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Captain Amberton's Inherited Bride
Jenni Fletcher
‘Marry me……And you’ll have your freedom.’Her father’s will dictates that Violet Harper must wed or be disinherited—but she’d rather face the wilderness of the wintry Yorkshire moors than be bound to cynical, damaged soldier Lance Amberton. Lance promises a marriage of convenience that will grant Violet her independence. In exchange she must put her faith in Lance, and see beyond his gruff exterior to the man beneath…


“Marry me…
and you’ll have your freedom.”
Her father’s will dictates Violet Harper must wed or be disinherited—yet she’d rather face the wilderness of the wintry Yorkshire moors than be bound to cynical, damaged soldier Captain Lance Amberton. Lance promises a marriage of convenience that will grant Violet her independence. In exchange, she must put her faith in Lance and see beyond his gruff exterior to the man beneath...
“Fletcher has crafted a romance to engage medievalists.”
—RT Book Reviews on Besieged and Betrothed
“Medieval fans will love the pageantry, the original setting and the surprises at every turn.”
—RT Book Reviews on Married to Her Enemy
JENNI FLETCHER was born in the north of Scotland and now lives in Yorkshire, with her husband and two children. She wanted to be a writer as a child, but got distracted by reading instead, finally getting past her first paragraph thirty years later. She’s had more jobs than she can remember, but has finally found one she loves. She can be contacted on Twitter @JenniAuthor (https://twitter.com/JenniAuthor) or via her Facebook Author page.
Also by Jenni Fletcher
Married to Her EnemyThe Convenient Felstone MarriageBesieged and Betrothed
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
Captain Amberton’s Inherited Bride
Jenni Fletcher


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07359-2
CAPTAIN AMBERTON’S INHERITED BRIDE
© 2018 Jenni Fletcher
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Rachel and Phil. Congratulations!
Also for Therese, my writing bestie.
Contents
Cover (#u8b5fc8b4-26fd-5849-9ec3-cad9e3f7328b)
Back Cover Text (#u044ee785-522b-5b60-9bcd-59b153071750)
About the Author (#u2893e242-1e40-5857-a32e-805bd1d99722)
Booklist (#u572c6878-9abd-5732-8354-69374fadc4cf)
Title Page (#u0912083f-3a02-50c8-9167-1761a06dafd3)
Copyright (#uc58ce41a-1bb3-5d39-8ffb-153daa100ab5)
Dedication (#u211ec547-3c4b-5e0a-a08b-e77314f97b0a)
Prologue (#ub2cab909-3f49-516c-8172-11c397adc3ae)
Chapter One (#u2df34941-3bc4-57ab-a22f-5bd05bf996fa)
Chapter Two (#u64fb0d48-2d62-50dd-8321-62c81066c9e9)
Chapter Three (#u1217bfcf-4530-53c9-be6c-896b38e78f9b)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#u932573ea-bb54-5701-b75d-555159dd7067)
Amberton Castle, North Yorkshire—1862
‘There’s no way out, Lance. I’m trapped.’
Captain Lancelot ‘Lance’ Amberton turned his attention away from a particularly attractive redhead on the dance floor and fixed his twin brother with a speculative stare. From the tone of his voice it was obvious he wasn’t talking about the ballroom. He’d listened to Arthur’s railing against their father’s domineering behaviour a hundred times before, but the new note of despondency was unsettling enough that he almost missed the footman passing by with a fresh tray of drinks. Almost.
‘It’s your own fault.’ He darted a hand out, swiping the tumbler of brandy he knew was destined for their father. ‘You shouldn’t be so damned responsible all of the time. Do something shocking. Try saying no to him once in a while.’
‘Easier said than done.’ Arthur’s eyes, the same rich amber shade as his own, looked woebegone. ‘It’s not as if we can both run away and join the army.’
‘I had to run away.’ Lance tossed back a lock of dark chestnut hair. ‘He would have thrown me out if I hadn’t.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘It is and you know it. Father and I have done nothing but argue ever since Mother died. We get on far better at opposite ends of the country.’
‘I just wish you’d told me what you were planning.’
‘So you could have done the right thing and told him?’
Arthur dropped his eyes guiltily. ‘He would have bought you a commission if you’d asked.’
‘That’s not the point. I didn’t want to owe him anything. I had the money Mother left us and I wanted to choose my own regiment. Father would have kept me in the local militia just to keep an eye on me.’
‘He’s still glad to have you back here tonight.’
‘So he can show off his ne’er-do-well son in uniform, you mean?’
Lance threw a scornful glance around the ballroom. As pleased as he was to see Arthur again, his family home held little appeal any more. After just two days’ leave, he was already itching to get back to his regiment. There were rumours that they were about to be posted abroad and he couldn’t wait to put Yorkshire behind him.
‘Don’t put yourself down.’ Arthur gave him a sympathetic look. ‘You’re a captain in the Fusiliers at twenty-two and doing pretty well by all accounts. That’s something to be proud of.’
‘I’m glad someone in the family’s noticed.’
‘He’s noticed. He’s proud of you, too, in his way.’
Lance gave a snort of derision. ‘That makes a change. It’s just a good thing I’m rejoining my regiment next week or we’d be back at each other’s throats—and this time I’m armed.’
‘Well, I’ve missed you these past six months. I’ve even missed the arguing. His lectures have got ten times worse since you left. He talks about duty and responsibility from the moment I get up until the moment I go to bed, which is early to escape. He tells me where to go, what to wear, who to talk to, even what to say. It’s exhausting.’
‘I’ve noticed.’
‘I don’t know how much longer I can stand it. I wish I had your stamina for fighting, but I don’t. I’m just...tired.’
Lance took another swig of brandy, trying to think of something reassuring to say and failing. Arthur had always been the thinker, the rational, peaceful son, whereas he... He was too much like their father, attacking first and asking questions later. All he knew was how to fight.
‘Well, don’t let it bother you tonight.’ He clapped a hand on Arthur’s shoulder in an attempt to lighten the mood. ‘There’s enough pretty girls here to entertain both of us. Let’s have some fun.’
‘Father doesn’t approve of fun, you ought to know that by now, and I don’t want to hear another rant about how not to behave.’
‘That’s easy. Just watch me.’
‘What did you think I meant?’ Arthur threw him a look that was part reproof, part appeal. ‘Just don’t do anything scandalous like at the Kendalls’ last year. He’ll never forgive you if you ruin his ball.’
‘I’ve no intention of ruining anything. And as for the scandal, as you call it, I barely touched Olivia Kendall. No more than she wanted me to anyway.’
‘She was engaged! If it had been anyone but me who’d found you on the terrace...’
‘Who ruined my evening, you mean?’
‘That, too, but just try behaving for once, Lance, please. As much as I’d like for you to distract Father’s attention, I’ve got enough to deal with this evening.’
‘It’s only a ball, Arthur.’
‘It’s not only a ball.’ Arthur sighed heavily. ‘Haven’t you wondered why Father decided to throw such a big event all of a sudden?’
‘No.’ Though come to think of it, it was odd, especially considering the parlous state of the estate’s finances. The oak-panelled ballroom was usually opened up only once a year, for the spring ball their father considered his social duty, but tonight he seemed in uncharacteristically lavish mood. The room had rarely looked so splendid, with white and red bouquets of cut flowers adorning every available surface and a floor so highly polished it resembled glass, glittering with the light of a hundred candles suspended in crystal chandeliers above.
‘Well, I did. I thought he was planning something, but I never expected...’ Arthur drew in a deep breath. ‘Look, I’m not supposed to tell you, but Father called me to his study this afternoon. He wants me to marry Jeremy Harper’s daughter.’
‘Harper the shipbuilder?’ Lance almost spat out his mouthful of brandy. ‘That miserable old curmudgeon? Since when does he have a daughter?’
‘Since she was born eighteen years ago.’
‘I didn’t even know he was married.’
‘He’s not. His wife died a few years before Mother. Don’t you pay attention to anything?’
‘Not things like that, no.’
‘Lance...’
‘Oh, don’t look at me like that. You know I prefer to swim in the shallows.’
‘No, you like to swim out of your depth and not think about it.’
‘What’s the difference?’
Arthur shook his head remonstratively. ‘The difference is that one day you might want to stand up in the water and not be able to. You ought to look under the surface once in a while.’
‘Duly noted. I’ll read the obituaries tomorrow.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘I know, but it’s the best I can do.’ Lance tossed back the last of his brandy and deposited the glass on a passing tray. ‘So what’s she like, your new bride?’
‘Her name’s Violet and she’s not my bride, not yet anyway. I’ve no idea what she looks like, never mind the rest, and nobody else seems to know either. Harper’s kept her locked away in that redbrick mausoleum he calls a house her whole life. So far as I know this is the first time she’s been out in society.’
‘Well, if she’s anything like Harper...’ Lance started to laugh and then stopped himself. ‘Sorry. But at least you know she’ll be obedient. She couldn’t not be, growing up with him. That can’t have been easy.’
‘True,’ Arthur conceded. ‘I’ve never understood how Father could be friends with that old tyrant.’
‘Something to do with money, I expect. She’ll be as rich as Croesus some day. But you know if you’re supposed to be meeting your prospective bride, you ought to take your eyes off Lydia Webster. You’ve been acting like a lovesick puppy all evening.’
‘Is it that obvious?’ Arthur’s cheekbones suffused with colour.
‘Only to me and everyone else in the room.’
‘I can’t help it, Lance. She’s the most exquisite creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. I’m in love.’
‘With Lydia Webster?’ Lance took a second glance across the ballroom to make sure they were talking about the same woman. ‘She’s a flirt and a gold-digger, and a pretty shameless one, too. She’d throw you over the moment she found out about our family finances, or lack of them, I should say. Better take your chances with Miss Harper.’
‘Don’t!’ Arthur’s face displayed a rare flash of temper. ‘Don’t speak of her like that.’
‘I’m only trying to stop you making a mistake.’
‘No, you’re treating me the same way Father does, as if I can’t think for myself. Well, I can and I ought to be allowed to choose my own bride.’
‘You’re right, you should. So tell Father that. Refuse to marry Miss Harper.’
Arthur’s expression turned sullen. ‘I don’t hear you saying no to a woman very often.’
‘I don’t need to. I’m not the heir. No one wants to ensnare the feckless younger brother.’
