind, talking all sweet like that… Yeah, yeah. I know, I know. Shut my trap before you shut it for me,” Rinny says grumpily. “Huh? Is there really not enough room for anyone else?” I ask. “Popo can easily carry more weight, but the carriage is only so big,” Ektor explains. “Rinny is a worg demi-human, and pretty big for one, too, so he can easily carry Macro in his beast form.” “It’s not actually that far, so don’t worry! Or would you two like a piggyback ride as well?

I don’t have to be able to see you to feel your disapproval, you know.” Tristan finally broke the silence. The two hour carriage ride had been painfully quiet. Tristan leaned his head against the back of the leather seat. “I have my reasons, and I don’t intend to share them with my valet.” Ellis grunted, but remained quiet. “She is better off without me.” Four beats later, Ellis responded. “There is no reason to share your thoughts with a mere valet, my lord.” “I cannot give her the life she deserves.” “As you say.” “Her ladyship seems to think my blindness makes no difference.” “Please pardon the pun, my lord, but how very insightful of her.” “I shall fire you when we reach London.” “I shiver with anticipation.” How was it he could not seem to even have his own employees agree with him? And why did he permit such insolence? “May I make a suggestion, my lord?’ “No, you may not.” “I suggest you take a day or two to ponder your actions, and then perhaps send for her ladyship.” “Definitely being fired when we reach London.” “I shall look forward to my new duties.” Tristan tapped his foot, boredom setting in. “Did you pack any books? Perhaps you can read to me to pass the time.” “I noticed an open copy of One Thousand and One Nights in the library this morning, but since I know her ladyship was reading it, I left it there.” “Her ladyship was reading it to me,” he bristled. “Ah,” Ellis said, with no regret in his voice. “If only her ladyship were with us now. With the book…” “Never mind. I could use a nap.” “Yes, my lord. A nap might restore your good humor.” “When I fire you, there will be no reference.” “I have no expectation of one, my lord.

I wondered if Jonathan Harker had felt like this much of a schmuck when he was taking his carriage ride to Dracula’s castle.

After bidding her family good-bye, Beatrix went out to the front drive with Christopher. He had changed from his uniform, with its gleaming jangle of medals, and wore simple tweed and broadcloth, with a simple white cravat tied at his neck. She much preferred him this way, in rougher, simpler clothing- the splendor of Christopher in military dress was nearly too dazzling to bear. The sun was a rich autumn gold, lowering into the black nest of treetops. Instead of the carriage Beatrix had expected, there was a single horse on the drive, Christopher's large bay gelding. Beatrix turned to give him a questioning look. "Don't I get a horse? A pony cart? Or am I to trot along behind you?" His lips twitched. "We'll ride together, if you're willing. I have a surprise for you." "How unconventional of you." "Yes, I thought that would please you." He helped her to mount the horse, and swung up easily behind her. No matter what the surprise was, Beatrix thought as she leaned back into his cradling arms, this moment was bliss. She savored the feel of him, all his strength around her, his body adjusting easily to every movement of the horse. He bade her to close her eyes as they went into the forest. Beatrix relaxed against his chest. The forest air turned sweeter as it cooled, infused with scents of resin and dark earth.

Hey, Hoid. Can I catch a ride up there with you?” "The new coachman shrugged, making room for Wayne on top of the carriage.

Ode To The Stretchy Trot Oh stretchy trot, friend of friends, honest and true, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. There in the beginning, and there at the end, thy calming presence evolving into the finest equine dance. Compulsory test circle or ultimate personal choice, available at a moment's notice, thou art the true collaborator. Releasing tension, transmitting serenity to the mind, encouraging relaxation, improving weight carriage; Steadfastly the soothing one during tumultuous times. . I know when thou art here: soft ears, loose muscles, bounciness, floating light-stepped-ness, and the ever-pervasive snorts! . Not a mere "neck down" or some prescribed posture to behold, thou art an overall body stretch through the topline from tail to ear. I cannot express enough love for thee, save that I will be here, lingering, eagerly awaiting your next appearance.

For all my efforts, I feel like nothing more than a servant playing at dress-up, riding in a carriage meant for greater people.

You want a hound. Like your mother’s pug?” “No, not a lapdog. A hound,” she emphasized with a hint of excitement. “I want a sturdy sort of dog I can stroll with through a forest or have run beside me when I ride. Something not apt to disappear into a well or be trampled under a carriage.

