“You two are unlikely companions.” Preshea steered them onto a topic she knew would prove pleasurable and no doubt endear her to both. “How did you meet?”
Mr Jackson jumped on the opening. “We share a club. This may shock you, but I’m as likely as not to get myself in a pickle. I was deep in the soup over a cheese bun. Ruthven rescued me and has continued to do so ever since. Stalwart chap.”
“Oh, indeed?” Preshea cast a friendly look at the big Scotsman. Was the captain like this with Mr Jackson alone, or with all his friends? A white knight could sometimes be manipulated to see her as worthy of saving. Although victim was not a role she enjoyed playing.
“It began out o’ goodness and has become dire habit,” admitted Captain Ruthven. Preshea wondered if he was attending this house party in order to assist with his friend’s suit or to persuade him against it. She also wondered if he were prone to airsickness; he was looking peaky.
Mr Jackson nudged the captain in a jolly way, bumping the Scotsman against the side of the cabin.
The two gentlemen were quite squeezed. It was a ridiculous nicety that Preshea should sit alone, when she was half the size of either and not prone to a feeble stomach. Even as she told herself she was not concerned by the captain’s pallor, she found herself making an offer.
“Mr Jackson, why not sit next to me? It seems preposterous to insist on etiquette when the two of you are so much more than that bench allows.”
“What a kind thought! But poor old Ruthven here is a bad floater – he should sit facing.”
Captain Ruthven looked properly horrified. “I couldna possibly.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re positively green, old chap. You know facing will help.”
After further protestations, the big Scotsman shifted to sit next to Preshea. Mr Jackson slid over until he was across from her. This allowed both men to stretch their long legs. Preshea was not opposed – it put her face to face with her target. Unfortunately, it also put that mountain of warm muscles intimately close to her. She held herself aloof, noting that the Scotsman attempted to do the same.
He smells like Christmas – fresh pine boughs and spices. What right has a man to smell so good?
Mr Jackson remained endearingly concerned for his friend. “If the lady doesn’t mind, I’ll pop open the window.”
Preshea did not mind. The weather was unpleasant, but she welcomed fresh air. Not for the sake of the dirigible’s motion, for she was an excellent floater, having attended a finishing school in the skies. No, she wished to blow away Captain Ruthven’s intoxicating scent.
Preshea Buss! she yelled in her own head, using her maiden name, the one that hurt the most. No living man has ever brought you anything good. They are to be used, not enjoyed. Focus on the target.
Captain Ruthven recovered a little of his color. “Beg pardon, Lady Villentia. I’m a sorry traveler. I’d sooner ride, but Jack tells me it isna the done thing.”
“Gentlemen ride once they are in the country, Ruthven, old hat. They do not ride to the country.”
“Which seems daft.” The captain looked to Preshea for support. “Isna the purpose of country life riding?”
Mr Jackson issued a gormless grin. “Yes, but one gets there by dirigible. What do you take us for? Barbarians?”
Captain Ruthven’s eyes were intent. “Thus I send my lovely Rusticate into Berkshire separately with my batman, and you find me here, crowding lasses in dirigibles. I canna apologize enough.”
“My dear sir, you are hardly responsible for your size.”
Mr Jackson said, “Ruthven forgets that since he resigned his commission, Mawkins is his valet, not his batman.”
Preshea had noticed the gaffe.
The Scotsman winced, which could be from the mistake in etiquette, or something more sinister. Was he still in military employ, perhaps in some secret capacity? Or is my training making me unreasonably suspicious?
She probed. “You were in the cavalry, then?”
“Nay. Coldsteam Guards. But I’m an admirer of horseflesh.”
An Irregular, was he? That meant he would be exceptionally comfortable with the supernatural.
“And you, lass? Do you ride?”
“I can, but not well, I’m ashamed to admit.” Preshea was vaguely aware she ought to object to being called lass. After all, she had worked hard to become a proper lady. But she rather liked it, especially when delivered in that rumbling burr of his. The voice equivalent of mulled wine, warm and heavily spiced.
She moved quickly on from that thought. “My skill set is in quite the opposite direction. It is unladylike to brag, but I could steer this dirigible, if needed.”
Both men looked more admiring than shocked. Good, I have judged them correctly. These were that unusual breed of male that admired a capable female.
Preshea found herself in an unexpected predicament. Enjoying the float, fighting an inclination for the wrong man, and having a genuine affection for both. They seemed so very decent. This is ridiculous. I don’t like people. I certainly don’t like men! It was highly inconvenient. However, she would ignore it as she had ignored all such inconveniences over the years.
* * *
Gavin watched as the footman handed Lady Villentia down from the dirigible. Jack jumped down after. Gavin followed.
He heard the poor footman whisper under his breath, “Crikey,” and gave a tiny nod of sympathy. I ken how you feel, lad.
The Duke and Duchess of Snodgrove stood waiting to receive them.