Not that it stopped them wanting to do other things, he thought cynically... Cordelia Braithwaite for one had been throwing beckoning glances in his direction all evening, ever since her husband had abandoned her for the card room. Not to mention the pretty, and currently partnerless, redhead. Even if he had just promised to behave, some opportunities were too good to miss. As soon as he finished consoling his brother, he’d start taking advantage of them.
‘Only younger by ten minutes.’ Arthur sounded bitter. ‘Sometimes I wish we could just change places. Then you could tell Father for me.’
‘Wouldn’t work, I’m afraid. I’d never be able to look as responsible or intelligent as you. Ten minutes makes all the difference, apparently.’
‘Then maybe you’re right.’ Arthur’s dolorous tone shifted suddenly. ‘Maybe it is time I stood up to him.’
‘That’s the spirit.’
‘I just need to be blunt.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I’ll tell him I have my own plans.’
‘Exactly.’
‘I’ll say... Wait!’ Arthur’s hand shot out and gripped his shoulder. ‘There she is.’
‘Who?’
‘Violet Harper!’
Lance turned casually towards the doorway, though it took him a few moments to actually locate the subject of their conversation. Standing between their two fathers, she was the tiniest, most unusual-looking woman he’d ever seen, nothing at all like he would have expected, an innocent daisy between two bristly thistles. Dressed all in white, she looked more like a fairy-tale creature than a woman, seeming to give off an almost translucent glow in the candlelight. Even her hair was pale, a shade of shimmering, silvery blonde that fell in a perfectly straight line to her waist. It gave her an oddly top-heavy appearance, though the top of her head barely skimmed the shoulders of their father, whose six-foot frame both he and Arthur had inherited. How would one kiss such a woman without getting backache, he wondered, not to mention other things? Not that he’d shirk such a challenge...
‘It could be worse.’ He nudged Arthur none too subtly in the ribs.
‘What, your behaviour?’
‘Very funny. I mean Father’s choice of bride. She looks like a kitten.’ He grinned. ‘I want to pat her on the head.’
‘You marry her, then.’
‘Shall we go and suggest it? I’d like to see Father’s face if we did. Harper’s, too. They’d both have apoplexies on the spot.’
‘Maybe we ought to suggest it, then.’
‘She’s pretty.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Unusual. I like unusual.’
‘You would. Have you ever met a woman you didn’t like?’
Lance shrugged, unabashed. It was true, he wasn’t biased towards any one type of woman. He liked variety—the more of it the better—though there was something particularly intriguing about Miss Harper, something that piqued his interest more than he would have expected. He let his gaze roam over her face and figure appreciatively. Her tiny size and distinctive colouring made her appear strangely ethereal, as if she were in the room and yet apart from it somehow. He couldn’t think of another way to explain it, but the duality only increased her appeal.
The longer he looked, the more he noticed other contradictions about her. Pint-sized though she was, her hips and breasts were disproportionately wide and generous, quite distractingly so, in fact. Her facial features were large, too, her eyes in particular seeming to take up half of her face, their intense blueness striking even from a distance. And as for her lips—he found himself running his tongue along his own instinctively—surely they were the most sensuous-looking pair he’d ever laid eyes on. Plump and voluptuous, like a bow he wanted to pluck on.
He took a flute of champagne from a passing footman and gulped it down quickly, taken aback by the strength of his attraction to her. If it hadn’t been for the obligation of marriage, he might have felt jealous of his own brother.
‘I wonder what she thinks about marrying you.’ He dragged his gaze away finally.
‘She doesn’t know anything about it.’
‘What?’
Arthur turned his back pointedly towards the doorway. ‘The whole thing’s bizarre, but Father and Harper have already drawn up papers. According to their agreement, I’m only to marry her after Harper dies. He married late, so who knows how old he is now. We’re engaged, but she’s not to be told anything until after the funeral. Then we get married, I get his fortune and she gets a title.’
‘Doesn’t she get a say in the matter?’
‘Apparently neither of us does.’
‘What if Harper lives another twenty years? He looks like he’ll go on for ever.’
‘There’s probably a clause to cover that, too. No doubt Father expects me to produce an heir and I don’t suppose he’ll be willing to wait that long.’
‘Then maybe there’s a way out after all.’ Lance lifted an eyebrow as Harper let go of her arm, passing her across to their father as if at some kind of prearranged signal. ‘You just have to keep the old ghoul alive.’
‘It’s still morbid.’
‘What else do you expect from those two?’
Arthur shook his head contemptuously. ‘You know Father’s only throwing this ball to impress him. He just assumes I’ll go along with their scheme. He treats me like a dog sometimes.’
‘Then bite back.’ Lance found his gaze drawn inexorably back towards her. ‘Do you really think he’s kept her locked up her whole life? There is a kind of fairy-tale quality about her. Just look at that hair...’
‘It’s white.’
‘It’s silver.’
‘If she’s old enough to be engaged, then she ought to be wearing it up.’
‘Maybe he won’t let her. In any case, here they come. Prepare to be charming.’
‘I don’t want to be—’
Arthur fell silent as their father appeared at his shoulder, Miss Harper’s elbow grasped firmly in one hand.
‘Father.’ Lance smiled innocently as Arthur made a stiff bow. ‘Won’t you introduce us to your charming companion?’
‘I was just about to.’ Their father regarded him suspiciously for a moment. ‘Miss Harper, these are my sons, the Honourable Arthur Amberton and...’ there was a brief, but noticeable pause ‘...Captain Lancelot Amberton.’
‘The not-quite-so-Honourable.’
Lance flashed his most charming smile and reached for her hand, brushing his lips along the delicate line of her knuckles. Up close, her eyes were an iridescent shade of blue, he noticed, lighter in the middle and darker towards the edges, surrounded by a thick black line that served to make them look even bigger.
‘Charmed to meet you, Miss Harper.’
‘Oh...thank you.’ She dropped into a wavering curtsy, darting a quick glance across the room to where her father stood watching.
‘Miss Harper...’ his own father shot him a warning look ‘...is here to accompany Arthur into supper.’
‘I am?’ She looked up quickly, her voice slightly breathless-sounding, as if she were surprised to find herself the subject of so much attention.
‘Yes, my dear. Your father’s given his permission.’
‘He has?’ This time she sounded positively shocked.
‘I’m afraid that’s impossible, sir.’ Arthur spoke up at last. ‘I’ve already promised to escort Miss Webster into supper. My apologies, Miss Harper.’
‘Then you must un-promise Miss Webster.’ A look of surprise crossed their father’s features. ‘I’ve agreed that you’ll escort Miss Harper.’
‘Then perhaps you ought to have informed me of your wishes earlier, Father. Or at least asked. I’ve no wish to be ungallant.’
‘This is ungallant!’
‘Perhaps I might escort Miss Harper into supper?’ Lance interrupted smoothly. ‘Keep her in the family, so to speak?’
‘You can stay out of it!’ Their father’s face was starting to take on a familiar puce colour.
‘As you wish. I was only trying to help.’
‘We all know very well how you help, sir!’
Their father gave a sudden jolt, as if he’d just realised what he’d said and who was listening, though he seemed unable to think of a way to remedy the situation, his jaw quivering with a combination of frustrated rage and embarrassment.
‘In any case, my offer stands, Miss Harper.’ Lance broke the ensuing awkward silence, regarding his father with amusement. ‘Though I might not be able to offer such scintillating conversation as my brother here. As you can tell, you’d be in danger of him talking your ear off.’
‘Arthur.’ Their father’s tone was threatening. ‘A word.’
Lance gave his brother a supportive look as the two men stepped to one side, leaving him alone with his distinctly embarrassed-looking companion. At least her cheeks had some colour now, he thought sardonically, having turned a vibrant shade of luminous pink, as if she were even more mortified by their situation than his father.
‘I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.’ Her voice was so quiet he found himself leaning forward to catch it.
‘And you haven’t.’ He took a step to one side, attempting to block her view of his father and brother arguing. ‘We aren’t happy in our family unless we’re butting heads.’
‘Your brother doesn’t look very happy.’ Her tiny brow wrinkled as she peered around him. ‘He looks very unhappy.’
Lance twisted his head with a frown. That was true. As much as he hated to admit it, Arthur did look unhappy. His shoulders were slumped forward as if he were wearing some kind of heavy garment that he couldn’t shrug off or put down. Not that there was anything that he could do about that—nothing except tell him to stand up to their father and he did that often enough—but Miss Harper was more observant than he’d expected. If he wasn’t careful, she’d force him to be serious.
‘If he’s made a promise to Miss Webster, then he ought to take her in to supper.’ She looked back at him, wide-eyed. ‘I don’t understand why your father’s being so insistent.’
He shrugged in what he hoped was a convincingly offhand manner. ‘Our fathers are old friends. I suppose they want the two of you to get to know each other.’
‘But not you?’
‘No.’ He couldn’t repress a smile. ‘I’m afraid my reputation precedes me.’
‘Reputation for what?’
He opened his mouth and then closed it again, fighting the impulse to laugh. He wasn’t often rendered speechless, but in this case he had no idea how to answer. Was she really so innocent that she didn’t know what he meant? He was tempted to tell her, even more so to show her, but he could already sense her father’s disapproving stare from the other side of the ballroom. It wouldn’t be long before the old man made his way round to interrupt them and he felt reluctant to let her go quite so soon.
‘Shall we have a dance before supper?’ He extended one arm with a flourish.
‘Dance?’ She looked as if he’d just suggested something indecent. ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t.’
‘Why not?’ He made a pretence of looking around. ‘This is a ball, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘I’m just not very good. That is, I’ve had lessons, but only with women and never in public. I really don’t think that I could.’
‘You mean you’ve never danced with a man before?’
‘No. My father says—’
‘But this is perfect! You have to start some time.’
He grabbed hold of her hand impetuously, ignoring her father’s furious glare as he pulled her on to the floor. The idea of being her first anything was strangely appealing, even if it was only a dance, and there was no harm in getting to know his potential sister-in-law. It wasn’t as if he was flirting with her, no more than came naturally anyway, and it wasn’t like Arthur would care—or even notice. Judging by the heated discussion taking place on the edge of the dance floor, his brother had chosen the most public of venues to finally make a stand. It didn’t look as if that was going to end any time soon. In which case, the longer he distracted the subject of that discussion, the better. It was almost selfless of him really...