While on a carriage ride outside the palace, he encountered first an old man, then a sick person, and then a corpse.

The other traffic issue concerned the park’s users. Vaux and Olmsted came up with three categories of roadway that they simply called the “Walk” (for pedestrians), the “Ride” (for horseback riding), and the “Drive” (for carriages). All together, there are today about seventy miles of Walk, Ride, and Drive wending through the park. In the master plan, none of these paths ever touched. If the Drive crossed the Walk, a bridge was constructed to pass pedestrian traffic below the carriages. Similarly, the Ride was kept separate from the other paths so that horseback riders would never have to rear up suddenly when confronted with an obstacle.

I would have thought only that the money must have come from a strongroom somewhere, a chest full of gold like a duke would have or a tsar. I wouldn’t have thought of it coming from quiet men in plain coats who didn’t ride in carriages.

Tussy’s announcement that she was double-brained was coincident with the time of her first conscious memory:   My earliest recollection . . . is when I was about three years old and Mohr . . . was carrying me on his shoulders round our small garden in Grafton Terrace, and putting convolvulus flowers in my brown curls. Mohr was admittedly a splendid horse.29   Putting Marx in harness was a family tradition. Tussy ‘heard tell’ that at Dean Street, Jenny, Laura and her dead brother Edgar would yoke Mohr to chairs which the three of them mounted as their carriage, and make him pull. As the youngest and a later arrival, Tussy got her own mount and his dedicated attention:   Personally – perhaps because I had no sisters of my own age – I preferred Mohr as a riding-horse. Seated on his shoulder holding tight by his great mane of hair, then black, but with a hint of grey, I have had magnificent rides round our little garden and over the fields . . . that surrounded our house at Grafton Terrace.30   Severe whooping cough in the winter of 1858 gave Tussy opportunity to assume dominion of the household: ‘The whole family became my bond slaves and I have heard that as usual in slavery there was general demoralisation.

In religious thought, a person may ride a horse into the sky (Mohammed), ascend to heaven in a chariot of fire (Elijah), rise to the stars in a carriage drawn by six dragons (Huang Ti, the founder of the Chinese empire), or gain knowledge and afterlife in passing through the digestive tract of a feathered serpent (Maya kings). In

She marched up to the door, banged it open with a satisfying crash, brandished her scythe, and announced herself to any and all therein. “Get your heathen, trespassing backsides out of this carriage house immediately, lest I inform your papas of your criminal conduct—and your mamas.” “Good lord,” a cultured and ominously adult male voice said softly from Ellen’s right, “we’re about to be taken prisoner. Prepare to defend your borders, my friend. Sleeping Beauty has awakened in a state.” Ellen’s gaze flew to the shadows, where a tall, dark-haired man was regarding her with patient humor. The calm amusement in his eyes suggested he posed no threat to her, while his dress confirmed he was a person of some means. Ellen had no time to further inventory that stranger, because the sound of a pair of boots slowly descending the steps drew her gaze across the room. Whoever was coming down those stairs was in no hurry and was certainly no boy. Long, long legs became visible, then muscles that looked as if they’d been made lean and elegant from hours in the saddle showed off custom riding boots and excellent tailoring. A trim, flat torso came next, then a wide muscular chest and impressive shoulders. Good lord, he was taller than the fellow in the corner, and that one was a good half a foot taller than she. Ellen swallowed nervously and tightened her grip on the scythe. “Careful,” the man in the shadows said softly, “she’s armed and ready to engage the enemy.” Those dusty boots descended the last two steps, and Ellen forced herself to meet the second man’s face. She’d been prepared for the kind of teasing censorship coming from the one in the corner, a polite hauteur, or outright anger, but not a slow, gentle smile that melted her from the inside out. “Mrs. FitzEngle.” Valentine Windham bowed very correctly from the waist. “It has been too long, and you must forgive us for startling you. Lindsey, I’ve had the pleasure, so dredge up your manners.” “Mr. Windham?” Ellen lowered her scythe, feeling foolish and ambushed, and worst of all—happy. So

During the carriage ride through the city, Sara listened patiently as Jenner boasted about his prizefighting days, his past victories and defeats, and all his life-threatening injuries. Unlike Derek Craven, Ivo Jenner was a simple man who knew exactly where he belonged. He preferred the world he had come from, with its assortment of coarse people and coarser pleasures. It didn't matter to him if his money was taken from silk purses or greasy pockets.

