Bound by Duty
Bound by Duty
Diane Gaston
His Scandalous BrideTess Summerfield’s life is changed for ever when she’s rescued from drowning by the mysterious Marc Glenville. Forced to shelter with him in a deserted cottage, she spends the night wrapped in his arms for warmth.When they are discovered the tongues of the ton start wagging, and Marc knows the only way to silence them is to marry Tess. But his duties as a spy soon tear Marc away from the marriage bed. When they’re at last reunited can they rekindle the flame born from the ashes of scandal?The Scandalous Summerfields: Disgrace is their middle name!
THE SCANDALOUS SUMMERFIELDS
Disgrace is their middle name!
Left destitute by their philandering parents, the three Summerfield sisters—Tess, Lorene, and Genna—and their half-brother, Edmund, are the talk of the ton … for all the wrong reasons!
They are at the mercy of the marriage mart to transport their family from the fringes of society to the dizzy heights of respectability.
But with no dowries, and a damaged reputation, only some very special matches can survive the scandalous Summerfields!
Meet tempestuous Tess in
Bound by Duty
April 2015
And look out for the rest of the family’s exploits, coming soon!
AUTHOR NOTE (#ulink_868c83b9-311f-5c17-a27d-dcb37a46abb4)
An idea for a story might come from anywhere. A random event. A place. A character from history. For my new mini-series, The Scandalous Summerfields, the spark came from a previous generation of my own family—my mother and her sisters and brother.
I did not want to tell their life stories, though. They lived ordinary lives, heroic in ordinary ways, minus the drama and conflict of a romance novel. Instead I took inspiration from them.
Like my mother and her sisters, the Summerfields are left to fend for themselves at a young age. My mother’s parents died when my mother was barely in her twenties and her youngest sister was still in high school. Their brother—the oldest—had already married and had children of his own, so the three sisters needed to band together to take care of each other. As a result, my mother and my aunts were extremely close for their whole lives. My Aunt Loraine even lived with us until I was a teenager. There was not a day that went by when she and my mother did not talk on the phone, nor a week that passed without them calling my Aunt Gerry, who lived some distance away.
I wanted my Summerfield sisters to have this closeness to each other, and to their brother. I wanted to honour that special bond I saw in my mother and aunts—a bond I share with my own two sisters.
I hope you enjoy Book One of The Scandalous Summerfields.
Bound by Duty
Diane Gaston
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
DIANE GASTON always said that if she were not a mental health social worker she’d want to be a romance novelist, writing the historical romances she loved to read. When this dream came true she discovered a whole new world of friends and happy endings. Diane lives in Virginia, near Washington, DC, with her husband and three very ordinary house cats. She loves to hear from readers! Contact her at www.dianegaston.com (http://www.dianegaston.com) or on Facebook or Twitter.
To the memory of my mother, Teresa Gaston, a kind and gentle soul who was always quietly there for me, and who would never, ever hurt anyone’s feelings.
Contents
Cover (#uc3d228ea-7ee8-5c07-833b-a8b614d122db)
Introduction (#u129cfa81-4ccc-5839-9b0d-447f6471434c)
Author Note (#u6325ce59-10ac-5e04-9ff7-e3164aa4b8cd)
Title Page (#u5917aa23-8d2d-578b-8319-ab49e6130971)
About the Author (#u1808b937-ad21-5dd1-8d80-661985696f41)
Dedication (#ua262783c-b999-5105-80bc-d12aa0f37bdf)
Chapter One (#u6110f165-d161-5f1d-b976-5067fadc7c0f)
Chapter Two (#u8f7d27c9-675e-50d3-b95f-88227ecff0e9)
Chapter Three (#u6282d026-2938-55ce-966b-4cad1c30000c)
Chapter Four (#u52c4a4d6-5e28-5f22-b232-b3104c7649ac)
Chapter Five (#ub0c23968-0a90-5c9d-a7d8-0361727240f9)
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)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_c94eac5e-189b-59a8-a815-9bdb9fcb487f)
February 1815—Lincolnshire, England
The winter wind rattled the windowpanes of Summerfield House as Tess Summerfield answered her older sister’s summons.
Come to the morning room immediately, her note said.
More bad news, Tess feared. It seemed lately that the only time Lorene summoned her and their youngest sister, Genna, to that parlour was to hear bad news.
The wind’s wail seemed appropriately foreboding.
The morning room on its best sunny days filled with light, but this day it seemed awash in grey. Lorene stood ominously by the fireplace. Genna sat sulkily in a nearby chair.
‘What is it, Lorene?’ Tess asked.
Lorene had been acting oddly lately, leaving the house on unexplained errands and remaining away for hours.
Their father’s sudden death two months ago had seemed the worst of circumstances, but shortly afterwards they’d also discovered that he’d depleted their dowries before he died. Next, the distant cousin who was to inherit their father’s title and property made it very clear he had no intention of providing for them. After all, everyone believed the scandalous Summerfield sisters were really not Summerfields at all. Rumour always had it that each had been sired by a different lover.
Before their mother ran off with one, that was.
This heir to their father’s baronetcy also made it clear he wished to take possession of the entailed property as soon as possible and that meant the sisters must vacate the house, their home for all their lives.
What more could happen to them?
‘Please sit,’ Lorene said, her lovely face lined with stress.
Tess exchanged a glance with Genna and sat as instructed.
Lorene paced in front of them. ‘I know we all have been worried over what would become of us—’
Worry was too mild a term. Tess expected they would be split apart, forced to take positions as governesses or lady’s companions, if they should be so lucky as to find such positions, given the family’s reputation.
‘I—I have come upon a solution.’ Lorene sent them each a worried look.
If it was a solution, why did she appear so worried? ‘What is it, Lorene?’
Lorene wrung her hands. ‘I—I discovered a way to restore your dowries. A way to make you eligible again.’
It would take a sizeable dowry to erase the scandal that had dogged them their whole lives. If their mother’s abandonment were not enough, there was also their father’s scandal. Even before their mother left, he’d brought his bastard son home to rear. Of course, Tess and her sisters loved Edmund; he was their brother, after all, even if his presence generated more talk.
‘What nonsense,’ Genna grumbled. ‘Nothing makes us eligible. Our mother had too many lovers. That is why we look nothing alike.’
That was not entirely true. They all had high foreheads and thin faces, even if Lorene was dark-haired with brown eyes, Genna was blue-eyed and blonde, and Tess was somewhere in between, with chestnut hair and hazel eyes.
Like their mother, Tess was told, although she did not remember precisely what her mother looked like.
A thought occurred to her. ‘Lorene, do not say that you found our mother. Is she restoring our dowries?’
Tess had been only nine when their mother left.
Lorene looked surprised. ‘Our mother? No. No. That is not it.’
‘What is it, then?’ Genna asked testily.
Lorene stopped pacing and faced them both. ‘I have married.’
‘Married!’ Tess rose from her chair. ‘Married!’
‘You cannot have married,’ Genna protested. ‘There were no bans.’
‘It was by special licence.’
No. Impossible! Lorene would never have kept such a big secret from Tess. They shared every confidence—almost.
‘Who?’ she asked, trying not to feel hurt.
Lorene’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Lord Tinmore.’
‘Lord Tinmore?’ Tess and Genna exclaimed in unison.
‘The recluse?’ Tess asked.
Since the deaths of his wife and son years before, Lord Tinmore had secluded himself on his nearby estate in Lincolnshire, not too distant from their village of Yardney. Tess could not think of a time Lorene could have met the man, let alone be courted by him. No one saw Lord Tinmore.
‘He must be eighty years old!’ cried Genna.
Lorene lifted her chin. ‘He is only seventy-six.’
‘Seventy-six. So much better.’ Genna spoke with sarcasm.
Her adored older sister married to an ancient recluse? This was too much to bear. ‘Why, Lorene? Why would you do such a thing?’
Lorene’s eyes flashed. ‘I did it for you, Tess. For both of you. Lord Tinmore promised to provide you with dowries and host you for a Season in London. He will even send Edmund the funds to purchase an advancement in the army and the means to support its expenses. He is a fine man.’
She married this man so they could have dowries? And Edmund, advancement?
‘I never asked you for a dowry,’ Genna said. ‘And Edmund can earn advancement on his own.’
‘You know he cannot, now that the war is over,’ Lorene shot back. ‘He does not have enough as it is. It costs him money to be an officer, you know.’
Genna shook her head. ‘Did our dowries not provide Edmund enough?’
Their father had used the last of their dowry money to purchase the lieutenancy for Edmund.
Lorene leaped to Edmund’s defence. ‘Edmund has no knowledge of that fact, Genna, and you are never to tell him. He would be sick about it if he knew. Besides, Papa intended to recoup the funds for our dowries. He assured me his latest investment would yield all we would need.’
Of course, it would most likely go the way all his too-good-to-be-true investments went. If it paid off now, which was unlikely, the money would go to the estate’s heir. Their father’s will provided only for their now non-existent dowries.