‘No!’ She dug her heels in and tore her hand away abruptly.
‘Miss Harper?’
He swung round in surprise. She looked defiant all of a sudden, like a cat arching her back, flashing her eyes and hissing at him. The effect was as impressive as it was disarming, and he felt a dawning sense of respect. Apparently she wasn’t as obedient as he’d assumed, wouldn’t be charmed or cajoled or bullied on to the dance floor. There were claws behind that small, soft-looking facade. Damned if that didn’t make her even more attractive!
‘I apologise for my forthrightness, Miss Harper.’ He bowed in an attempt to look suitably chastised. ‘I can only blame overenthusiasm.’
‘I told you, I’m not good enough to dance.’
‘But I am, though I say so myself. I haven’t dropped anyone for a good half hour.’ He moved back towards her, putting a hand over his heart with mock solemnity. ‘But I promise I won’t let you fall. If you’ll do me the honour of accepting this dance, that is?’
Her eyes widened slightly, as if she wasn’t sure how to react, and he found himself willing her to say yes. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her father bearing down on them, coming to drag her away most likely, and by the slight tilt of her head he had the distinct impression she’d just noticed him, too. To Lance’s surprise, the sight seemed to decide her. After a moment’s hesitation, she took his arm, following him out into the middle of the dance floor.
The orchestra struck up a tune and he smiled with satisfaction. It was a polka, a livelier dance than the waltz, but still one that allowed him to face her, to place one hand on her shoulder blade while he clasped her gloved fingers in the other.
‘My father told me not to dance with anyone except your brother.’ She tensed as his hand skimmed across the small of her back.
‘Then you’re more rebellious than I thought, Miss Harper.’
‘I’m not rebellious at all.’ Her expression shifted subtly. ‘Though sometimes I think I’d like to be.’
‘Indeed? Then you’ve come to the right man. I’d be more than happy to help.’
‘Oh.’ Her brow furrowed with a look of confusion. ‘Thank you.’
He bit back a laugh, flirting by habit, though in truth, he was surprised by the variety of ideas that sprang to mind, none of which were remotely suitable in relation to his brother’s future wife. Over the top of her head he could see Cordelia Braithwaite pouting at him, though the sight left him cold. For some inexplicable reason, he preferred the unworldly, unusual Miss Harper.
‘The music’s very fast.’ She sounded nervous.
‘Just follow my lead.’
He squeezed her fingers reassuringly as he led them off, sweeping her in a series of increasingly wide circles around the dance floor. She stumbled slightly at first, but quickly caught up with the rhythm, gradually relaxing in his arms as she adapted to the lively pace of the music. Contrary to what he’d expected, it was surprisingly easy to dance with her. He didn’t have any backache at all. She was so light that he found himself actually lifting her off her feet with every hop, her natural poise making her float like a feather in his arms.
‘I didn’t peg you for a liar, Miss Harper.’ He arched an eyebrow accusingly.
‘What do you mean?’ She looked startled again.
‘You said you weren’t a good dancer. You’re a natural.’
Her whole face seemed to light up as she smiled. ‘I do enjoy it. We have a ballroom at home, though we’ve never had a ball.’
‘What a waste.’
‘Sometimes I dance there by myself.’
‘Without music?’
‘I sing.’ She bit her lip suddenly as if regretting the admission. ‘I suppose that sounds ridiculous.’
‘On the contrary, I’m sure you make quite a charming picture. I’d like to see and hear it.’
She smiled again and he tightened his grip on her shoulder, amused and intrigued in equal measure. He’d never visited the Harpers’ mansion in Whitby, though it was rumoured to be immense and as chilling in appearance as its owner was in reality. The daughter really was straight out of a fairy tale. At this point he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that she’d grown up in an ivory tower.
‘This is your first ball, I understand?’
She nodded enthusiastically. ‘It’s my first anything. I’ve never seen so many people in one place. The ladies all look so beautiful.’
‘I suppose so.’ He glanced around, though the rest of the room seemed to have lost some of its lustre. All the other women looked drab by comparison.
‘Would you introduce me to some of them?’
‘The ladies?’ He raised both eyebrows this time. ‘Don’t you know anyone?’
‘The only people I know here are my father and yours, and now you. I don’t have many acquaintances.’
‘Not even in Whitby?’
‘No.’ She looked vaguely apologetic. ‘My father doesn’t like to make calls and he doesn’t approve of me going out on my own.’
‘Indeed?’ He felt a flicker of anger towards her father. Had she really been a prisoner, then? And yet she spoke matter-of-factly, as if she didn’t expect anything else. ‘In that case I’d be glad to make some introductions. Then perhaps you could encourage your father to throw his own ball? So that you can dance in your own house, I mean.’
‘Father?’ Her laugh sounded like a bell tinkling. ‘I can’t imagine that ever happening.’
‘Not even for your coming out?’ He felt a sudden impulse to test her, to see if she suspected anything of their fathers’ scheming. ‘I’m sure you’d find plenty of suitors.’
The silvery glow that had seemed to envelop her faded, as if a shadow had just fallen over her face. ‘My father doesn’t approve of suitors.’
‘Maybe not, but after tonight I’m sure there’ll be plenty of young men eager to renew your acquaintance.’
‘Eager for my father’s money, you mean?’
He almost tripped over his feet, taken aback by her bluntness. It was an unfortunate truth that in the eyes of the world her fortune would constitute her most attractive feature. She was too unusual looking to be called beautiful—he wouldn’t be surprised if his father actually saw coins when he looked at her—but such things weren’t usually spoken about out loud.
‘I see.’ Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face because an expression of hurt swept over hers. ‘I think I’d like to stop dancing now.’
He blinked, surprised for the second time in less than a minute. Never in his life had a woman asked to stop dancing with him before. Most wanted to do a lot more than that. He couldn’t have been any more surprised if she’d slapped him across the cheek.
‘Miss Harper, if I’ve offended you then I apologise.’
‘You haven’t.’ She stopped stock-still in the middle of the dance floor, every part of her body turning rigid at once. ‘I know what I am.’
‘What you are?’ He made a brief gesture of apology as the couple behind them polkaed straight into his back.
‘Yes! And I refuse to stand here and be mocked for it.’
‘What...?’
He didn’t get any further as she twisted away from him, pushing her way through the dancers as he stared speechlessly after her. What on earth had he said to cause such an extreme reaction? That she might have suitors? Women liked to be told they’d have suitors, didn’t they? And yet she’d seemed to think he’d been laughing at her, as if the very idea were a joke—as if she were a joke. Why the hell would she think that?
He started after her, taking a different path through the throng. He had to fix it, whatever it was that he’d done. If his father were really so determined to have her as a daughter-in-law, then he didn’t want to make a bad situation any worse—although he didn’t want to upset her either, he realised. The look of hurt on her face had elicited an unexpected feeling of guilt. It wasn’t an emotion he was accustomed to, had actually taken him a few moments to identify, and he wanted to be rid of it as quickly as possible.
‘Miss Harper.’ He intercepted her before she could reach her father. ‘I wasn’t mocking you. I was only trying to make conversation.’
‘Well, I didn’t find it amusing.’
‘Then blame my shoddy manners.’ He put an arm out as she tried to dodge past him. ‘I was too forward, but for what it’s worth, I think you might have any number of eager suitors. There aren’t many women I’d run across a ballroom for.’
She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with a dignity that managed to make him feel even more guilty. ‘I’m not devoid of intelligence, Captain Amberton. My father’s told me not to think about marriage and I don’t. He’s warned me that any suitors would only be after my fortune.’
‘But that’s preposterous!’ He felt a spontaneous burst of temper. What kind of father would say such a vile thing, as if she had no attractions of her own? She had more than enough, in his eyes anyway, not that it was his place to say so. That was supposed to be his brother’s job. Where was Arthur anyway? There were enough people looking in their direction now, but no sign of his brother among them.
Her eyes flashed. ‘My father wants what’s best for me. He’s trying to protect me.’
‘He’s a liar!’
‘Indeed, sir?’
Lance clenched his jaw, stifling an oath at the sound of her father’s voice behind him. So much for behaving himself. Somehow he’d managed to cause a scene and insult one of his father’s oldest friends into the bargain. Not that he felt particularly sorry. On the contrary, now that he’d started a scandal, he saw little point in stopping.
He turned around, looking the older man square in the eye. ‘If you’ve told your daughter that no man would want to marry her for herself then, yes, sir, you’re a liar.’
‘What I say to my daughter is no business of yours.’ Harper’s beady eyes narrowed malevolently. ‘And I’ll thank you to keep your distance in future. She won’t be dancing with a reprobate like you again.’
‘Better a reprobate than a liar.’
‘Captain Amberton!’ Miss Harper pushed herself between them, though her tiny height did nothing to obstruct either one of their views. ‘You’ve no right to insult my father!’
‘I do when he insults you.’
‘I’ve only told her the truth.’ Harper jutted his chin out as if daring him to take a swing at it. ‘Or are you saying that you’d marry her without my money?’
‘What?’ He said the word at the same moment she did, though it was impossible to tell which of them sounded the most horrified.
‘I asked if you’d marry her for herself? Since you take such a keen interest.’
Lance dropped his gaze to her face, but she was already looking away, arms folded around her waist as if she were trying to make herself look as small and unobtrusive as possible. Would he marry her? No. Of course not. He had absolutely no intention of shackling himself to any woman, no matter how attractive or intriguing he found her, though he could hardly say so without causing her further embarrassment. Better that than an engagement, however...
‘I’m about to return to my regiment, sir.’ He gave the first excuse that came into his head. ‘I’ve no provision for a wife.’
‘Ha!’ Harper’s face contorted with a look of malicious glee. ‘I thought not.’
Somehow Lance resisted the urge to grab the older man by the lapels and throw him headfirst through the nearest window. What on earth was the matter with him? Every eye in the room was turned towards them, every ear honed to hear every word—even the orchestra had stopped playing to listen—and yet Harper seemed so determined to win their argument that he had no qualms about humiliating his daughter in public. Just how much of a monster was he?
‘What’s going on?’ His father burst upon them suddenly, trailing a defeated-looking Arthur behind him. ‘Lance, I told you to behave yourself.’
‘I was behaving myself.’