Last week,’ she says, ‘I was in the city, on my way to visit a wretched family I’d visited before, to plead with them once more to listen to the words of their Saviour. I was tired, I felt disinclined to walk far. Before I knew what I was doing, I was in the Underground Railway, pulled by an engine, mesmerised by the alternation of darkness and light, speeding through the earth at the cost of a sixpence. I spoke to no one; I might as well have been a ghost. I enjoyed it so much, I missed my stop, and never saw the family.’ ‘I… I confess I don’t quite divine the point you are making.’ ‘This is how our world will end, Henry! We’re foolish to imagine the Last Days will be ushered in by a giant Antichrist brandishing a bloody battle-axe. The Antichrist is our own desires, Henry. With my sixpence, I absolved myself utterly of responsibility – for the welfare of the poor filthy wretches who slaved to dig out that railway, for the grotesque sum of money spent on it, for the violation of the earth that ought to be solid beneath my feet. I sat in my carriage, admiring the dark tunnels flashing by me, not having the foggiest notion where I was, mindless of everything except my pleasure. I ceased to be, in any meaningful sense, God’s creature.’ ‘You are being hard on yourself. A single ride in the Underground isn’t going to hasten Armageddon.

Although Devon didn’t say a word during the short ride back to Ravenel House, the force of his anger seemed to occupy every square inch of the carriage’s interior. Clara huddled in the corner as if she were trying to make herself invisible. Vacillating between guilt and defiance, Kathleen reflected that Devon was behaving as if he had rights over her, which he did not. He was carrying on as if she’d done something to injure him personally, which she had not. The situation was his fault--he was the one who had encouraged Winterborne to court Helen, and he had manipulated Helen into the engagement. She was vastly relieved when they arrived and she was able to escape the confines of the carriage. Immediately upon entering Ravenel House, she discovered that a sepulchral silence had settled in her absence. Later, she would learn from the twins that Devon became so overwrought when he’d discovered her missing, everyone in the household had prudently disappeared from view.

Kathleen.” He made no attempt to hide the lust in his gaze. “If you hold still, I’ll help you with your skirt. But if you run from me, you’re going to be caught.” He took an unsteady breath before adding softly, “And I’ll make you come for me again.” Her eyes turned huge. He took a deliberate step forward. She bolted across the nearest threshold and fled to the carriage room. Devon was at her heels instantly, following her past the workshop with its long carpenter’s benches and tool cupboards. The carriage room smelled pleasantly of sawdust, axle grease, lacquer varnish, and leather polish. It was quiet and shadowy, illuminated only by a row of skylights over massive hinge-strapped doors that could be opened onto the estate’s carriage drive. Kathleen darted through rows of vehicles used for different purposes; carts, wagons, a light brougham, a landau with a folding top, a phaeton, a hooded barouche for summer. Devon circled around and intercepted her beside the family coach, a huge, stately carriage that could only be pulled by six horses. It had been designed as a symbol of power and prestige, with the Ravenel family crest--a trio of black ravens on a white and gold shield--painted on the sides. Halting abruptly, Kathleen stared at him through the semidarkness. Taking the overskirt from her, Devon dropped it to the floor, and pinned her against the side of the carriage. “My riding skirt,” she exclaimed in dismay. “You’ll ruin it.” Devon laughed. “You were never going to wear it anyway.” He began to unbutton her riding jacket, while she sputtered helplessly.

Taking the overskirt from her, Devon dropped it to the floor, and pinned her against the side of the carriage. “My riding skirt,” she exclaimed in dismay. “You’ll ruin it.” Devon laughed. “You were never going to wear it anyway.” He began to unbutton her riding jacket, while she sputtered helplessly.

Halting abruptly, Kathleen stared at him through the semidarkness. Taking the overskirt from her, Devon dropped it to the floor, and pinned her against the side of the carriage. “My riding skirt,” she exclaimed in dismay. “You’ll ruin it.” Devon laughed. “You were never going to wear it anyway.” He began to unbutton her riding jacket, while she sputtered helplessly. Quieting her with his mouth, he worked on the row of buttons. After the sides of the jacket had listed open, he took the back of her head in his hand and kissed her more deeply, ravishing her mouth, and she responded as if she couldn’t help herself. A shock of pleasure went through him as he felt her suck on his tongue with a shy little tug, and he reached out to fumble for the ring-shaped handle of the carriage door. Realizing what he intended, Kathleen said dazedly, “You can’t.” Devon was more aroused and entertained than he’d ever been in his life. After tugging the door open, he pulled down the folding step. “Here’s your choice: Out here, in full view of anyone who passes by…or in the carriage, where no one will see.” She blinked and stared at him, seeming aghast. But there was no concealing the deep flush of excitement on her face. “Out here, then,” he said ruthlessly, and reached for the waist of her trousers. Galvanized into action, Kathleen turned with a whimper and climbed into the carriage. Devon followed instantly.