But Lorene would say nothing bad about their father. Or about anyone. She believed the best of everyone. Even their mother. Lorene would insist that abandoning her daughters had been the right thing for their mother, because she’d run off with a man she truly loved.
What of the love a mother should have for her children? Tess wondered.
Now Lorene was making the same mistake as their parents—engaging in a loveless marriage.
She glared at Lorene. ‘You cannot possibly love Lord Tinmore.’
‘No, I do not love him,’ Lorene admitted. ‘But that is beside the point.’
‘Beside what point?’ Tess shot back. ‘Did you learn nothing from our parents? You will be miserable. You will make him miserable.’
‘I will not.’ Lorene straightened her spine. ‘I promised I would devote my life to making him happy and I intend to keep my promise.’
‘But what of you?’ Tess asked.
Lorene averted her gaze. ‘I could not think of what else to do. What would become of you and Genna if I did nothing?’ Her question required no answer. They all knew what fate had been in store for them.
‘Well, you did not have to fall on your sword for us,’ Genna said.
‘I thought about it a great deal,’ Lorene went on, seemingly ignoring Genna’s comment. ‘It made sense. If I had done nothing, we all would have faced dismal lives. By marrying Lord Tinmore, you and Edmund have hope. With good dowries you can marry as you wish. You will not be desperate.’
What Lorene meant was that she, Genna and even Edmund could now marry for love. They could avoid the unhappiness of their parents and still have security. They had a chance for a happy life and all it had cost Lorene was her own chance for happiness.
A chance for love.
God help her, Tess felt a tiny spark of hope. If she had a dowry, Mr Welton could court her.
She turned her face away. How awful of her! To be glad for Lorene’s sacrifice.
She composed herself again. ‘How did you accomplish it, Lorene? How did you even meet him?’
‘I went to him. I asked him to marry me and he agreed.’
Without telling her sister, the person closest to her? ‘Without a courtship?’
Lorene gave Tess an exasperated look. ‘What need was there for a courtship? We settled matters in a few meetings and Lord Tinmore arranged for a special licence. When his man of business procured the licence for him, the vicar of his church married us in his parlour.’
‘You could have invited us,’ Genna chided.
Genna was hurt, as well, obviously.
Lorene swung around to her. ‘You would have tried to stop me.’
‘Yes. I would have done that.’ Genna spoke firmly.
The wind gusted and the windowpanes banged. Would Tess have tried to stop Lorene? She did not know.
The clouds that cast a pall on them parted and light peeked through.
They were saved. Lorene had saved them.
By sacrificing herself.
* * *
A mere two weeks later Tess Summerfield lounged on the bed in one of the many bedchambers of Tinmore Hall. This room had been given to Genna who stood behind an easel, facing the window. Lorene again paced nervously back and forth, which seemed to be her new habit.
‘It is a lovely house party, is it not?’ Lorene asked, looking hopefully at each of them.
‘Lovely!’ Tess agreed eagerly.
So much had changed so very quickly. Two days after Lorene announced her marriage, they moved out of the only home they’d ever known, taking with them no more than a trunk of belongings each. Now Lord Tinmore had invited several guests in a hastily arranged house party to introduce his new bride to his closest society friends. In another month or so they would travel to London for a whirlwind of dress fittings and hat shopping in order to show them off to best advantage when the Season began. Lorene’s marriage was still a shock, but Tess could not help but be excited about what lay ahead.
She was also deeply, deeply grateful to Lorene—as well as feeling guilty.
Genna was not grateful, however. She remained as surly as the day Lorene had told them her secret.
‘It is lovely, isn’t it, Genna?’ Tess, too, reeled from the loss of their home, but she was determined to show Lorene her support.
Genna threw her paintbrush into its jug of water and spun around. ‘I hate the house party. I hate everything about it.’
‘Genna!’ Tess scolded.
Lorene made a placating gesture. ‘It is all right. Let her speak her mind.’
Genna’s face flushed. ‘I cannot bear that you married that man—that old man—for money. His guests call you a fortune hunter and they are correct.’
‘That is enough, Genna!’ Tess cried. ‘Especially because Lorene did it for us.’
‘I did not ask for it.’ Genna turned to Lorene. ‘I would never have asked it of you. Ever.’
‘No one asked me.’ Lorene went to her and placed her hand on Genna’s arm. ‘Besides, the earl is a good man. Look what he has done for us already.’
He’d given them a new home at Tinmore Hall. He’d had them fitted for new dresses by the village seamstress. He was in the process of arranging dowries for her and for Genna and an allowance for Edmund whose regiment was somewhere on the Continent.
Tess sat up. ‘It was a brave sacrifice. Don’t you see that, Genna? We have a chance now. Lord Tinmore will provide us with respectable dowries. We’re going to have a London Season where we can meet many eligible young men.’
Mr Welton would be in London. He’d said he would be there for the Season. Tess wanted so much to tell him of her changed circumstances.
Lorene squeezed Genna’s arm. ‘You will be able to have a choice of young men. You won’t have to marry merely for a roof over your head and food in your mouth. You will be able to wait for a man you are able to truly esteem.’
‘You can make a love match.’ It was what Tess desired more than anything. That and to always be close to her sisters.
Lorene’s tone turned earnest. ‘I want you to have a love match, to have that sort of happiness.’
Tess was known as the practical sister. Sensible and resourceful. Would Lorene and Genna not be surprised to learn that she had a secret tendre for a man? To even think of him made her giddy with excitement.
Genna’s face contorted as she faced Lorene. ‘You married an ugly, smelly old man so that Tess, Edmund and I could marry for love. Bravo, Lorene. We’re supposed to be happy knowing that because of us you must share his bed.’
Lorene blanched and her voice deepened. ‘That part of it is not for you to speak of. Ever. That is my private affair and mine alone. Do you hear?’
‘What about your life, Lorene? What about your choices? Your love match?’ Genna’s voice turned shrill.
Lorene put a hand to her forehead. ‘I did make a choice. I chose to do this. For you. And Lord Tinmore has been good enough to provide you with this lovely room, with your paints and paper. He’s ordered us each a new wardrobe and soon he will take us all to London for even more finery—’
Genna broke in. ‘And what must you do in return, Lorene?’
Lorene glared at her. She straightened and turned towards the door. ‘I must go now. I must see that everything is in order for our guests. I expect you to behave properly in front of them, Genna.’
‘I know how to behave properly,’ Genna snapped, still recalcitrant. ‘Did Papa not teach us to never behave like our mother?’
Lorene shot her one more scathing—and, Tess thought—pained look and left the room.
Tess leaped off the bed. ‘Genna, how could you? That was terrible to say. About...about sharing Lord Tinmore’s bed.’ And about their mother.
Genna folded her arms across her chest. ‘Well, it is what we think about, is it not? What she must do for him? Because of us?’
Tess felt a pang of guilt.
She took it out on Genna, walking over to her and shaking her. ‘We cannot speak of it! It hurts her. You saw that.’
Genna pulled away, but looked chagrined.
Tess went on. ‘We must make the best of this, for her sake. She’s done us an enormous service at great sacrifice. She has given us a gift beyond measure. We are free to choose who we want to marry.’ She thought of Mr Welton. ‘We must not make her feel bad for it.’
‘Oh, very well.’ Genna turned back to her watercolour. ‘But what are we to say when we hear the guests speak of her marrying Lord Tinmore for his money? Are we to say, “Yes, that is it exactly. She married him for his money and his title. Just like our mother did our father”?’
That was another truth best left unspoken.
‘We pretend we do not hear anything.’ Tess spoke firmly. ‘We act as if Lorene’s marriage to Lord Tinmore is a love match and that we are delighted for them both.’
‘Hmmph. A love match between a beautiful young woman and a very old, smelly man.’ Genna stabbed at her painting. ‘And what do we say when they accuse us of exploiting Lord Tinmore, as well?’
‘Us?’ Tess blinked. ‘Has anyone said that?’
Genna shrugged. ‘Not to my face. Yet. So tell me what I ought to say when they do.’
Tess had not considered that possibility, but it made sense. In a way, she, Genna and Edmund stood to gain more from Lord Tinmore’s money than Lorene. His money would open possibilities for them, possibilities that filled Tess with joy.
Until guilt stabbed at her again. ‘We simply act grateful for everything he does for us, because we are grateful, are we not?’
Genna made a false smile. ‘Very grateful.’
Genna bore watching. She was entirely too impetuous and plain speaking for her own good.
Tess changed the subject. ‘I do not think Lord Tinmore has anything planned for us until dinner.’
The guests, all closer to his age than to his bride’s, were in need of rest after travelling to Lincolnshire the day before. Tess supposed they had accepted the first invitation to Tinmore Hall in thirty years because they wanted to see what sort of woman caused Lord Tinmore to finally open his doors.