He ran a hand through his hair, torn between exasperation and dull fury. How exactly had he found himself in this position, between two livid fathers, a silent brother and a tiny kitten of a woman who looked as though she wished the ground would open up and swallow her? Why the hell was he the one defending her?
‘He called me a liar.’ Harper’s tone was indignant.
‘And you called me a reprobate.’ Lance shot him a savage look. ‘I believe that makes us even.’
‘Apologise!’ His father’s voice was a hiss, bristling with rage. ‘Apologise to our guest right now.’
‘Don’t you want to hear my side of the story?’
‘Your side of the story is always the same. He called you a reprobate because that’s what you are. Now apologise or get out of my house this instant!’
‘Stop!’ It was Miss Harper who interrupted this time. ‘Please stop. It was all my fault. I overreacted, I’m sure.’
‘I doubt that, my dear.’ His father didn’t even bother to look at her. ‘You mustn’t distress yourself.’
‘But you mustn’t do this! Not because of me. It’s too awful.’
‘It’s no more than he deserves. This is the last straw, Lance.’
‘For you, too, Father.’ He didn’t wait another moment, turning his back and cutting a swathe through the dancers as he stormed towards the door. ‘Don’t expect me to set foot in this house ever again!’
‘Good!’ His father’s voice reverberated around the ballroom. ‘Because I wouldn’t let you in! You’re no son of mine any more!’
Lance stopped in the doorway, opening his mouth to hurl one final parting shot, then closing it again as he caught sight of his brother. Arthur was standing off to one side, a picture of such abject misery that he was half tempted to march back across the room and drag him away with him, too. But he was going back to his regiment and Arthur...well, Arthur was going to marry Violet Harper.
He took one last look at her face, at her big blue eyes made even bigger with shock. She was right about one thing. This was all her fault. If she hadn’t been so damned oversensitive, then he wouldn’t have had to run after her to apologise, wouldn’t have run into her father or stood up for her either, not that she’d thanked him for that! His lip curled contemptuously. From now on, he’d stick with the Cordelia Braithwaites of the world. Women like Violet Harper were more trouble than they were worth.
He turned away, mentally consigning his father, Harper and the whole room, Arthur excepted, to the deepest, darkest region of Hades. As for Violet Harper, future sister-in-law or not, he earnestly hoped he never set eyes on her again.
Chapter One (#u932573ea-bb54-5701-b75d-555159dd7067)
March 1867—five years later
The snow started to fall around midday.
Violet tugged at the hood of her thin grey, woefully inadequate cloak and tipped her head back, sticking her tongue out to catch a flake on its tip. It melted at once, sending an icy trickle sliding down the back of her throat. Snow. She’d never been out in it before, had only ever watched it fall through a windowpane, and the new experience was invigorating.
Nothing, not even bad weather, could dampen her spirits today. She ought to be frightened, sitting in the back of a rickety old cart rattling its way high over the moors, running away from her home, her few friends and everything else she’d ever known, but instead she felt exhilarated. Even the barren heather-and-gorse-filled wilderness didn’t intimidate her this morning, as it always had from a distance. Today it looked free and unconfined and alive, the way that she finally felt inside. In the space of a few hours, she’d travelled further than she ever had in the whole of her twenty-three years previously, not just in distance, but in herself, too. At long last, she’d taken charge of her own future, refusing to be the old, shrinking Violet any longer. For the first time in her life, she felt proud of herself.
Not a bad accomplishment for her wedding day.
‘The mine’s just over that ridge!’ the driver’s boy called back to her. ‘Don’t worry about the weather, miss. We’ve ridden through worse.’
She gave him a dazzling smile and settled back against the crates bearing supplies up to the miners at Rosedale. The driver had promised to take her on to Helmsley afterwards, though she could only imagine what he and his boy must be thinking of her. Her friend Ianthe had vouched for them, both for their characters as well as their ability to keep a secret, but they must surely still be wondering why a lone gentlewoman would arrange to meet them at dawn on the outskirts of Whitby as if she were fleeing the clutches of some evil tyrant.
Which in one sense, she supposed, she was.
She’d been planning her escape for the past week, almost from the moment Mr Rowlinson had taken her aside after her father’s funeral, saying he preferred to communicate the terms of the will in private. It hadn’t taken her long to understand why. The lawyer had been apologetic as he’d read, watching her anxiously over the metal rim of his spectacles, though no amount of sympathetic looks could have mitigated the shock of those words. Looking back she felt strangely detached from the scene, as if it had been someone else sitting in her chair like some kind of black-clad statue, frozen in horror as her father bequeathed her in marriage to the heir of Amberton Castle.
Bequeathed!
In that moment she’d felt something harden inside her, as if all her feelings of grief and loss had crystallised into something else, something colder and darker. She didn’t know what the emotion was, if it even was an emotion at all. It felt more like the absence of one, an emptiness at the very centre of her being, as if her ability to feel anything had been suspended.
She remembered laughing. She must have sounded hysterical because Mr Rowlinson had rushed to pour her a glass of brandy and, for the first time in her life, she’d accepted. Her father had never allowed her to touch any kind of alcohol, but she’d wanted to drink the whole bottle just to spite him.
A few sips had put paid to that idea, making her cough and splutter and her head spin even more as she’d tried to understand how her father could have done such a thing to her. After so many years of obedience, of living her life in the shadows, tolerating his abuse and his insults, how could he have arranged a marriage without even telling her—let alone asking her? Just when she’d thought she might finally be free.
She ought to have known that he wouldn’t let her go so easily. He’d never allowed her to make any decisions of her own and now it seemed he intended to keep on controlling her life even after his death. The terms of the will were so strict that even Mr Rowlinson had faltered in reading them. Unconventional as it was to hold a wedding so soon after a funeral, her father’s words were as uncompromising and unyielding as ever. Unless she married the man of his choosing within one month of his burial, she would be disinherited, would lose her home and her fortune to a distant cousin in Lancashire. In short, she would be penniless.
Unless she did as she was told.
Her spinning thoughts had rushed back to the ball at Amberton Castle five years before, the one and only such event she’d ever attended. At least the will finally explained why her father had been so uncharacteristically keen for her to spend time with Arthur Amberton, not just at the ball, but on the monthly visits he’d made with his own father since.
She’d been vaguely suspicious, especially when her father had started to drop hints about her future, even once going so far as to actually say he’d arranged a marriage for her, though she’d eventually concluded that it was some kind of cruel joke. After all, he was the one who’d always told her how small and unattractive she was, how only a fortune hunter would pretend to want her, how she was better off without a husband. It hadn’t made any sense that he would ever want her to marry.
Besides which, there had never been anything in Arthur Amberton’s behaviour to suggest that he was remotely interested in her. He’d always looked as depressed on his visits as he had the first time they’d met at the ball. Their few conversations had been stilted and uncomfortable, their fathers watching over them like a pair of severe-looking owls. He’d never as much as hinted at a secret engagement, if he’d even known of it, though if he had, he couldn’t have made it any more obvious that he didn’t want to marry her. No more than she’d wanted to marry him.
Though even he would have been preferable to the alternative...
She pulled her hood tight around her face, oppressed by a wave of sadness. Arthur Amberton had been lost at sea seven months before, sailing his small boat along the North Yorkshire coast on a calm, late summer’s day. He’d gone out alone, without telling anyone where he was going, and his boat had been discovered by a fishing vessel the next day, intact and undamaged, though Arthur himself had been nowhere to be found. There’d been numerous theories—that he’d hit his head and fallen overboard, that he’d been attacked, that he’d gone for a swim and developed cramp—though no one had wanted to mention the obvious answer, that he’d taken his own life rather than live with his despair a day longer. Rather than marry her.
Ironically, she’d been the one who’d insisted on keeping the news from her father. He’d been bedridden already by that point and she hadn’t wanted to distress him any further. She’d been half-afraid that Henry Amberton, Arthur’s father, might make an appearance, but the following day had brought further bad news. The father had suffered a fatal heart attack on being told about the empty boat. Father and son had died within twenty-four hours of each other, leaving a different heir to the estate.
Captain Lancelot Edward Amberton, the new Viscount Scorborough.
The very thought of him made her shudder, evoking the same feeling of stomach-churning embarrassment she’d felt at their first encounter. She’d been hopelessly naive, actually enjoying his company to begin with. She’d been excited and nervous about her first ball, all too vividly aware of the strange looks and whispered comments she knew her tiny size and extreme paleness attracted, but Captain Amberton had seemed not to notice.
He’d been confident, friendly and open, unlike any man she’d ever met before, seeming to embody the very freedom the ball represented. He’d come to her rescue when his father and brother had been arguing, encouraging her to talk when she felt tongue-tied and putting her at ease when she’d been too afraid to dance. She’d actually defied her father by dancing with him and she couldn’t deny how attractive she’d found him, far more so than his brother despite their being identical twins, with his carelessly swept-back chestnut hair, his broad, muscular frame, and the roguish glint in his eye that had made her want to smile, too. When he’d held her in his arms she’d felt a new and distinctly alarming sensation, a tremulous fluttering low in her abdomen, that had made her feel giddy and excited and awkward all at the same time.
That was before she’d realised he’d been laughing at her, mocking her about the possibility of suitors, as if she’d ever have any. She’d felt self-conscious enough at the start of the evening, but then she’d earnestly wished herself back in the isolation of her own bedroom.
Despite that humiliation, however, worse still had been the scene that had followed. Confusingly, he’d seemed to be standing up for her at first, though she’d felt compelled to defend her own father. The moment when he’d said he wouldn’t want to marry her had been one of the worst of her life. She could hardly have expected any other answer, but the words had still felt like a knife to the heart.
Yet his subsequent banishment had seemed like her fault somehow. Too late, she’d tried to say something to help, but she hadn’t been able to stop it. He’d stormed away and the look he’d given her from the doorway had been anything but friendly. It had seemed more like he hated her.
Her father had taken her aside afterwards, forbidding her to mention the name Lancelot Amberton in his hearing ever again, and she’d overheard enough of the subsequent gossip to understand why. What she’d thought was a hint of scandal about him was in fact the whole truth. He was exactly what her father had called him, a reprobate. A drunkard, a gambler, a notorious ladies’ man—and now the man that she was supposed to marry!
Never in a thousand years would her father have intended to leave her at the mercy of such a man, but he’d made one significant mistake in writing his will. He hadn’t specified a name, simply stating the heir to the Amberton estate—and the new heir was Lance.
