After what seemed like a lifetime, Delaney started scrambling.
She was not graceful. There was no elegance in the way she pushed herself off the Duke of Ford's chest. Her hands, which had been gripping his lapels as if they were the only solid thing in a spinning world, now shoved against the fine wool of his coat with desperate force.
She tumbled backward, her teal silk skirts rustling aggressively, filling the small space with the sound of friction. She hit the opposite seat with a thud that jarred her spine, but she didn't care about the pain. She only cared about the distance.
She pressed herself into the corner of the carriage, as far away from him as the wooden walls would allow. Her chest was heaving. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps that strained against the tight lacing of her corset. Her face burned with a humiliation so deep it felt like a sunburn beneath her skin.