Tess dreaded their second meeting of the guests. The ladies’ travelling clothes were finer than her best gown. Their dinner gowns took away her breath. The new gowns Lord Tinmore had ordered would not be ready for a week, but Tess could not bear for her and her sisters to look so shabby in the meantime.
‘Would you like to walk to the village with me?’ she asked.
Genna looked surprised. ‘Why are you going to the village?’
‘For lace and ribbons. I believe I can embellish our gowns so it does not appear as if we are wearing the same one, night after night.’ They might be charity cases, but they could at least try not to look like ones.
‘You are being foolish to go out.’ Genna gestured to the window. ‘It will rain.’
Tess glanced at the overcast sky. ‘The rain should hold off until I return.’
‘Well, I am not chancing it.’ Genna dipped her brush in some paint.
‘Very well. I can walk alone.’ Tess always walked alone to Yardney, the village that once had been her home.
But it was only a few short miles from here. Obviously Lorene had walked the distance often enough to get married. Why not walk to Yardney instead of the village nearby? It would take only a little longer. If she went to Yardney she could call upon Mr Welton’s aunt. If Mr Welton was still her house guest, she could tell him about having her dowry restored.
‘You should take a maid or something,’ Genna said. ‘Is that not what wealthy wards do?’
If she wanted someone to know where she was bound, perhaps. Besides, Lord Tinmore was not their guardian. They’d not been appointed a guardian after their father died. There had been no property or fortune to protect. They were under Lord Tinmore’s protection, though.
‘Lord Tinmore will not care if I walk to the village when I’ve been walking the countryside my whole life.’ At least Tess hoped he would not care. She and Genna had hardly seen him, only for a few meals. She opened the door. ‘In any event, I am going.’ With luck she could change their dresses by dinnertime and see to her future, as well.
Genna did not look away from her watercolour. ‘Well, if it pours and you get soaking wet and catch your death of a cold, do not expect me to wipe your nose.’
That was much how their father had become ill. Surely Genna did not realise.
‘I never catch colds.’ Tess walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.
* * *
The rain did not begin until Tess left Yardney and was already on the road back to Tinmore Hall. The first drops that splattered the dirt road quickly grew to a heavy downpour. Moments later it was as if the heavens had decided to tip over all their buckets at once. In mere minutes Tess’s cloak was soaked through. Even her purchases, wrapped in paper and string and held under her cloak, were becoming wet.
‘Genna, you are going to gloat,’ she muttered.
But it had been worth it. Tess discovered that Mr Welton had indeed left for London, but he knew about Lorene’s marriage. She told his aunt about her changed circumstances.
He would find her when Lord Tinmore took them all to town for the Season. Only a few more weeks.
Mud from the road stuck to Tess’s half-boots, and it became an effort merely to lift one foot in front of the other. Water poured from the drooping brim of her hat and the raindrops hit her face like needles of ice. She had at least two miles to go before she’d cross through the gatehouse of the estate.
The mud grabbed at her half-boots like some devious creature bent on stopping her. Trying to quicken her pace was futile, but at last she spied the bridge ahead through the thick sheets of rain.
But the stream now rushed over it.
‘No!’ Her protest was swallowed by the wind.
What now? She did not know of any other way to reach Tinmore Hall. There was no choice but to walk to the nearby village as she ought to have done in the first place. The rain was cutting into her like knives now, not needles.
She glanced at the wooded area next to the road. If this were home, she’d know precisely how to cut through the woods and cross the fields. She might be home already, sitting in front of a fire, letting the heat penetrate instead of this rain. Here she did not dare leave the road that she knew led to Tinmore Village.
Do not think, she told herself. Just put one foot in front of the other. Despair nudged at her resolve.
She walked and walked until she thought she saw a vague outline of the village church tower. She hurried on, but up ahead water was streaming across the road. She could not go forward. She could not go back.
But she could go home, home to Yardney, at least. Perhaps she would seek shelter at Mr Welton’s aunt’s house. Or knock at the door of Summerfield House.
She turned back, retracing her steps, passing the road leading to the blocked bridge. A short distance from there, the road was flooded. Turning back again, she walked until she found another road, not knowing where it would lead her.
If only she were closer to home. She would be able to turn in any direction and find someone’s house who would welcome her, but she no longer knew where she was or how to find her way to anywhere familiar. She was lost, wet and terribly cold.
Chapter Two (#ulink_bcf7d79d-6915-5a4c-8b83-81bafe994f8e)
Marc Glenville cursed the rain.
Why there must be a downpour while he was on horseback on his way to London was beyond him. Unless the gods of weather somehow caught his mood.
Returning to London was never a joy.
But there was nothing else for him to do. His business in Scotland was complete.
His horse faltered and his head dipped. A stream of water trickled down his back.
Business in Scotland. Ha!
That was the fiction he told his parents and would tell anyone else who questioned his whereabouts these last long months, but it was not the truth.
He’d been to France. Paris and the countryside, mixing with Bonapartists and others discontented with returning Louis XVIII to the throne, keeping an ear tuned to whether discontent was apt to erupt in insurrection.
All for king and country.
Unrest was not widespread. The French, like the British, were fatigued with war. Mark had made his reports. No more would be asked of him.
It was time to face more personal matters.
Time to face again the fact that his brother would never again grin at him from across the dinner table and his best friend would never again come to call. When he was pretending to be Monsieur Renard, citoyen ordinaire of France, he could almost forget that Lucien, his brother, had been gone for four years and Charles, not quite three. Whenever he returned, though, he half-expected to see them walk through the door when he was home.
Grief shot through him like a bolt of lightning.
Foolish Lucien. Reckless Charles. They’d died so needlessly.
Marc willed his emotions to cool, lifting his face to the rain that was already chilling his bones. Best to keep emotions in control. When deep in espionage, it could save his life; back in London, it might save his sanity.
Good God. Was the near-freezing rain begetting gloomy thoughts as well as soaking him to the bone? Concentrate on the road and on his poor horse. Slogging through muddy, rut-filled roads was a battle, even for the sturdy fellow.
The stallion blew out a breath.
‘Hard going, eh, Apollo?’ Marc patted the horse’s neck.
He’d hoped to reach Peterborough by nightfall, but that was not in the cards in this weather. He’d be lucky to make the next village, whatever that was, and hope its inn had a room with a clean bed.
The rain had forced him off the main route and he and Apollo were inching their way through any roads that remained passable.
The delay did not bother him overmuch. No one was expecting him. He’d not informed his parents he was coming to town. Let it be a surprise.
Marc dreaded the family visit, always, but it was time to take his place as heir, now that duty did not call him elsewhere. He’d call upon Doria Caldwell, Charles’s sister, and make official what had been implied between them since Charles was killed. He owed that much to Charles.
Besides, the Caldwell family, now consisting only of her and her father, was so ordinary and respectable—and rational—he would relish being a part of it.
Lightning flashed through the sky and thunder boomed. Was he now to be struck by real lightning, instead of being struck figuratively?
He must be near a village; he’d been riding long enough. Gazing up ahead, he hoped to see rooftops in the distance or a road sign or any indication that shelter might be near, but the rain formed a grey curtain that obscured all but a few feet in front of him. What’s more, the curtain seemed to move with him, keeping him engulfed in the gloom and making his eyelids grow heavy.
Lightning flashed again and he thought he’d seen someone in the road. He peered harder until through the curtain of rain a figure took form. It was a woman on foot, not yet hearing his horse coming up from behind.
‘Halloo, there!’ he called out. ‘Halloo!’
The woman, shrouded in a dark cloak, turned and waved her hands for him to stop.
As if any gentleman could pass by.
He rode up to her and dismounted. ‘Madam, where are you bound? May I offer some assistance?’
She looked up at him. She was a young woman, pretty enough, though her face was stiff with anxiety and exhaustion. ‘I want to go to Tinmore Hall.’ It seemed an effort for her to speak.
‘Point the way,’ he responded. ‘I’ll carry you on my horse.’
She shook her head. ‘No use. Floods. Floods everywhere. Cannot get there. Cannot get to the village.’ Her voice shook from the cold.
He extended a hand. ‘Come. I’ll lift you on to my horse.’ Her cloak was as wet as if it had been pulled from a laundry bath. Her hat had lost any shape at all. Worse, her lips were blue. ‘We’ll find a place to get you dry.’
She nodded, but there was no expression in her pale eyes.
She handed him a sodden parcel which he stuffed in one of his saddlebags. He lifted her on to Apollo and mounted behind her. ‘Are you comfortable? Do you feel secure?’
She nodded again and shivered from the cold.
He encircled her in his arms, but that offered little relief from the cold. He took the reins. Poor Apollo, even more burdened now, started forward again.
‘I am not from here.’ He spoke loudly to be heard through the rain’s din. ‘How far to the next village?’
She turned her head. ‘Lost. Yardney—cannot find it.’
Yardney must be a nearby village. ‘We’ll find it.’ He’d been telling himself he’d find a village this last hour or more.