She refused to even consider the possibility of marriage to him. He’d returned to Yorkshire a few months before, invalided out of the army a bare month after the deaths of his brother and father with a bullet wound to the leg, or so she’d heard, though he hadn’t been seen in Whitby at all. It was rumoured that he’d become a recluse, never venturing further than the walls of Amberton Castle.
He hadn’t attended her father’s funeral either, hadn’t sent any flowers, nor so much as a card of sympathy. The only communication had come two days afterwards through Mr Rowlinson—a brief note to say that he intended to honour the terms of their fathers’ agreement, that he would meet and marry her exactly one week later, at ten o’clock on the tenth day of March, 1867.
So she’d run away. He was the last man on earth she wanted to see, let alone to marry, and yet she was very much afraid that if she stayed then she would. After a lifetime of obedience, she wasn’t sure exactly how to assert herself, and Lancelot Amberton had struck her as the kind of man who knew exactly how to get what he wanted. And he wanted her fortune—that much she was sure of. It was the only possible motive he could have for wanting to marry her.
In which case, she’d decided, all she needed to do was hide and wait for the terms of her father’s will to expire. Captain Amberton might make efforts to find her during that time, but once the month lapsed, he’d lose interest and she’d be safe. It would leave her almost penniless, all except for a small legacy left by her mother, but it would mean freedom, and surely even a life of poverty would be better than him.
She’d confided her plans to her dearest friend in the world, Ianthe Felstone, and whilst she hadn’t approved, she had understood. After some initial reluctance they’d plotted her escape together.
Ianthe had arranged for Violet to join the supply run that left her husband Robert’s warehouse every two weeks for the Rosedale mines. Then she’d volunteered to go to Whitby station on the morning of the wedding, draped in a heavy black veil to catch the train to Pickering as a decoy. Even her eccentric Aunt Sophoria had been roped in. Ianthe had flatly refused to let her travel without a chaperon, so it was Sophoria that Violet was going to meet in Helmsley, from where they intended to travel to York.
Nervous as she was, the thought of visiting such a large city with all its museums and art galleries and parks was thrilling. She’d resolved to make the most of her time there because afterwards...
In all honesty, she had no idea about what she’d do afterwards, but she’d think of something. She’d escape first and think about the future later. She could be a governess or a companion, if anyone would take her, but there was one thing she was absolutely determined about, that she would never live under the control of any man, not ever, ever again. She wouldn’t be told what to do, nor how to think about herself or anything else either. From now on, she’d be free.
She clenched her fists at the thought, then loosened them again quickly as the cart lurched forward suddenly and then down, giving an ear-splitting creak as it dropped to one side so forcefully that she toppled with it, banging her head against one of the crates. For a few seconds, the world seemed to spin and blur, the whirling snowflakes above turning rainbow-coloured, before she focused again on the boy’s face peering down at her.
‘Are you all right, miss?’
Tentatively, she reached a hand to her temples. She felt slightly dazed, but otherwise unharmed. That was a relief. She wouldn’t get very far injured.
‘I think so.’ She took his proffered hand and clambered inelegantly over the front of the trap. ‘What happened?’
‘Pothole. One of the wheels has come loose from the axle.’
‘Can you fix it?’ She felt a flutter of panic at the thought of turning back.
‘Aye.’ The driver was crouched down beside the cart, examining the undercarriage. ‘We just need to get out of this hole first.’
‘Can I help?’
‘A tiny thing like you?’ He shook his head dismissively. ‘But if you want to be useful, lead the horses on a bit and hold them there.’
Violet grasped hold of the leather bridles, stifling a sense of resentment as she walked the animals on a few paces, dragging the cart back on to flat terrain. She was used to people commenting on her small size, but it wasn’t as if the driver’s lad was much bigger than her. She wasn’t completely useless, no matter what everyone around her seemed to think. There was more that she could do, she was sure of it, if only someone would give her the chance.
‘Right, then.’ The driver wiped a hand over his brow. ‘Now we just need to lift the frame and... Who’s that, then?’
Her heart almost jumped out of her chest at the words. The moorland road was rarely used these days, not since the railway had replaced the old stagecoach, and they hadn’t passed any other vehicles that morning. Not that there was any cause for alarm, surely. At this moment, Captain Amberton was most likely in pursuit of the steam train or, failing that, riding along the coast road towards Newcastle. Still...
Her nerves tightened as she peered around the edge of the trap, back along the road towards two bay-coloured horses just cresting the top of the rise behind them, one of them bearing a chestnut-haired man wrapped in a long, black greatcoat.
No! She whipped her head back again. It couldn’t be him. The riders were still too far away for her to be certain, but surely it couldn’t be. How could he possibly have found her? Even if he’d somehow discovered that she hadn’t caught the train, there was no way he could have guessed the direction in which she was travelling, never mind with whom... Was there?
‘Looks like they’re in a hurry.’ The driver stepped out into the road to hail them. ‘But maybe they’ll lend a hand.’
‘Wait!’
She tried to call out, but her voice seemed to have abandoned her, emerging as a fierce whisper rather than a call. It was too late anyway. The riders were already slowing to a halt, drawing rein just a few feet away from the trap. Quickly, she pushed her way between the two horses, glad for once of the short height that allowed her to hide more easily. With any luck they wouldn’t notice her, but even if they did, she still had her hood pulled over her hair. If she kept her head down, they wouldn’t be able to see her face, would hopefully assume she was another boy. She might still escape as long as she didn’t draw attention to herself—if it was him.
‘Might we be of assistance?’
Her heart plummeted. It was him. Captain Amberton, or her pursuer, as she now thought of him. Even after five years, there was surely no mistaking that voice, rich and deep, though without the hint of laughter that had seemed to accompany almost everything he’d said to her at the ball. It sounded positively stern now as he conversed with the driver, saying something about the wheel, although the blood was gushing so loudly in her ears that she couldn’t make out the individual words. The tension was unbearable. She peered out again, desperately hoping that her imagination was running away with her and that she’d made a mistake...
She hadn’t. She stifled a gasp. Somehow whilst he’d been just a distant idea, a reclusive villain who she hadn’t seen in five years, her plan to escape had seemed plausible, likely even. Now he was standing so close, she wondered how she could ever have thought she might fool him.
She’d forgotten how physically imposing he was, tall and broad-shouldered with an intimidating male presence she could sense even from her hiding place. He looked just as handsome as he had the first time they’d met, though his face appeared leaner and edgier, too, as if the soft angles had all been chiselled away and made more pronounced. A dark moustache and swathe of stubble gave him the rugged look of a man who didn’t care what anyone else thought of him either, a man who might plausibly do anything and could, too.
He dismounted in front of her, wincing slightly as he swung his right leg over his saddle, though by the way the muscles bunched in his jaw, she had the distinct impression he was trying not to show any pain. For a moment, he simply hovered in the air, holding himself up with his arms, before dropping to the ground with an abrupt thud. His companion dismounted at the same time, though he didn’t offer any assistance, she noticed, taking up a position to one side almost as if he were making a point of not doing so.
She held her breath as her pursuer made his way towards the cart, placing his weight on his left leg and limping with the right. Apparently his injury, whatever it was, had been even worse than the gossips had reported. After five months at home, the damage appeared to be permanent. She felt a flicker of pity, quickly repressed, though surely it was possible to pity him and still not want to marry him? After all, her objections had nothing to do with his leg.
He nodded to his companion and the pair of them braced themselves against the side of the trap, lifting it up with their bare hands.
‘Can you get the wheel back on?’ He spoke to the driver again.
‘Aye, I reckon so.’ The driver set to work at once, pushing the wheel back over the axle and hammering the pin swiftly into place before standing up again with a look of satisfaction. ‘There, that should hold for now. My thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Her pursuer gestured towards the road. ‘You’re travelling up to Rosedale?’
‘Yes, sir. Supposed to be going on to Helmsley as well, though it looks like the weather’s closing in.’
Violet looked up at the sky in alarm. The boy had said they were used to driving in this weather, but there was no denying that the snow was getting heavier, gathering in piles now where before it had seemed to melt into the ground. What would that mean for her escape?
‘Then you’d better hurry.’ Her pursuer gave a curt nod. ‘I’m glad we could be of assistance.’
He turned away and she let out a sigh of relief, hardly able to believe the closeness of her escape. He was leaving! He hadn’t seen her! Even if she was going to be delayed up at Rosedale, she was still free...
‘Miss Harper?’
She jumped halfway into the air at the sound of her own name, heart pounding like a heavy drum in her chest, so hard she thought she might develop bruises on her ribs. She leaned out slightly, but her pursuer was facing in the opposite direction, still walking away from her. He hadn’t so much as turned his head to call out. If it hadn’t been for all the other faces looking in her direction, she might have thought she’d imagined it, but clearly she hadn’t. How had he known she was there? He’d shown no sign of being remotely aware of her presence.
‘Miss Harper?’ He sounded more insistent this time.
‘Yes?’ Her voice was little more than a squeak.
‘We’re leaving.’
The habit of obedience was so strong that for a moment she almost followed after him. She actually stepped out into the open before she stopped herself, seized with a fierce rush of indignation. How dare he summon her as if she were one of his soldiers, as if he thought he could just issue commands and she ought to do what he said! Just like her father! Well, she didn’t have to go with him. She was a free woman—in principle anyway. She could do what she ought to have done in the first place and simply refuse. She’d say that she didn’t want to marry him, not under any circumstances. How hard could it be to assert herself?
She stepped out from her hiding place and on to the track, keeping her hood lowered over her face so that he couldn’t see how nervous she felt.
‘No.’
He stopped at once, turning to greet her with a look that managed to be both jaw-droppingly handsome and icily menacing at the same time. There was no hint of emotion, as if he were deliberately presenting a blank canvas, and yet the undercurrent of tension was palpable.
‘It’s a pleasure to see you again, too, Miss Harper.’
She felt a shiver run the full length of her body. How could a man who’d seemed so warmly charming the first time they’d met now be so glacially chilling? She barely recognised him. There was an edge of danger about him now, as if he were restraining more than his temper. Her nerves quailed beneath the force of that formidable dark stare, but she didn’t respond, didn’t curtsy or so much as bend her head. She had the discomforting feeling that if she moved at all, then she might lose her resolve and give in. She already felt a powerful impulse to walk forward, as if he were drawing her towards him through sheer force of will.
