Penelope's breath caught.
For one foolish moment, she wondered if the rain had finally affected her mind.
She blinked, but the man sitting inside the carriage was still there. Of all the people in London, of all the carriages that might have passed her on this miserable road, it had to be his.
At that moment, the rain seemed to become the only sound in the world.
It struck the roof of the carriage in a relentless rhythm, ran in silver streams along the edges of the open door, and blurred everything beyond him into a grey curtain.
Anthony, on the other hand, looked completely untouched by the weather. His hair was neatly in place, his dark coat remained perfectly dry, though his cravat had been loosened, leaving the top of his shirt slightly undone.
He sat against the velvet interior with the sort of composure that made Penelope resent him almost immediately.