She shivered again. ‘Cold,’ she said. ‘So cold.’
He’d better find her shelter quickly and get her warm. People died of cold.
She leaned against him and her muscles relaxed.
He rode on and found a crossroads with a sign pointing to Kirton.
‘See?’ he shouted, pointing to the sign. ‘Kirton.’
She did not answer him.
A little further on, the road was filled with water. He turned around and backtracked until he came to the crossroads again, taking the other route. Someone was farming the lands here. There must be houses about.
If only he could see them through the rain.
The road led to a narrower, rougher road, until it became little more than a path. He followed it as it wound back and forth. Hoping he was not wasting more precious time, he peered ahead looking for anything with a roof and walls.
A little cottage appeared in front of them. No candles shone in the windows, though. No smoke rose from the chimney. With luck it would be dry.
‘Look!’ he called to his companion, but she did not answer.
Apollo gained a spurt of energy, cantering to the promise of shelter. As they came closer, a small stable also came into view and he guided Apollo to its door. He dismounted carefully, holding on to her. She slipped off, into his arms. Lifting her over his shoulder, he unlatched the stable door. Apollo walked in immediately.
Marc lay the woman down on a dry patch of floor. ‘Cold,’ she murmured, curling into a ball.
At least she was alive.
He turned back to his horse, patting him on the neck. ‘She comes first, old fellow. I’ll tend to you as soon as I can.’
He left the stable and hurried up to the door of the cabin. He pounded on it, but there was no answer and the door was locked. He peered in a window, but the inside was dark. Reaching in a pocket inside his greatcoat, he pulled out a set of skeleton keys—what self-respecting spy would be without skeleton keys? He tried several before one clicked and the latch turned.
The light from outside did little to illuminate the interior of the cabin, but Marc immediately spied a fireplace and a cot with folded blankets atop it. It was enough.
He hurried back to the stable.
Apollo whinnied at his return. ‘You’ll have to wait a bit longer, old fellow.’
He lifted the woman again, her sodden garments making her an even heavier burden. She groaned as he put her over his shoulder and hurried back through the rain to the cabin door.
His first task was to get her wet clothes off. He placed her on the floor where it would not matter if her clothes left a puddle. After tossing off his greatcoat, he worked as quickly as he could, cutting the laces of her dress and her corset and stripping her down to her bare skin.
She tried to cover herself, but not out of modesty. ‘Cold,’ she whimpered.
She was a beauty. Full, high breasts, narrow waist and long, shapely legs. He swallowed at the sight, but allowed himself only a glance before grabbing a blanket and wrapping it around her. He carried her to the cot and wrapped the second blanket around her.
By this time his eyes were accustomed to the darkness of the room. He saw a stack of wood and kindling and a scuttle of coal. On top of the fireplace were tapers and a flint. He hurried to make a fire. When it burned well enough, he flung his greatcoat around him again and ran back out in the rain to tend to Apollo.
The stable was well stocked with dry cloths and brushes. He dried off the poor horse as best he could, covering him with a blanket. There was hay, which Apollo ate eagerly, and a pump from which Marc drew fresh water to quench Apollo’s thirst.
‘There you are, old fellow.’ He stroked Apollo’s neck. ‘That is all I can do for you. Soon the rain must stop and, with luck, we will be on our way before night falls. For now, eat and rest and I will check on you later.’
Marc ran back through the unrelenting rain to the cabin. He checked on his new charge. Her cheeks had some colour, thank God, and her skin seemed a bit warmer to the touch. Her features had relaxed and she slept.
He blew out a relieved breath and, for the first time, realised he, too, was wet and cold and weary. He stripped down to his shirt and breeches and pulled a chair as near to the fire as he could. He really ought to hang up their wet clothes to dry, but the warmth of the fire was too enticing. Instead he stared at the woman.
She was lovely, but who was she?
Hers was a strong face, with full lips and an elegant nose. Her brows arched appealingly and her lashes were thick. He could not tell from her clothing what her station in life might be. What sort of woman would be walking in the rain? She mentioned Tinmore Hall. Lord Tinmore’s estate? Perhaps she was in service there.
If he could look at her hands, he might learn more. Were they rough from work? They were tucked beneath the blanket. Her hair was pulled back in a simple knot such as any woman might wear on a walk to the village. It would never dry that way.
He reached over and pulled the pins from her dark hair and unwound it from its knot. He spread it over the pillow as best he could. He leaned back.
Good God, now she looked like some classical goddess. Aphrodite, perhaps. Goddess of love, beauty, pleasure.
When she woke, would she wish for pleasure? His blood raced.
It did more to warm him than the fire.
* * *
Tess woke to the crash of a thunderclap and the constant keen of rain. She remembered walking. She remembered the rain soaking into her clothing.
Her clothing!
She sat upright. She was covered by a blanket, nothing more.
‘You are awake,’ a man’s voice said.
He sat on a nearby chair. That was right—a man on a horse. She’d really seen him, then.
‘Where am I?’ she rasped. Her throat was dry. ‘Where are my clothes?’
‘I fashioned a clothes line and hung them.’ He pointed behind her.
She turned and saw her cloak, her dress, her corset and her shift hanging from a rope strung across the room. Next to her clothes were a man’s greatcoat, coat and waistcoat.
He continued talking. ‘We are in a cabin somewhere in Lincolnshire, but blast if I know where. You fell victim to the cold. I had to get you dry and warm or...’ He ended with a shrug of a shoulder.
‘You brought me here?’ And removed her clothing? Her cheeks burned at the thought.
‘It was shelter. It was dry and stocked with firewood and coal.’
Tess blinked and gazed about her. It was a small cabin with what looked like a scullery in one corner. It was furnished with a table and chairs, the chair he sat upon, and a bed pulled close to the fire.
She was warm, she realised.
The man shifted position and his face was lit by the firelight. His hair was as dark as a raven’s wing, with thick brows to match and the shadow of a beard. In contrast, his eyes were a piercing blue. She had never seen a man quite like him and he was dressed in only his shirt and breeches. Even his feet were bare.
A breath caught in her throat. ‘Who are you?’ The blanket slipped off her shoulder and she pulled it about her again.
He stood. He was taller than her half-brother and Edmund reached six feet. ‘I am Marc Glenville.’ He bowed. ‘At your service.’ His thick brows rose. ‘And you are?’
Tess swallowed. ‘I am Miss Tess Summerfield.’ She frowned. She ought to have introduced herself as Miss Summerfield. Lorene was Lady Tinmore now, so Tess had become the eldest unmarried sister.
She touched her hair. It was loose! What had happened to her hair?
‘I took out your hairpins.’ The man—Mr Glenville—sat again. ‘I did undress you, Miss Summerfield, but only because you were suffering from the cold. I give you my word as a gentleman, it was necessary. A person can die from the cold.’
He was a gentleman. His accent, his bearing, were that of a gentleman.
‘I do not remember any of it.’ She shook her head.
‘A function of the cold. An indication that there was some urgency in getting you warm.’ His voice was deep and smooth and soothing.
She ought to be more frightened, to be in a strange place, with a strange man. Naked. But it had been far more frightening to be wandering for hours in the chilling rain.
‘I must thank you, sir,’ she murmured. ‘It seems I owe you my life.’
He glanced away as if fending off her words. ‘It was luck. I found this cabin by luck. A groundskeeper’s cabin, I suspect, used only when he works this part of the property.’
She looked around the cabin once more.
He stood again. ‘Are you hungry? I have a kettle ready to make tea.’
She nodded. ‘Tea would be lovely.’
He hung the kettle above the fire and reached over to pick up what looked like a saddlebag near his chair.
‘Your horse!’ She remembered a horse.
He smiled again. ‘Apollo.’
Was the animal out in the rain? ‘You must bring him in here.’
He made a calming gesture with his hand. ‘Do not fear. Apollo is warm and dry in a stable, with plenty of water and hay. I’ve checked on him. He was quite content. I will check on him again in a few minutes.’ He carried the saddle-bags over to the table, searched inside them and pulled out a tin and an oilskin package.
When he walked to the scullery and his back was turned, Tess rose from the bed and, careful to keep the blankets around her, went to check her clothing. Her dress was still very wet, but her shift was almost dry.
‘Mr Glenville?’ She pulled her shift from the line.
He turned. ‘Yes?’
She clutched her shift to her chest. ‘Will you please keep your back turned? I—I wish to don my shift.’
Without saying a word, he turned his back again and faced the window.
* * *
Marc watched her reflection in the window. Not very well done of him, but he was unable to resist. Her figure was every bit as tantalising from the back as from the front.
No harm in looking.
Except he could feel his body stir in response. He resumed his search for teacups and a teapot. He found the pot, but had to settle for two Toby jugs.
‘You can look now.’ Her voice turned low. Did she know how seductive it was?
‘Is your shift dry?’ he asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact rather than like a man battling his baser urges.
‘It is a little damp, but I feel better wearing it.’ She was still wrapped up in the blanket.