He lifted an eyebrow slowly, though if he was concerned by her lack of response he didn’t show it.
‘I apologise for not having visited you before our appointment this morning, but I regret to say I’ve been indisposed.’ He didn’t sound apologetic at all.
‘You didn’t come to my father’s funeral,’ she accused him, finding her voice at last, though it sounded pitifully small in comparison.
‘Simply because I prefer not to add hypocrisy to the long list of my faults. I doubt he would have wanted me there and I was only informed about the terms of his will after the funeral.’ He shrugged. ‘However, I’m here now and willing to proceed.’
Willing to proceed? She sucked in a breath at the insulting tone of his words. He made it sound as if he were doing her a favour. As if the only reason she’d run away was because he hadn’t visited her before the wedding, as if it were simply a case of wounded pride and not abject loathing—as if she’d ever want to marry a reprobate like him!
She lifted her chin disdainfully. ‘You’re mistaken if you think I was offended by your absence, sir. I’ve no wish to keep our appointment at all.’
‘Indeed?’ His jaw tightened. ‘Then what, may I ask, are your plans?’
‘I’m going to Rosedale.’
‘To pursue a career in mining, perhaps?’
‘That’s none of your concern.’
‘On the contrary. Your father’s will was rather explicit on that point. He made me responsible for you.’
‘I can take care of myself!’
‘Really?’ The eyebrow lifted even higher. ‘Have you ever done so before?’
‘No.’ She stiffened at the insinuation. ‘But that doesn’t mean I can’t.’
‘True, though apparently your father thought otherwise. He made me your protector.’
‘He meant your brother, not you!’
Amber eyes blazed with some powerful emotion, quickly repressed. ‘None the less, it’s me that you’ve got. Your father wanted an Amberton to look after you and I appear to be the only one left.’
She felt a burst of anger so overpowering that her body started to shake with the force of it, as though she’d been holding her temper for so long that she felt about ready to burst. Words seemed to erupt out of her suddenly, pouring out in a fierce torrent that she seemed unable to either stop or curtail.
‘My father never cared whether I was looked after or not! He only wanted me to look after him. He wanted to control me. He still wants to. That’s why he gave me to you!’
She clamped a hand over her mouth at the end of her tirade, looking around in embarrassment, but the others weren’t looking at her any more. At some point they’d moved off to one side, turning their backs to stare out at the moors as if it were a pleasant day for enjoying the view and not the start of a blizzard, leaving her effectively alone with Captain Amberton.
‘I don’t want to marry you.’ She pulled her hand away again, saying the words with as much conviction as she could muster.
‘No more than I want to marry you. But since neither of us was offered a choice, I suggest that we make the best of it.’
‘I’m going to Rosedale.’ Maybe if she kept on saying it, then he would accept it, too...
‘Not in this weather or in that cart. Given the circumstances, it would be unwise to put any further strain on the axle. Wouldn’t you agree, Driver?’
‘Oh...aye.’ The man looked over his shoulder with an apologetic expression. ‘I’m sorry, miss, but we won’t make it to Helmsley now. We might be stuck at t’mines for a bit making repairs and it’s no fit place for a lady.’
‘There you are.’ Her pursuer’s expression was glacial. ‘It seems you’ve no choice. You’ll have to come back to Whitby with me after all.’
She held his stare resentfully. It was true, she had no choice. Even if it weren’t snowing, it was too far to walk to Helmsley and, as usual, no one was paying any attention to what she wanted. Besides, she had the strong suspicion that her pursuer wasn’t going to take no for an answer. If she kept on refusing, he’d probably throw her over his saddle anyway.
She gestured towards a carpet bag on the back of the cart, trying to feign an appearance of composure. ‘My bag.’
‘Is that all you’ve brought?’ He glanced towards it and frowned.
‘Yes. Since I was going to be disinherited, it seemed wrong to take more than was rightfully mine.’
‘And those are all your belongings?’
‘Yes.’
‘How very honest of you.’ He sounded less than impressed, jerking his head at his companion. ‘Martin will bring your bag. Now might I suggest we get moving before the snow gets any worse?’
She walked stiffly towards him, unable to delay any longer, looking between him and his horse with an almost equal sense of trepidation. From a distance, she’d hoped that the scale of the animal might have been deceptive, but up close it was even bigger than she’d feared, so tall that the top of her head barely came level with the saddle.
She stopped beside it, lowering her voice with embarrassment. ‘I can’t ride.’
‘Of course you can’t.’ He let out a small sigh. ‘Just put your foot into the stirrup and pull yourself up. I won’t let you fall.’
She tensed instantly. I won’t let you fall... He’d said those words to her before, five years ago when he’d asked her to dance. She knew them by heart, had spent hours reliving every humiliating moment of that evening, wishing she’d never followed him out on to the dance floor. That had been her first taste of freedom, or so she’d thought at the time, the only time since her long-ago childhood when she’d felt happy and carefree. Whirling around in his arms, she’d felt as if she’d been breaking out of her prison at last—before reality had set in with a vengeance.
His casual mockery had made her feel even worse than she had before. She’d made a fool of herself in front of everyone, dancing with a reprobate who’d only encouraged her to rebel for his own amusement, so that he could mock her more easily. And now he was mocking her and her attempt at rebellion again, as if she were just a child who couldn’t take care of herself. He’d already said as much. It seemed that every time she tried to assert herself, he ruined it somehow.
She gritted her teeth at the thought. Well, this time she wasn’t going to let him. She wasn’t going to be small and helpless any more. He might have thwarted her escape attempt, but that was the only victory she’d allow him. She’d go back to Whitby, but she would never marry him, no matter how much he tried to convince or intimidate her. She loathed him.
‘You look cold.’
‘What?’ His words jolted her back to the present.
‘I said that you look cold.’ He sounded impatient.
‘No,’ she lied. ‘Not at all.’
She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders defensively. It was the warmest garment she owned, though still sadly lacking. Her father had never allowed her to spend much time out of doors so she’d never had need of very warm clothes, but she certainly wasn’t going to tell Captain Amberton that. He’d only take it as further evidence that she wasn’t able to take care of herself.
‘Here.’ He shrugged himself out of his greatcoat and draped it around her shoulders.
‘You’ll be freezing!’ She gestured at his jacket sleeves in protest.
‘I’ve been living in Canada. I’m used to it.’
‘But you’re injured!’
‘Then we’re fortunate my injury isn’t one that’s affected by cold.’ He heaved another sigh. ‘Now can you mount before we all freeze to death? I believe you’ve inconvenienced these men, not to mention myself, long enough.’
She glared at him, cheeks flaring despite the cold. Inconvenienced. He couldn’t have said it any more clearly. That was all she was to him, an inconvenient woman with a convenient fortune. That was why he’d pursued her—for the money, not her. She jammed her foot in the stirrup angrily, hoisting herself up into the saddle, then gasped in shock as his fingers wrapped around her ankle, wrenching it loose again.
‘What are you doing?’ Her breath caught in her throat at his touch. No man had ever seen, let alone touched, her leg before!
‘I’d like to ride, too.’ He looked up at her scathingly. ‘Or do you think I should walk?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Good. Because if it’s propriety you’re worried about, I’d remind you that we are engaged. If it hadn’t been for this little escapade, we’d be married already.’
He mounted behind her, uttering a small grunt as he swung his injured leg over the horse’s back. She shifted forward quickly, trying to keep their bodies from touching, though the curve of the leather saddle made that impossible. His thighs were already wrapped tight around hers, her bottom pressed against his... She closed her eyes in mortification.
‘Comfortable?’
‘No!’ By the tone of his voice she could tell he was mocking her again.
‘Then let’s get this over with, shall we?’ He reached around her, imprisoning her within the circle of his arms as he grasped hold of the reins and gave them a decisive flick.
Violet fumed inwardly, her fear of the horse all but forgotten. She had no qualms about accepting his greatcoat now. On the contrary, she hoped he was cold. It would serve him right, not just for ruining her plans, but for making her feel such a fool as well. A tiny, naive, helpless fool. Just as her father had always said—just as he’d always made her feel, too!
She looked past her captor’s shoulder, blinking back tears of frustration as she watched the cart recede into the distance, obscured by a shifting, lace-like curtain of snow. How had her plans failed so badly? How had he found her? She wasn’t about to deign to ask him, no more than she was actually going to cry in front of him, but she still wanted to know, even if it didn’t matter any more. Her escape plan had failed and now he was taking her...
She straightened up with a jolt. Where was he taking her? This wasn’t the road the cart had followed that morning. It wasn’t a road at all. It was the moorland itself, the wild and boggy terrain she’d always been warned about. She spun around in alarm, only to find her captor’s companion, or manservant as he seemed to be, riding alongside, though whoever he was, he still hadn’t uttered a word. Where were they taking her?
‘You said we were going back to Whitby.’ She tried to keep the panic out of her voice.
‘I lied.’ Her captor’s tone was implacable. ‘Although I’m sure Martin here would enjoy standing guard outside your house, it’s far easier to keep an eye on you at Amberton Castle.’
‘You think I’ll try to run away again?’
‘Won’t you?’
Yes. She didn’t say the word aloud, though now more than ever the answer was obvious. She was riding over the moors with a man she despised, back to the scene of her hurt and humiliation five years ago, a place she’d hoped never to visit again. Of course she was going to try to run away. As soon as she could.
‘That’s what I thought.’ His mouth set in a hard, firm line. ‘I’m taking you back to Amberton Castle, Miss Harper, your new home.’
Chapter Two (#u932573ea-bb54-5701-b75d-555159dd7067)
Lance looked down at the woollen lapels of his greatcoat and muttered one of his most colourful soldiers’ oaths. From his companion’s audible gasp, he could tell that she recognised the inflection, if not the exact meaning of the words. Somehow he doubted she’d ever heard such language before, but he wasn’t in the mood to be polite. He was in the mood to swear like a trooper and invent a few more words besides. His leg hurt, his head ached and his temper was close to breaking point. The rest of him was freezing and it was all her fault.
‘Shouldn’t we keep to the road?’
She sounded anxious and he felt a vindictive sense of satisfaction. Good. If she was worried, then it was revenge for all the trouble she’d caused him that morning.
‘I’ve heard the moors are dangerous.’ She tried again when he didn’t answer.
