Erva wondered if her father would be rolling in his grave from rage or laughter. She looked down again at the bright red coat she wore. It fit amazingly well. Paul had said that the tailor had measured Will completely wrong, but Will, being the considerate man he was, hadn’t had the heart to ask the tailor for one that would fit properly. So he wore old uniforms that he himself had recuffed. Was there no end to the list of completely unintended sexy things Will could do? The man could sew, for cripe’s sake.
Picking at one of the golden frog buttons while Paul drove her to Will in a convertible-type carriage, Erva thought of her great-great-great-and-so-on grandfather, her father’s father’s father who had been in this war. He would probably tear all his hair out at seeing a distant granddaughter in a red coat.
Still, her get up was rather pretty when Paul had finished with a large black hat and giant gold plume of a feather stuck out at a jaunty angle. She’d had to wear her hair down today, since there was no one who could do it, wearing it in a long loose braid over one shoulder, a few blonde tufts waving about in a dramatic way. When she’d spied herself in the mirror, she couldn’t help but smile and approve of the dark blue dress with the bright red military uniform coat.
As Paul drove her, apparently the town’s people liked what she wore too, because folks started calling out to her and waving, calling her Fergie, the American duchess. Soon enough in Britain the Duchess Georgiana would consume the gossip and minds of many with her own outrageous fashions. Erva took a large breath when thinking over the sad fate of that duchess. The woman, it seemed, had only wanted love, yet life had been cruel and refused to give it. But how the duchess had fought for it.
It was a superb lesson: Here Erva had run from Will, from so much, too afraid love would hurt her.
But no more.
This was the day she wouldn’t let Will go. She was finished with running.
She had to get to the bottom of the rumors about Miss Emma and Miss Lydia first. Erva turned to whom Will had called his closest friend. Paul had to know something about the affair. But how to ask using eighteenth-century manners, which she felt woefully short on?
“So, Mr. Miller—”
“Paul, if it pleases the lady, call me Paul.”
“Only if you call me Erva.”
He peeked up from the road and met her eyes with surprise. She thought she was shocking him senseless with all his widened eyes she’d gleaned from him this morning that was quickly turning into a hot and bright afternoon. God, she’d slept in.
He bowed his head slowly, his brown hair glistening in the sun under a tricorn hat. Then he turned his eyes back to the road.
“So, Paul, how do you like New York?”
He sat up a bit taller. “Seems to be a pleasant village.”
“Can you imagine that one day millions of people will live here?”
He nodded and smiled. “It is pretty, all the trees and the scenery. I can imagine stacks of people wanting to come here.”
She wanted to tell him about the skyscrapers and the Statue of Liberty and of New York pizza and—and—oh, there was so much to love about New York. Instantly she craved Will, because ultimately she wanted to share with him what the future held.
She was here for a glimpse, yet she wanted more, much more. She wanted Will, and with him came...the eighteenth century. Could she stand living here? And what made her think that Will wanted her to live here? With him? What if all her fears were true?
“My lady,” Paul said, his voice low. “Erva, ‘tis truly been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, and I hope it not too forward of me, but I know that Lord Hill has been—” Paul sharply inhaled, then drew in the reins.
Erva glanced ahead and saw that the camp was close, as well as a small cart overturned, with a braying donkey standing close to upended bushels of crabapples. Or Erva guessed the small fruit was as much. It did feel as if this was another world away, even though it was just New York. But the times made everything so completely different. Fascinatingly so.
Paul steered around the wreck, turning into the camp where immediately she heard a huzzah. To her surprise someone started shouting out, “Fergie! Fergie!” She couldn’t help but giggle at that.
Paul caught her eye with a wide smile. “They are taken with you too.”
God, she hoped Paul meant that Will was taken with her as well. She wished her own insecurities didn’t bark at her, but they did, making her question everything. Well, some questions she needed answering, like Miss Emma and Miss Lydia, and she apparently wouldn’t get any answers from Paul, since he was about to drop her off.
It was time to go straight to the source, as many of her professors had said, although they meant going to a primary source, instead of secondary. But that was semantics. It was time to talk to Will.