He lifted the jugs for her to see. ‘These will have to do for tea. Who the devil knows why they are here?’ He placed them on the table. ‘Do you mind waiting for tea? I should check on my horse.’
‘Apollo?’ She remembered the name. ‘Of course I do not mind. I should feel terrible if your horse suffered because of me.’
Was this sarcasm? He peered at her, but saw only concern on her face.
Consideration of his horse’s well-being was nearly as seductive as her naked reflection and her lowered voice.
He took his greatcoat off the rope and threw it over his shoulders. ‘I will only be a moment. I’ll tend to the tea when I return.’ He stepped outside.
The mud beneath his bare feet felt painfully cold, but that was preferable to wearing his sodden boots even if he were able to get his feet into them. The rain had slowed, but the sun was low in the sky. Even if the rain stopped, the roads would not improve before dark.
He and Miss Summerfield would spend the night together.
It would be a long, painful night. No matter what his body demanded, he would not take advantage of her. Besides, he well knew a man must keep his passions in check.
On the other hand, if she approached him...?
Apollo whinnied.
‘How are you faring, old fellow? Are you warm enough?’ He ran his hand down the length of the horse’s neck.
He and Apollo had been through adventures more dangerous than this one, but Marc was sorry to have subjected the stallion to one more hardship.
He found a blanket to put over Apollo. ‘This will keep you warm.’ He mucked out the stable and replenished the hay and water before returning to the cabin.
When he opened the door Miss Summerfield handed him a towel. ‘I found this. You can dry your feet.’
The cabin was brighter. ‘You lit lamps.’
‘Only two, so I could see to fix the tea.’ She walked to the table. ‘It has been steeping. It should be ready.’
She fixed the tea?
‘Come, we can sit.’ She walked over to the table.
She still wore a blanket, but she’d fashioned it like a tunic and belted it with a rope. ‘You’ve made yourself a garment.’
She turned and smiled, making her face even lovelier. ‘I devised a way that the blanket will not fall off me if I wish to use my arms. I suppose I should leave a coin to pay for cutting holes in the blanket for my head and for the belt.’
He hung up his greatcoat. ‘I would say you are resourceful.’
She smiled again. ‘Thank you.’
He sat at the table and she poured him a Toby jug of tea.
‘I could not find any sugar,’ she said.
‘No matter.’ His fingers grazed hers as he reached for the jug. He glanced at her hands and saw no evidence of hard work in them.
She sat and poured herself some tea. ‘I have never drunk tea from jugs like this. I have never drunk anything from Toby jugs. I have seen some like them in the village shop, though.’
He frowned. A well-bred young lady might not have used a Toby jug. Perhaps a woman in service would not have used a Toby jug either.
Who was this Miss Tess Summerfield?
He took a sip of tea and tapped his jug with his fingers. ‘You said something about Tinmore Hall when I picked you up. Are you employed there?’
‘Employed there?’ She looked puzzled. ‘No, I live there. Now, that is. We—my sisters and I—recently moved there.’ She paused as if trying to decide to say more. ‘My sister Lorene is the new Lady Tinmore.’
But this made no sense. ‘I thought the old lord was still alive. He had a grandson?’
She met his eye. ‘Lord Tinmore is still alive and he has no grandson. My sister married the old lord.’
His brows shot up. ‘The old lord? The man must be in his seventies.’
‘He is nearly eighty.’ She lifted her chin. ‘How do you know Lord Tinmore?’
He took a sip of tea. ‘I do not know him. I know of him. My father went to school with his son and I remember my father mentioning the son’s death. It was sudden, as I recall.’ He stared at her. ‘Your sister married a man in his seventies?’
‘Yes.’ Her gaze did not waver.
She was sister to Lord Tinmore’s wife? Well, she certainly was not a housemaid, then.
He’d wager the old earl did not marry below his station—most men of his social stature did not. Most gentlemen were wiser than that.
‘Who is Tess Summerfield that an earl would marry your sister?’ he asked.
She met his eye. ‘I am the second daughter of the late Sir Hollis Summerfield of Yardney.’
Sir Hollis?
Ah, yes. Sir Hollis. He’d heard of him. Or rather, he’d heard of his wife. It was said his wife had had so many lovers her daughters were sired by different men and none of them her husband.
Even so, they must have been reared as respectable young ladies and now were under the protection of the Earl of Tinmore.
He rubbed his forehead. ‘This changes matters. We must be very careful not to be discovered together.’
She sat up straighter. ‘I have no intention of being found with you! I assure you I hope to be gone as soon as the rain stops.’
He did not have the heart to tell her that it would likely be dark before then.
She took another sip of tea. ‘I am sorry, Mr Glenville. I did not mean to sound so ungrateful. You might have left me in the road.’
He opened his eyes and gazed at her. Her expression was soft and lovely.
‘You did not sound ungrateful, Miss Tess Summerfield.’ He savoured the sound of her name.
She blushed, as though she had read his thoughts. ‘I know what you did for me,’ she said quietly. ‘You rescued me. And I do realise that being alone with you in this cabin, especially in my state of undress, is a very compromising situation.’
She was direct; he appreciated that.
‘I have no wish to see you ruined,’ he explained. ‘That is all I meant.’
She faced him again. ‘All I need is to reach the road back to Tinmore Hall. I will tell no one where I’ve been or who I’ve been with. If you can help me get that far, you can trust that I will say nothing of this. Ever.’
‘I will see you to safety.’ He’d always intended to do so. ‘And I, also, will say nothing of this.’
She extended her hand across the table. ‘Let us shake on it.’
He placed his large, rough hand in her smaller, smooth one. ‘We have a bargain, Miss Summerfield.’
Chapter Three (#ulink_9e7db356-4287-50bb-91b0-5a5b77f1a357)
Up so close, Mr Glenville’s blue eyes shone with such intensity Tess could not look away. Nor could she move her hand from his strong grasp. Her face grew warm.
‘Are you hungry, Miss Summerfield?’ he asked, releasing her.
‘A little,’ she managed. She was famished.
He pulled the oilskin package towards him. ‘I have some bread and cheese here.’ He untied the string and unfolded the oilskin. Inside was a small loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese. He tore the bread in half and handed her a piece.
It was damp, but she did not care. She took an eager bite.
He broke off a piece of the cheese for her.
It was all she could do not to gobble it down.
‘Do not eat too fast,’ he warned, taking a bite of the cheese.
His manner had changed in a way she did not quite understand, but his gaze warmed her as effectively as the fire.
He’d shown her nothing but kindness. Indeed, he’d saved her life. How awful it would be to have someone discover them here. Some women might use such a situation to trap a man into marriage.
It would be dreadful to base a marriage on an accidental mishap. Even Lorene’s marriage made more sense than that.
She took sips of tea between bites and held the doughy taste of the flour and the sharp tang of the cheese in her mouth as long as she could. If she had been served wet bread and cheese at someone’s dinner table or at an inn, she would have been outraged.
‘How can I thank you, Mr Glenville?’ she murmured. ‘This is ambrosia.’
He glanced at her and his eyes still filled her with heat.
He quickly looked away. ‘Tell me why you were out walking in a rainstorm.’ It was said conversationally.
She waved a dismissive hand. ‘I had an errand in the village.’
‘It must have been important.’
It had not been. It had been foolish. She’d hoped to see Mr Welton. And to buy ribbons.
Her ribbons! ‘I had a parcel... Was I carrying a parcel when you found me?’
He lifted a finger and leaned down to pull something out of his saddlebags. He held it up to her. ‘A parcel.’
She took it.
‘The reason for your walk to the village?’ He inclined his head towards the parcel.
She felt her cheeks burn. ‘Ribbons and lace.’
He responded with surprise.
She shrugged. ‘It may not seem important to you, but it was to me.’ Even more important had been learning about Mr Welton. ‘Besides, I thought the rain would hold off until later in the day.’
He took another bite of cheese.
She pulled off a piece of bread and rolled it into a ball in her fingers. ‘So why were you out in the rain?’
He swallowed. ‘I am travelling to London.’
She kept up the challenge. ‘And set off even though there was threat of rain?’
He lifted his Toby jug, as if in a toast, and smiled. ‘Point taken.’
If his eyes had power, so much more did that smile.
Tess lowered her voice. ‘I am glad you set off even though there was a threat of rain. What would have happened to me had you been wiser?’
‘Someone else would have found you,’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘I walked for hours. I saw no one else on the road.’
He held her gaze with those riveting eyes.
She glanced away. ‘Why were you bound for London?’
‘I finished my business in Scotland.’ He lifted his Toby jug. ‘So I am returning to London.’
‘Do you have business in London?’
He sipped his tea. ‘Of a sort.’
A sort of which he obviously did not want to discuss.
‘I shall be travelling to London soon,’ she said, trying to cover her sudden discomfort. ‘For the Season. Will you be attending the Season’s entertainments?’
His face turned serious. ‘I am not certain.’