‘You’ve heard right.’
He gave a twisted smile. In fact, they were following a trail, an old farm track known only to locals, though it was admittedly hard to tell in the snow. Not that he’d any intention of reassuring her. If she was frightened of the moors, then so much the better. They might deter her from making another misguided escape attempt—something she was clearly already considering, if her earlier silence was anything to go by.
Besides, he didn’t want conversation, especially with a woman who’d done her damnedest to humiliate him that morning. He’d arrived at his own wedding to find it all but deserted except for one decidedly anxious-looking lawyer. Mr Rowlinson had gone to collect the bride only to find that she’d run away some time during the night. He’d wrung his hands as he’d told him, looking and sounding far more distressed by her absence than Lance did. But then he hadn’t been distressed. He’d been livid. It wasn’t as if he’d wanted the marriage either, but at least he’d been prepared to honour the terms of their fathers’ agreement. He’d been determined to do the right thing for once in his life, more fool him, and he’d be damned before any woman was going to stop him!
‘I saw her just yesterday,’ Rowlinson had babbled. ‘She told me she’d made all the necessary arrangements.’
‘What arrangements?’ The words had caught his attention. He’d been the one who’d arranged the time and venue. What had she had to arrange? ‘What did she say exactly?’
‘Just that she knew what she had to do. I thought she was talking about the will.’
‘She didn’t say she’d be here?’
‘Not specifically, no.’
He’d stormed away, seething with anger. Whatever arrangements Miss Harper had made, they clearly hadn’t been for their wedding. The idea that she might run away had never even occurred to him. He’d never imagined that she’d have either the nerve or the spirit for it, but any burgeoning admiration he might have felt had been overwhelmed by anger. She’d jilted him without even seeing him first, as if the idea of marriage to him was so abhorrent that she’d rather flee and be penniless than so much as look at him. As if his injured leg was so objectionable to her!
The insult was too great to be borne. Bad enough that he couldn’t walk more than a hundred paces without needing to rest. He wasn’t going to let some minuscule mouse of a woman make a fool of him, too! Her running away only made him doubly determined to go ahead.
Not that it had been easy to find her. She’d done an impressive job of leaving clues, but he’d learned enough about tracking in Canada to recognise a false trail when he saw one. She hadn’t taken the train, that much he’d been certain of, and to his relief no merchant vessels had left Whitby harbour that morning. After a few pointed enquiries, he’d finally taken a gamble on the moorland road, riding so furiously that Martin had eventually told him to slow down or risk laming his horse. Since his former batman only spoke when it was absolutely necessary to do so, he’d listened, then done his best to calm down and look at the situation objectively.
In retrospect, he supposed he hadn’t helped his own cause. He ought to have visited her as soon as he’d found out about the will. He’d intended to, but then his injury had flared up again, putting riding out of the question for a few days. He ought to have ordered the carriage and suffered the bumpy roads anyway, but his mind had shied away from that idea. If he were honest, his injury had been a good excuse. He hadn’t wanted to see her again. No matter how intriguing he’d found her at the ball five years ago, any attraction had long since crystallised into resentment. Aside from the way she’d taken offence—the reasons for which he still wasn’t able to fathom—that night was inextricably bound up with too many other painful memories.
That had been the last time that he’d seen either his father or Arthur, the night that he’d been banished from his home for ever, and it had all been her fault! If she hadn’t been so ridiculously oversensitive over a perfectly innocent comment about suitors, then he might never have got into an argument with his father in the first place, might have made it through the whole week of his leave without any fighting at all! Then he might have listened to Arthur, really listened, might have found a way to help him, too...
So he’d kept away from Miss Violet Harper, reluctant to face any reminder of that night, the very worst of his life until seven months ago, hoping that his mind might somehow adapt to the idea of seeing her again. It hadn’t. Whatever his first impressions had been, they’d long since been replaced by the image of an ice maiden with white hair and piercing blue eyes, cold and casually destructive—Arthur’s unwanted bride, now his.
And now he’d found her, in the midst of a snowstorm of all things! He’d hoped that reality wouldn’t match up to his fears, but the instant he’d glimpsed her—her skirts anyway, just visible beneath the horse’s flanks—he’d felt all the emotions he’d striven so hard to forget come rushing back to the surface. He’d been glad that the wheel of the cart had come loose. It had given him a task to do, something to distract his mind while he’d wrestled with a near-overwhelming feeling of grief. Anger had come next, as he’d known it would, followed by guilt. Most of all guilt. Which led back to anger again.
At last he’d steeled himself to confront her. Not that he’d been able to see much of her, with her hood pulled so low over her face as to make it well nigh invisible. Only her distinctive size had given her identity away, not to mention her voice, that same breathless purr he remembered, the one he’d found so alluring until she’d shown her true colours.
He’d striven to keep a rein on his temper. So much so that his jaw was now aching from the effort. He’d remained calm even when she’d mentioned Arthur, even when she’d flatly stated that she didn’t want to marry him—as if he wanted to marry her! The thought was just as abhorrent now as it had been when Rowlinson had informed him about the terms of the will, but it was still his father’s agreement, one he couldn’t renege on without condemning her to a life of poverty, and he couldn’t do that, no matter how much he was tempted to walk away. He’d been made responsible for her and there was one unlooked-for benefit after all. He might not want the woman, but the money... The money he could definitely do something with.
He was relieved when the trail descended at last into a valley and the imposing, snow-capped turrets of Amberton Castle appeared out of the wintry vista ahead of them. In an ironical twist that had surprised him more than anyone, his father had never actually got around to legally disinheriting him, so that after his death both the title and lands had come to him, informally at least. Returning to claim them, however, had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. After declaring that he’d never set foot in the place again, he’d never thought to return, had initially done so only because he’d had nowhere else to go.
The situation was further complicated by the fact that Arthur’s body had never been found. Without proof of his brother’s demise, the title and estate were effectively frozen, his to look after, but not to legally possess for a period of seven years. Under normal circumstances, his marriage to Violet would never have gone ahead until the legal situation was resolved, but the time limit on her father’s will made it imperative that it did so. He’d already procured a special licence. She had to marry him within one month, whether he were the heir to Amberton Castle or not.
Despite its many negative associations, however, he’d retained a genuine affection for the house itself. Probably because it had been built with his mother’s money and according to her own medieval-inspired designs. She’d been the one who’d insisted on turrets and crenellations and even a few faux arrow slits, all intended to make a thirty-five-year-old building look as if it had stood for centuries. She’d even called it a castle.
That part at least his father had approved of. Anything to bolster the family name, to make the world believe that the Ambertons were still a force to be reckoned with, not just the burnt-out, impoverished end of an ancient family, even if their depleted fortunes were entirely due to the fact that his father had never actually done anything.
Back in their heyday, Ambertons had been soldiers and adventurers, men who’d won their fortunes and titles through action. His father, by contrast, had been content to sit in his study, watching the last of his wife’s money trickle away rather than sully his hands with anything so distasteful as work or, even worse, trade. He’d never let Arthur do anything either. It was no wonder his brother had been depressed, he thought bitterly, trapped inside the house like some kind of museum exhibit. Arthur had never been rebellious enough to defy their father and when he’d asked Lance for help...
He forced the memory away, although the bitter sting of it remained. He didn’t want to think about Arthur, but he was going to honour his family’s promise anyway. He wouldn’t have chosen to shackle himself to Miss Harper either, not by a long chalk, but he was going to go ahead with the marriage, for all the same cynical reasons as his father, and simply because his father had wanted it. At long last, he was going to be the son his father had wanted him to be, with one notable difference. He wasn’t going to simply exist on the money and do nothing. He was going to restore the family fortunes, no matter what anyone might think of an Amberton going into business.
He’d already made a start with his new mining venture, but with the Harper fortune he could achieve even more, could build a blast furnace to go with the new tunnels that had already been dug so that his iron wouldn’t have to be transported for smelting. He could start his own works on the site, provide employment for people in the estate villages, as well as schools, new houses and maybe even a hospital, too. He could revitalise the whole Amberton estate and Violet Harper could pay for it. There was a kind of poetic justice to the idea. Since the rift with his father had been largely her fault, it seemed only appropriate that she ought to pay.
They rode into the courtyard and he felt an intense sense of relief. What had started as a mild blizzard was rapidly turning into a full-blown snowstorm and he felt as if the cold had seeped into his very bones, making them freeze from the inside out.
‘Bring her in.’
He addressed the words to Martin as he dismounted and limped towards the front door without so much as a backward glance. Even if he had wanted to help her, which in his present state of mind he didn’t, his leg was causing him far too much pain to do anything about it. What he wanted—no, what he needed—was a drink and the stronger the better.
He barged through the front door and headed straight for the drawing room, snatching up a decanter of brandy and gulping straight from the bottle, revelling in the warmth of the liquid as it scoured the back of his throat.
‘Captain Amberton?’
He lowered the bottle again, wiping his mouth on his sleeve at the sound of his housekeeper’s prim voice at his shoulder. Clearly his trials with the opposite sex weren’t yet over with today and Mrs Gargrave was a perpetual trial. He wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that his father had trained her specifically to annoy him. Her strait-laced and perpetually disapproving manner were eerily reminiscent of the old man, not to mention her habit of creeping up silently behind him.
‘Yes?’ He didn’t bother to hide his bad temper.
‘I came to offer my congratulations on your nuptials, sir. Cook has prepared a celebratory luncheon if you’d like to adjourn to the dining room?’
‘No.’ He took another swig from the bottle. ‘She’s not my wife and she can damned well starve for all I care.’
‘Captain!’ The housekeeper’s stiff posture turned more rigid than a guardsman’s. ‘I’ve asked you to moderate your language before.’
‘So you have and, as usual, I apologise. But as I just mentioned, she’s not my wife.’
‘Then might I enquire what the young lady is doing here? If you’re not married, then it’s highly improper for her to be visiting on her own.’
‘She’s not visiting either. She’s moving in early.’
‘But she doesn’t have a chaperon. It’s not seemly.’
‘I can’t see what difference it makes if I intend to marry her anyway.’
‘People will talk.’
‘People already talk. I wouldn’t have thought there was much more they could say.’
‘I won’t be party to any licentiousness. I thought I made that clear when you came home and I agreed to carry on with my duties.’