You needn’t have come to Hampshire in such a hurry.” “The threat of lawyers and Chancery Court impressed me with the need for haste,” he said darkly. Perhaps her telegram had been a bit dramatic. “I wasn’t really going to bring layers into it. I only wanted to gain your attention.” His reply was soft. “You always have my attention.” Kathleen wasn’t certain how to take his meaning. Before she could ask, the latch of the bathroom door clicked. The wood panels trembled as someone began to push his way in. Kathleen’s eyes flew open. She wedged her hands against the door, her nerves stinging in horror. A violent splash erupted behind her as Devon leaped from the bathtub and flattened a hand on the door to keep it from opening farther. His other hand slid around her to cover her mouth. That was unnecessary--Kathleen couldn’t have made a sound to save her life. She quivered in every limb at the feel of the large, steaming male at her back. “Sir?” came the valet’s puzzled voice. “Confound it, have you forgotten how to knock?” Devon demanded. “Don’t burst into a room unless it’s to tell me that the house is on fire.” Distantly Kathleen wondered if she might swoon. She was fairly certain that Lady Berwick would have expected it of her in such circumstances. Unfortunately her mind remained intractably awake. She swayed, her balance uncertain, and his body automatically compensated, hard muscles flexing to support her. He was pressed all along her, hot water seeping through the back of her riding habit. With every breath, she dew in the scents of soap and heat. Her heart faltered between every beat, too weak, too fast. Dizzily she focused on the large hand braced against the door. His skin was faintly tawny, the kind that would brown easily in the sun. One of his knuckles was scraped and raw--from lifting the carriage wheel, she guessed. The nails were short and scrupulously clean, but ink stains lingered in faint shadows on the sides of two fingers. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” the valet said. With an overdone respect that hinted at sarcasm, he added, “I’ve never known you to be modest before.” “I’m an aristocrat now,” Devon said. “We prefer not to flaunt our assets.

Although Bea expressed concern that such a statement might undermine her standing in the new household, she promised to consider it. “You will note, I trust, how I did not immediately say no to your request even though I will ultimately deny it? That is what we call proper conduct or decorum, your grace.” Before he could respond to her exquisite condescension, the carriage slowed to a stop, and Bea felt her anxiety, which had receded during the ride, increase sharply.

I think it would go a long way if you were to join me tomorrow—to teach what you know.” “You realize I’m in this chair.” “And? Your mouth still works.” Tart, crisp words. He blinked again. “They might not find me the most reassuring instructor—” “No, they’ll be swooning and sighing over you so much they’ll forget to be afraid.” His third and final blink made her smile slightly. Grimly. He wondered what that smile would look like if she ever was truly amused—happy. “The scar adds a touch of mystery,” she said, cutting him off before he could remember the slice down his cheek. “You would truly like me to be there tomorrow?” “We’ll have to figure out how to get you there, but it should not be so difficult.” “Stuffing me into a carriage will be fine.” She stiffened, glancing over her shoulder. “Save that anger for our training, Lord Westfall. And you will not be taking a carriage.” “A litter carried by servants, then?” He’d sooner crawl. “A horse. Ever heard of one?” “You need legs to ride.” “So it’s a good thing you still have both of them.

Which are you? Seelie or unseelie?” “Obviously, I’m seelie. I’m dressed in regal clothes and riding in a carriage, aren’t I?” “Is that all the difference amounts to?” “Do you know nothing of Faerwyvae? Are you not taught our ways growing up, like we are taught about yours?” We are, but I don’t say so out loud. For the things we are taught about the fae are hardly flattering. He huffs. “I’m an ambassador, not a nursery maid. Regardless, I’ll educate you. All fae once were unseelie, which you so callously deem lesser fae. Back when the isle was ours alone and no human had set foot here, we were different. We were…creatures, you might say. Spirits. Animals. We were so alive back then.” His voice sounds wistful. “Or so I’m told, at least. I’m hardly old enough to have been born that long ago. In any case, we didn’t start to change until your kind came to the isle.