She felt as though he had withdrawn from her completely, but she did not know why. Perhaps he’d tired of her conversation. She felt suddenly as lonely as she had been when wandering in the storm. She missed her sisters. They would think she was in Tinmore. Tess hoped they would presume she was safe. If only she could get back to them soon.
She finished her piece of bread and cheese, and he wrapped up the rest of his food.
It turned deadly quiet.
‘The rain!’ she cried. ‘I think the rain has stopped!’
She jumped from her chair at the same time as he and they hurried to the door. Both stood there for a moment staring at it.
He reached over and opened it.
The rain had stopped, but it was black outside.
She looked over at him. ‘There is no chance we can leave now, is there?’
‘None,’ he responded. ‘It is too wet and too dark. I am afraid we are here all night.’
All night.
* * *
Marc wished he could erase the disappointment on her face.
To her credit she said not one word of complaint, even though their situation was now clearly worse than before. Instead she busied herself pouring more hot water from the kettle into the teapot. She did not complain, but, then, she did not say anything.
A cold wind soon rattled the windows and put even more chill into the cabin. Marc rooted through the room again. He found two more blankets, stored in a chest tucked in a far corner. One for her; one for him. He handed her one and they pulled chairs from the table to be near the fire. They wrapped themselves in their blankets, sipped weak, but hot, tea and stared into the fire.
He felt as if he’d lost her company.
He wanted it back. ‘Do you go to London for the marriage mart, then?’ he asked.
She jumped. He’d startled her.
‘I would not choose those words, precisely.’ Her voice was hesitant. ‘My younger sister and I will come out. We might even be presented to the queen, if Lord Tinmore requests it.’
‘I am surprised,’ he said.
‘Why?’ she shot back. ‘Why should we not be presented?’
He held up a hand. ‘I am surprised any lady would wish all that fuss.’
Miss Summerfield stiffened. ‘It would be an honour.’
Did his sister wish it? If so, it would never happen for her.
‘An honour, indeed, I suppose,’ he said.
‘As would procuring vouchers for Almack’s,’ she went on. ‘Will you be getting a voucher for Almack’s?’
He gave a dry laugh. ‘Not likely.’ The London Season was not a good time for his family.
She gazed into the fire. ‘Why not? I thought you were high born.’
He sat up straight again. ‘Why did you think that?’
‘You said your father went to school with Lord Tinmore’s son.’
He had said that.
‘I am high born.’ But he’d been deliberately evasive about who he was. Now that they were to spend the night together, she might as well know. ‘You have likely heard of Viscount Northdon?’
She looked blank. ‘No.’
She must be the one person in England who had not heard of Viscount Northdon. ‘You see, Miss Summerfield, I come from a family with a tarnished reputation. Viscount Northdon is my father and, because he married my mother, our family is not accepted in the highest circles of society.’
He expected to see curiosity in her expression. Instead, he saw sympathy.
It touched him more deeply than he was willing to admit and made him go on. ‘My mother is French and came from trade.’ It pained him to say the rest. ‘But that is not the worst of it. Her father became active in the Terror.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Hence we are not welcome at Almack’s.’
She lowered her gaze and spoke in a quiet voice. ‘It is likely our family will not receive vouchers to Almack’s, either, even if Lord Tinmore wishes it.’ She raised her eyes to him. ‘I, too, have a scandalous mother.’
‘I have heard of your mother,’ he admitted. He’d also heard she’d abandoned her husband and children to run away with one of her lovers.
Pain filled Miss Summerfield’s eyes. ‘I suppose everyone has heard of our mother.’ She pulled her knees up so that her feet rested on the chair’s seat. ‘I expect they will stare wherever we go. And whisper—’
He knew firsthand she was correct. ‘Lord Tinmore’s reputation will ease matters for you.’
‘Yes.’ Her expression filled with resolve. ‘Lord Tinmore will do much for us.’
He could reassure her even more. ‘Your sister will be seen as having made a brilliant match. No reason you cannot do the same.’ Especially with her face and her figure.
‘I do not want to wish to make a brilliant match,’ she snapped. ‘My parents made a brilliant match and look what happened to them.’
And look what happened to his parents for making such an unwise one.
She rested her chin on her knees. ‘I do not care about titles or position. I want to marry someone who will love me for myself and who will not care what members of my family have done.’
‘Love?’ His parents had married for love. Or at least for the physical desire that so often masquerades as love. ‘Better to make a marriage of mutual advantage.’
‘My parents married for advantage,’ she said. ‘Believe me, it does not work.’
Such a marriage had a better chance than one made out of love. Love led to rash acts and later regrets.
And constant discord.
‘What say you of your sister’s marriage, then?’ The woman had not married the man out of passion, that was for certain.
She uncurled herself and leaned towards him. ‘What can you know about my sister’s marriage?’
‘I can guess she thought it to her advantage to marry Lord Tinmore.’ Why Tinmore might have married her was not a topic for the ears of a young lady.
‘That she married him for his money, do you mean?’ Her voice rose.
‘Of course she married for money. And a title. And Lord Tinmore gained a young wife and a reason to emerge from seclusion. There is no shame in any of that.’
She settled back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Lorene had no wish for a title or wealth any more than I do.’
That he very much doubted. ‘Then what were her reasons?’
The pain returned to Miss Summerfield’s eyes. ‘She did it for us. For me and for Genna. And even Edmund. So we—so we could have a chance for decent, happy lives. So Genna and I could have dowries. So we could marry as we wish. And—and not be forced to accept just any offer. So we would not have to become lady’s companions or governesses.’ She took a breath. ‘I assure you, Lorene married Lord Tinmore for the noblest of reasons.’
‘Your situation was that dire?’ he asked quietly.
She nodded.
‘Then I commend your sister even more. I wish her well.’ He’d sacrifice for his sister, if he could.
Her brows knitted. ‘I fear she will be miserable.’ Her chin set. ‘That is why I am determined that I should make a love match and be happy. For my sister.’
He peered at her. ‘You would allow your heart to rule your choice?’
‘I would insist upon it.’
He tapped his temple. ‘Better to use your head, Miss Summerfield.’
She lifted her chin. ‘How can you know? You are not married, are you?’
‘Married? No.’ But he did speak from experience.
When his father had embarked on his Grand Tour as a young man, he met Marc’s mother and eloped with her. They continued his tour for a passionate year, but their wedded bliss ended almost immediately when they set foot back on English soil.
‘Believe me, Miss Summerfield. A marriage is best contracted by one’s brain, not one’s heart.’ Or one’s loins.
She leaned back in her chair again. ‘Then I pity the woman who becomes your wife.’
He shrugged. ‘On the contrary. She is like-minded.’
She blinked. ‘You are betrothed?’
‘No.’ He rose and put the last of their lumps of coal on the fire. ‘But we have an understanding. She is the main reason I am bound for London.’
* * *
It ought not to bother Tess that there was a woman he planned to marry. It should not bother her that she might see the woman on his arm in London. Or dancing with him at a ball. She had dreams of dancing with Mr Welton, did she not?
But somehow it would have been a comfort to meet him in London without a woman in tow and to pretend they did not have a huge secret between them.
‘Are you certain this woman will marry you, simply because you offer her—what? That you are a viscount’s son?’ she asked him.
He shifted in his chair. ‘I am heir to the title, not that I ever wished to be.’
‘Why would you not wish for the title?’ Both their father and Edmund would have been greatly gratified if Edmund had been the legitimate son and heir.
In fact, their father should have married Edmund’s mother. She had been the woman he loved.
Mr Glenville turned his blue eyes on her. Grieving blue eyes. ‘My brother had to die. Believe me, I would rather have my brother back than a thousand titles.’
She reached over and touched his arm. ‘I am so sorry,’ she said truthfully. ‘It is a terrible thing to earn a title. Someone must always die.’
He smiled, a sad smile. ‘Not always. One can earn a title from winning a war, like the Duke of Wellington.’
His smile made her insides flutter. She glanced back to the fire. ‘You do not worry that this woman you wish to marry would marry you merely because you will be a viscount someday?’
‘Mind?’ His smile remained. ‘That is what I have to offer. A title. Wealth. Why should she not want those things?’
A title did not keep a man from becoming a bitter person. Wealth could be fleeting, as well she knew.
‘Why should you want her, then?’ she asked. ‘What advantage does she offer you?’
His expression sobered. ‘She is the sister of a good friend. We’ve known each other since childhood. Her family is extremely respectable and that will do much to erase the damage my parents’ reputations have done.’
‘You will marry her for her family’s reputation?’ Was that not like marrying for social connections? Her father had married her mother for her social connections, all of which disappeared when she ran off with another man.
He gazed at her with understanding. ‘Perhaps you and your sisters never suffered the stigma of your mother’s scandals.’
She glanced away again. ‘Our father never took us to London.’ There were, though, a few ladies around Yardney who whispered when they were in view and a few gentlemen who’d spoken—rudely.