Lance took another swig of brandy deliberately to provoke her. Mrs Gargrave’s habit of implying that he’d begged her to stay was yet another irritation in his life. Frankly he would have been happy to see the back of her, but she’d been there for so long that he doubted she had anywhere else to go. He’d never heard her mention any family and his conscience had prevented him from simply dismissing her. That and the fact that she was an excellent housekeeper—when she wasn’t lecturing him, that was.
‘You made it crystal-clear, Mrs Gargrave. At great length, too, as I recall, though I don’t believe I’ve given you any cause for complaint.’
‘Until now.’
‘The worst thing I’ve done so far is threaten not to give her luncheon. I haven’t exactly ravished her on the hall table.’ He flashed a sardonic smile. ‘Not yet anyway.’
‘Captain!’
‘But since you object so strenuously, you have my permission to drive her back to Whitby in the snow yourself if you wish. You’ll probably freeze to death, but at least your virtues will be intact.’ His smile widened insincerely. ‘Just be sure to hurry before the roads become completely impassable.’
The housekeeper made an indignant sucking sound, pursing her lips so tightly they looked in danger of turning blue. ‘I suppose, under the circumstances... In that case I’ll take her up to the blue room.’
‘Damned if you will!’
‘Captain Amberton!’
This time he didn’t apologise. This time he raised the bottle to his lips and drained what was left of the liquid in one long draught. The blue room had been his mother’s chamber, adjacent to the master bedroom that had belonged to his father, though he hadn’t summoned the nerve to enter either since his return. He’d avoided the family quarters altogether, to Mrs Gargrave’s frequently expressed disapproval, selecting one of the guest chambers to sleep in instead. He’d intended for his wife to share that, for a while at least, but since they weren’t yet officially married, he supposed for propriety’s sake he ought to make alternative arrangements. After what had happened that morning, however, his mother’s chamber was the very last room she could use.
But he knew exactly which one she could.
‘Captain?’
Mrs Gargrave gaped open-mouthed as he stormed past her and back out to the hallway. His mother had designed the entrance to resemble a medieval great hall, with wooden beams across a high ceiling, oak floorboards and a matching oak table in the centre, a selection of antlers and coats-of-arms around the walls, and a perpetually crackling fireplace, in front of which Miss Harper now stood warming her hands.
She’d removed his greatcoat, he noticed, though not that ridiculously flimsy cloak. She hadn’t even pulled the hood back from her head. Was she ever going to take the damned thing off? He’d barely caught a glimpse of her face and what he had seen had been cast deep in shadow, as if she were trying to hide from him on top of everything else. The thought, aggravated by brandy, made him suddenly furious.
‘Come with me.’ He seized her hand as he limped past.
‘Where?’ She almost tripped over her skirts as she spun after him. ‘Your housekeeper said...’
‘My housekeeper had no business saying anything.’
He tightened his grip on her fingers as he mounted the staircase. There was no carpet here either, so that the hard tread of his footsteps echoed loudly around the cavernous hallway. Generally, he preferred to climb stairs on his own, or at least without an audience, but he was too angry now to care what she thought of him or his leg. If she was offended by his infirmity, then the sooner she got used to it, the better.
‘Where are we going?’
She tugged against him as they reached the half landing, but he held tight, hauling her up the right-hand branch of the staircase and down a wood-panelled corridor.
‘You can’t hold me here against my will!’
She sounded more defiant than frightened and he felt an unwonted flicker of admiration. He would have expected most women to burst into tears by now.
‘I’m offering you hospitality in a snowstorm, Miss Harper. Or would you prefer to be out on the moors by yourself?’
‘Better than being trapped here with a beast like you!’
He gritted his teeth. Was that how she thought of him, then, as a beast? Admittedly he wasn’t behaving much like a gentleman, but if that were the case then he’d show her just how much of a beast he could be!
‘Then let’s say I’m protecting you from yourself.’
He hauled her towards the furthermost door at the end of the corridor and took a rusty iron key from a hook on the wall, pushing it into the lock and twisting it around with a loud scraping sound. He doubted that the door had been opened more than a handful of times in the past ten years. The octagonal tower had been his mother’s sitting room, though after her death his father had covered the furniture in dust sheets and never set foot inside again. No one had found any use for it since, but for some reason it seemed particularly suited to Miss Harper. Hadn’t he once thought she belonged in a fairy-tale tower?
The lock clicked at last and he turned the handle, ramming one shoulder up against the door as an icy draught whistled past them.
‘Make yourself at home.’ He released her hand finally and gestured inside. ‘I’m sure you’d like a rest after your busy morning.’
‘In here?’ She sounded shocked and he felt a moment of misgiving. In truth, the place looked even more cold and cheerless than he’d expected.
‘In here.’ He hardened his heart mercilessly. ‘I think you’ll still find it preferable to the mines at Rosedale.’
‘But...’ She took a tentative step forward and then twisted her head sharply, sniffing the air as she did so.
‘You’re drunk!’
He caught a flash of sapphire from beneath her hood and let his temper get the better of him, lifting a hand and wrenching it back to reveal a pair of enormous blue eyes in a small, outraged-looking face. He stiffened in surprise. It was the same face, even the same expression she’d been wearing when they’d argued five years ago, as if time had stopped and she hadn’t aged a day. He’d thought of her first as a kitten, then as an ice maiden, and yet he seemed to have remembered every detail of her face perfectly, as if they’d been imprinted on his memory. There’d been enough women, too many women, in his life before and since, and yet hers was the face he remembered... How was it possible for her to have changed so little, while he felt as though he’d aged decades?
‘I’ve been drinking,’ he corrected her. ‘That doesn’t make me drunk.’
‘Really?’ She gave him a look that would have made Mrs Gargrave proud.
‘I take it that your father never drank in the daytime?’
‘He never drank at all.’
‘Of course.’ He adopted what he hoped was a suitably scathing expression. ‘I forgot what a paragon of virtue he was, but I’m afraid you’ll need to lower your standards here. I drink every day. Sometimes for breakfast.’
Her chin jutted upwards. ‘It’s not something to boast about.’
‘I’m simply stating a fact. You’ll need to get used to it when we’re married.’
‘I won’t marry you! It doesn’t matter how long you keep me here, I won’t change my mind. I don’t want to marry anyone, especially not a man like you!’
‘And what kind of man would that be exactly?’ He advanced a step towards her, expecting her to retreat, but she only lifted her chin higher.
‘You have to ask?’
‘Indulge me, Miss Harper. Educate me, if you will.’ He lowered his face down to hers, so close that they were almost touching, daring her to answer. ‘Tell me just what it is that you find so very repellent?’
‘Everything! You’re a drunk and a gambler and...’ her cheeks flushed slightly ‘...a libertine!’
He drew back in surprise, a retort fading on his lips. That hadn’t been what he’d expected, not at all.
‘Are you saying that it’s my character you object to?’
‘Of course!’ She blinked. ‘What else would it be?’
He glanced pointedly down at his leg. What else indeed? He’d been so wrapped up in his resentment of her character that he’d never stopped to wonder what she thought of his. He’d simply assumed that she found his injury distasteful. In which case...
‘Then I’m curious to know why you have such a low opinion of me. Because of what happened at the ball? I believe that both of our fathers called me a reprobate.’
‘Partly.’ Her eyelashes fluttered perceptibly when he mentioned the ball. ‘And I’ve heard rumours.’
‘Gossip, Miss Harper? I wouldn’t have thought you one to indulge in that particular vice.’
‘I don’t, but I’ve still heard stories. Or are you saying they aren’t true?’
‘On the contrary, I’m sure they’re all true and worse besides. I doubt the whole truth would bear repeating in polite circles, especially to young ladies.’
‘Are you proud of your reputation, then?’
‘No, but I have so few other distinctions.’
Her eyes widened with a look of consternation. ‘I’ll never marry you!’
‘Then I admire your resolve, but you might think differently when you’ve had a little time to reconsider.’ He moved away from her, pulling the door shut behind him. ‘I trust you’ll be comfortable here.’
‘Wait!’ She caught at the edge of the door before it closed. ‘I have a friend. I need to send word that I’m all right or she’ll be worried.’
‘An accomplice?’ He half opened the door again, still blocking the way out with his body. ‘Was that why you were going to Helmsley, to meet her?’
‘No. That is...not her.’
He narrowed his gaze suspiciously. Did she have two accomplices, then? Her evasiveness suggested that one of them was a man—a lover? That was the most likely answer, though the idea of her having another suitor hadn’t crossed his mind until now. He didn’t like it.
‘If I could just send a message...please?’
He gave an unsympathetic snort. If she’d been going to meet a lover, then he had absolutely no intention of setting the man’s mind at rest so easily. If whoever it was wanted to marry her, then he ought to have come and confronted him man to man, not plotted an elopement behind his back.
‘No.’
‘But...’
‘No!’ His voice sounded even fiercer than he’d intended. ‘If you think that I’m going to send anyone out in this weather, then you’re even more of a little fool than I thought!’
She drew in a sharp breath at the insult, though she still didn’t flinch, staring back at him instead with an expression of intense loathing.
‘Then I’ll wait here until the storm clears. After that, you’ve no right to keep me.’
‘You’re absolutely right, I don’t. Though I doubt the storm will clear by tonight and unless you want to leave in the dark then I’m afraid you’re stuck here with me, a renowned libertine, and without, as my housekeeper so delicately pointed out, a chaperon. Whatever your plans for the future, I hope they don’t depend on your keeping a good reputation.’
Her defiant expression crumpled into one of horror. ‘But that’s monstrous! No one would ever employ me if they knew. You wouldn’t be so cruel!’
‘Didn’t you pay any attention to all that gossip? If you had, then you’d know very well that I would.’ He smiled mirthlessly. ‘Welcome to Amberton Castle, Miss Harper. I hope that you have a good night.’
Chapter Three (#u932573ea-bb54-5701-b75d-555159dd7067)
‘Miss Harper?’
Violet frowned in her sleep. The voice in her dream seemed to be coming from a distance, but she had no idea what it was doing there. It was a woman’s voice, though she didn’t recognise it, repeating her name over and over, though that made no sense either. In her dream, she was out alone on the moors, desperately trying to find shelter as towers of snow piled up higher and deeper around her, imprisoning her behind their thick, white, impenetrable walls. She was lost and afraid, without any hope of rescue...

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