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All the more reason to avoid that sacred institution.

“Rather unwise and dangerous to drive while drunk as a wheelbarrow.” Shelby crossed his arms and jerked his head toward the passive horses. “It seems your horseflesh has more sense than you at present.”

The buck blinked, as if noticing his predicament for the first time. He stared at the horses’ backs for a moment, took another swig, then straightened—or at least tried to —before swaying dangerously. “Perhaps ’tis a sign. Divine intervention. The heavens themselves refusing to let me go forward with this unholy union.”

“Fortunate for you that you came upon us.” Veiled humor tempered Shelby’s words, though an undercurrent of censure edged his tone. He swept his mouth upward into an engaging smile. “Perhaps you should not drink yourself half-blind before taking the reins in hand.”

The buck waved Shelby’s suggestion off with a clumsy gesticulation.

“Pshaw. That’s a very uninspired explanation, ol’ chap.” Hiccup. He gestured toward the road, missed entirely, and nearly toppled off the seat. “Tell me, then. Will you rescue me, abandon me, or mercifully push me off a cliff?”

Shelby considered him for a long moment.

“Our horse went lame in Blackheath, and unfortunately, no mounts were available for hire. We had no choice but to walk to Greenwich, hoping for better luck.” He affected an aristocratic accent and demeanor. “My wife twisted her ankle and cannot walk much farther. She’s also expecting.”

Wife? Expecting?

Roxina barely stifled her astonished gasp.

Shelby crossed the mark.

Desperate times and all that, but a pregnant wife?

“We’re on our way to London.” Shelby’s voice grew grave. “My mother-in-law is on her deathbed.”

He drew her close to his side, whispering into her ear under his breath. “Pretend to cry.”

When she didn’t respond, he squeezed her waist.

Bowing her head, Roxina sniffled loudly.

Not a weeper, pretending to cry did not come naturally.

The gentleman doffed his top hat.

“My deepest sympathy,” he slurred.

Hiccup.

Roxina dabbed at imaginary tears.

Shelby heaved a dramatic sigh. “And now we may not reach her side in time. The mail coach does not leave Greenwich until six tomorrow morning. I fear we will be too late to say our goodbyes.”

Wailing, Roxina buried her face in her hands, sobbing loudly.

She might as well play along.

Dash whined and nudged the hem of her cloak.

Poor dog.

He didn’t know what to make of her theatrics.

“No such thing. You must allow me to take you into my curricle.” Hiccup. Grinning, the young man teetered on the seat. “Peregrine Leopold Montgomery Phineas Atherstone V of Tunbridge Wells at your service.”

“Shelby Tellinger.” Shelby gave an impressive bow. “Of the Godalming Tellingers.”

“Related to Lord Marston?” Atherstone asked.