He added, ‘You will benefit from Lord Tinmore’s reputation in London, no doubt.’
She turned to him. ‘I do understand that. Without Tinmore’s wealth and reputation, we should be invited nowhere. But that does not mean that I would accept an offer of marriage from a man for whom I do not feel great regard.’
‘I feel regard for my intended bride, but I will not let emotions dictate my choices.’
‘You like her, then?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘I like her well enough.’
Well enough. She was beginning to feel very sorry for his intended. ‘But you do not love her?’
He gazed at her and the firelight made his eyes even more intense. ‘Are you asking if I have a passion for her? If my mind goes blank and my tongue becomes tied when I am with her? The answer is no.’ He turned back to the fire. ‘But I like her well enough.’
Perhaps if Tess’s father had loved their mother, she would not have sought lovers. Perhaps if her mother had loved her father, he would have indulged her and flattered her and cosseted her as she wished. Tess and her sisters had discussed this many times.
‘I hope you learn to love her,’ Tess told Mr Glenville. ‘I hope she loves you.’
His expression remained implacable.
She adjusted her blankets and stared into the fire. The chair felt hard and the wind found its way inside. The fire was losing its battle to keep the place warm.
They were silent for a while until Mr Glenville spoke. ‘How old are you, Miss Summerfield?’
‘I am two and twenty.’
His brows rose. ‘And your sister, Lady Tinmore?’
‘She is five and twenty.’
He peered at her. ‘In your twenties and you have had no suitors? That is hard to believe.’
She straightened. ‘I did not say we had no suitors. Our situation has not been such that those suitors could make an offer. We had no dowries.’
‘Your father did not provide you and your sisters with dowries?’ he asked.
If he’d heard of their mother, surely he could guess. Their father did not believe they were his daughters.
But she would not speak that out loud. ‘Our father was fond of making risky investments. He wanted to be fabulously wealthy so our mother would regret leaving him, but his investments were terrible ones. He used the last of his funds—our dowries—to purchase a commission for Edmund.’
‘Edmund is your father’s illegitimate son?’
So he also knew that part of her family story, as well.
‘Yes.’ She added, ‘Our half-brother.’
She and her sisters likely shared no blood with Edmund. The sisters shared a mother. He came from their father.
She went on. ‘I do not disagree with you that one needs some fortune and reputation in order to make a good match. Lorene has given us this, but wealth and reputation are not enough for a marriage. It is love that is the answer. Love can get one over the inevitable hurdles of life.’
‘Now you are sounding philosophic. There are some hurdles that mere emotion can’t jump over.’ He peered at her. ‘Do you have a suitor?’
She felt her face grow red.
He frowned. ‘You have a suitor. A man who would not court you because you had no dowry.’
She flushed with anger this time. ‘Perhaps I do have such a suitor. Perhaps that is why I say the things I do.’
He threw off his blanket and stood. ‘I am going to check on Apollo.’ Before he reached the door he turned back to her. ‘I hope it all works for you, Miss Summerfield. But before you make that final vow with your suitor, think with your head and forget your heart.’
She wanted to snap back at him, but his tone disturbed her. And what he said was true. Mr Welton could not court her when she had no dowry, but that did not mean his heart could not be engaged.
Did it?
He opened the door and the wind rushed in. The temperature dropped even lower in just that brief moment. Tess forgot about dowries or love matches or reputations. The air was freezing and they’d put the last of the coal on the fire. How would they stay warm through the night?
‘I’ll look for more firewood,’ Mr Glenville said, as if reading her mind. ‘What we have won’t last the night.’
Chapter Four (#ulink_7e8f2739-0a32-503b-82b8-162f79f258d1)
Ice crunched under Marc’s bare feet as he crossed the yard to the stable. His feet ached from the cold as he tended to Apollo. Why could he not have been stranded in June instead of February?
It was not only the icy cold that disturbed him. His conversation with Miss Summerfield did, as well.
It cut too close. All this talk of marriage. Love.
His parents had fallen in love and where had it led them? To shouting, accusations, recriminations, declarations that they wished they’d never set eyes on each other. They’d ruined their lives, he’d heard over and over.
Then there was Lucien and Charles. Where had love led his brother and his friend?
No falling in love for him. He’d control such runaway emotions.
‘That is the sensible way, eh, Apollo?’
His horse snorted in reply and Marc leaned his face against Apollo’s warm neck. He found another blanket to help keep Apollo warm and tried not to think of the icy hammers pounding on his feet.
‘We’ll be on our way in the morning,’ Marc murmured. ‘Stay steady, old fellow.’
He searched the stable for scraps of wood to burn and found a few pieces to add to the fire. They would burn quickly, though. He and Miss Summerfield were headed for a very cold night, he knew from experience. He’d spent many a cold night in the French countryside, hiding from men whose suspicions about him had been aroused.
Gritting his teeth, he crossed the icy mud again and entered the cabin. She was crouched by the fire, pouring water from the kettle into the teapot.
‘I found some wood.’ Not enough wood, though. He dropped it by the fireplace, coming close to her.
She looked up at him. ‘I thought you might like more tea. It will be even weaker than before, but it might warm you.’
‘Tea will be most welcome.’
Her eyes showed some distress. He wanted to touch her, ease her worry. Instead he moved away to hang his greatcoat on the line.
His feet hurt even worse as the blood rushed to them. He hurried back to his chair by the fire and wrapped his feet in the blanket.
‘What is wrong?’ she asked, gazing at his feet.
‘Cold.’ He rubbed his feet. ‘I believe my wet boots will be preferable at this point.’
She rose and walked over to the clothes line. ‘Your socks are fairly dry.’ She brought them to him and knelt at his feet. ‘I’ll put them on for you.’
Her hands felt too soothing and his body came to life, precisely what he did not wish to feel.
‘Perhaps this is not the thing for a lady to do,’ he managed to protest.
She placed one sock on his foot. ‘It is so little, after what you have done for me.’
At least now he felt warmer. He endured the pleasure of her slipping the second sock on the other foot, gazing down at her as she worked it over his heel. Her hair was in a plait down her back, but tendrils escaped to frame her lovely face.
She was a woman a man could lose his head over. For once he wished he could be like his father had been—blinded by passion and unaware of the disaster ahead of him.
But his eyes were open.
She wrapped his feet in a blanket again and moved away to pour their weak, but hot, tea.
Take care in London, he wanted to tell her. There were men who knew how to play upon a young woman’s heart. Love came in many disguises, some even more hurtful than the pain his parents inflicted on each other.
Perhaps he could watch out for her. Perhaps he could warn her away from the worst dangers of love.
No. He needed to stay away from her. She tempted him too much.
She handed him his jug. ‘Such as it is.’
He nodded thanks.
She sat in her chair and they sipped the hot liquid that only retained the barest hint of tea. The fire dwindled to embers, but Marc held off on placing the last of their wood on it. He glanced around the room and wondered if he ought to try to break up the furniture.
It seemed an extreme measure and greatly unfair to the owner of the cottage.
Miss Summerfield yawned and curled up in her chair.
He reached over and touched her arm. ‘You should lie on the cot and get some sleep. I’ll move it closer to the fire.’
‘Where will you sleep?’ she murmured.
He shrugged. ‘The chair will do.’ He’d slept in worse places.
The wind found its way through the walls of the cabin. Miss Summerfield shivered. ‘It is cold.’
And it would get colder. ‘You’ll be warmer on the cot.’
She did as he asked and she was soon tucked in under her blanket as close to the fireplace as he could place the bed.
He watched her as she slept and shivered as the temperature dropped even further and the fire consumed the wood. He scavenged the cabin and found a few more lumps of coal, but the room was very, very cold.
She woke, shivering, but not complaining.
There was only one way he could think of to keep her warm now, but it was a proposition that no young lady should accept. It was also a thought that consumed him much too often.
She rolled over and gazed at him. ‘You should take a turn on th-the cot. You must be colder than I am.’
‘I’m not going to trade places with you, Miss Summerfield.’
She got up and carried her blanket over to her chair. ‘I’ll sit here, then.’
He raised his voice. ‘Get in the cot.’
She looked at him in defiance. ‘No. It is your turn.’
‘Do not be a damned fool, Miss Summerfield. Get in the cot.’ There was no sense in them both sitting up all night, shivering.
She glared at him. ‘The only way I’ll get in that cot is if you are in it, too.’
The cold was addling her brain, he thought. But this was the answer, the consuming thought. He should not take advantage of it, but, if he did they’d both be warm.
‘Very well.’ He inclined his head towards the cot. ‘Get in the bed and I will join you.’
An anxious look crossed her face and she hesitated, but she carried her blanket over to the cot and lay down, facing the fire. He covered her with another blanket and crawled underneath it.
‘Our bodies will warm each other,’ he murmured in her ear. ‘Do not fear. This is for warmth and nothing else.’
He hoped he could keep that promise.
* * *
Exhaustion helped where desire refused to waver. Even though she was warm and soft against him, the comfort of her had made him fall asleep almost immediately. He did not even wake to feed the fire the last lumps of coal. He knew nothing until the sound of muffled voices reached his ear.
The latch of the door rattled.
The worst had happened. They were discovered.
‘Miss Summerfield!’ He shook her, but had only time enough to bound from the cot when the door burst open.
‘Halloo there!’ a man cried.
Miss Summerfield sat up.
‘I say,’ said the man, a gentleman by appearance. ‘What goes here?’
He entered the cabin followed by two men in workmen’s dress.
‘Is that you, Miss Summerfield?’ the gentleman asked.
Marc took charge. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
Miss Summerfield covered herself with the blanket.
‘I am Lord Attison,’ the gentleman said indignantly. ‘And, more to the purpose, who are you?’
Miss Summerfield answered before Marc could speak, ‘He is Mr Glenville, sir. Allow us to explain.’
Marc put a stilling hand on her arm. ‘First he must explain why he barges in without so much as a knock.’ Put him on the defensive.
Lord Attison shot daggers at Marc. ‘I was sent to find Miss Summerfield.’ He turned to her. ‘You have caused Lord Tinmore much worry, young lady, do you realise that?’
Marc stepped between Miss Summerfield and Lord Attison. ‘Do you have some authority here?’
Miss Summerfield answered, ‘He is one of Lord Tinmore’s guests.’
‘Well,’ Marc spoke sharply, ‘you may tell Lord Tinmore that it is a fine thing to let this young lady nearly freeze to death. You should have come earlier.’
Lord Attison stuck out his chest. ‘And you should have returned her home, sir.’ His gaze shifted to Miss Summerfield. ‘Or would that have ruined your little tryst?’
‘You have it wrong—’ Miss Summerfield protested.
Marc seized Lord Attison’s arm and marched him to the door. ‘We will discuss this outside and allow this lady to dress.’
Once all the men were outside, Marc used his size to be as intimidating as possible to the smaller Lord Attison. ‘You will make no assumptions here, do you comprehend? This lady has been through enough without your salacious comments.’
‘Lord Tinmore—’ the man started to say.
Marc interrupted him. ‘I will explain to Lord Tinmore and to no one else. And, you, sir, will say nothing of this until you are instructed by your host. Is that understood?’
Possibly, just possibly Lord Tinmore would have sufficient power and influence to allow this incident to blow over without any damage to Miss Summerfield.
Or himself.
The cold of the morning finally hit him and it took all Marc’s strength to keep from dissolving into a quivering mess in front of this man. He wore only his shirt and breeches.
And his socks, now damp from the frost on the ground.
Attison looked him up and down. ‘Being undressed in front of an innocent young lady—’ The man smirked. ‘Or is she an innocent?’
Marc seized him again. ‘Silence that tongue!’
Attison’s eyes flashed with alarm, but he quickly recovered and pursed his lips. ‘I will leave you to Lord Tinmore, as you wish.’
Marc released him and turned to the other two men. ‘Do you know who owns this cabin?’
One man nodded. ‘Lord Tinmore. It is a groundskeeper’s cabin.’
‘Are we on Lord Tinmore’s property?’ How close were they to the house?
‘We are, sir,’ the other man answered. He gestured to the south.
Against the milky-white sky rose a huge Elizabethan house with dozens of windows and three turrets adorning its roof.
They had been that close.
‘The roads and bridges were flooded yesterday,’ he said.
One of the men nodded. ‘The water receded overnight.’
Miss Summerfield opened the door, glancing warily at their three early morning visitors. ‘Mr Glenville, may I see you for a moment?’
Attison made a move to speak, but Marc silenced him with a steely glare.
He entered the cabin and closed the door.
‘I have no laces,’ she said to him, presenting her back.
‘I cut them.’ He looked around the room and found her packet of ribbons and lace. He pulled a long ribbon from the still-damp package and started lacing it through the eyelets on her corset and her dress.
‘What do we do now?’ she asked, her voice cracking.
He worked the laces. ‘We tell what happened.’
‘You will speak to Lord Tinmore?’
He tied the ribbon in a bow. ‘I will speak to him. It turns out we are close to Tinmore Hall.’ He turned her to face him. ‘It is important that we make no apology, Miss Summerfield. We did what we needed to do to get through the storm. We did nothing wrong.’
Her jaw set. ‘No apologies.’
At least she had fortitude.
He grabbed his waistcoat and coat and quickly put them on. He shoved his feet into his boots. ‘We must leave now.’
She nodded.
They opened the door and walked out into the cold morning air.
* * *
Within an hour Marc and Miss Summerfield stood in front of a wizened old man in spectacles who nonetheless had a commanding bearing.
From his large wing-back chair, he glared at Miss Summerfield. ‘You have caused your sister great worry, young lady.’
‘It was quite unintended, sir.’ At least she kept her voice strong.
Lord Tinmore, old and wrinkled, wielded his cane like a sceptre, obviously accustomed to authority.
Marc spoke up. ‘We may dispense with this matter quickly if you will listen to what we have to say.’ Men of strength usually respected strength.
Lord Tinmore glared at him over his spectacles. ‘I want your name, sir.’
Marc bowed. ‘Glenville.’
Tinmore tapped his temple. ‘Glenville?’
‘My father is Viscount Northdon. He was a schoolmate of your son’s.’ Maybe that connection would help them.
Pain edged the man’s eyes, but the look vanished quickly. ‘Northdon,’ he scoffed. ‘I know of him.’
Of course. Everyone, except perhaps Miss Summerfield, knew of his father.
Tinmore scowled at him.
Marc continued. ‘Sir. Who I am, who my father is, has no bearing on this matter. I found Miss Summerfield near freezing in the storm. We took shelter in the cabin and it was impossible to leave until morning.’
‘That is the truth!’ Miss Summerfield added, with a bit too much emotion.
Tinmore’s attention swung to her. ‘The truth! The truth is you went gallivanting around the countryside without a chaperone, in bad weather, and wound up spending the night with a man!’
‘We had no choice,’ Miss Summerfield protested, still shivering and wrapping her arms around herself to try to stay warm.
Tinmore wagged a finger at her. ‘You are a reckless scapegrace, girl! A discredit to your sister! And to me!’
‘Enough!’ Marc shouted. ‘Miss Summerfield is still cold. And hungry. She needs dry clothing and food, not an undeserved scolding.’
‘Do not dictate to me, young man!’ Tinmore countered.
Marc glared at him. ‘Give her leave to change into warm, dry clothes.’
Lord Tinmore glared back, but Marc refused to waver.
Marc lowered his voice to a firm, dangerous tone. ‘Let her go.’
‘Oh, very well.’ Tinmore waved a hand at Miss Summerfield. ‘Leave now, girl. But I am not finished with you.’
Miss Summerfield curtsied and started for the door. Before she reached it, she turned back. ‘My lord, Mr Glenville is also cold and hungry—’
Tinmore snapped at her, ‘I told you to leave. Do as I say.’
She did not move. ‘That is little thanks for what he has done, sir. You could find him dry clothing.’
‘Leave!’ Tinmore shouted.
She remained where she was.
Marc spoke to her in a soothing tone. ‘Do not fret over me, Miss Summerfield. Go now. Change into warm clothes. Eat something.’
She nodded and went out the door.
He turned back to Tinmore. ‘That was poorly done of you, sir. She has been through an ordeal.’
Tinmore’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. ‘I’m out of patience with her. She caused her sister much worry and now more scandal. I will not have scandal in my house.’
Did this man not have any heart? ‘She might have lost her life if I had not found her.’
He pursed his lips. ‘Would have served her right.’
By God, would he have preferred her to die? ‘She needs your help, sir. You have the power to stop any talk. If you stand by her, who would question it?’
‘Much you know, Glenville.’ Tinmore took off his spectacles and wiped them with a handkerchief. ‘Attison is a scandalmonger of the first rate. There is no stopping him.’
‘You invited him. And sent him on the search. You are more responsible for any scandal that results than Miss Summerfield. She should not have to pay.’
‘Yes, I invited him!’ Tinmore cried. ‘So he could see firsthand that I am not in my dotage and that my wife is not a fortune hunter who duped me into marriage.’
Was he surprised that was what people would think?
‘This chit has made everything worse. I suppose you know what people say about their mother?’ He grimaced. ‘If she thinks I’m still giving her a Season and providing her a dowry, she has another think coming.’
He would cut her off? ‘You are being unfair.’
‘It is my money to spend as I wish.’ He fixed his gaze on Marc again. ‘You are the one who wronged her, not me.’
Marc had not wronged her. He’d rescued her and kept her safe. But Tinmore was right about one thing. None of that would matter in the eyes of polite society, not if Tinmore refused to stand by her.
‘If you will not protect her, I will.’ Marc stepped closer to the man and glared down at him. ‘I will marry her. That will silence the gossip. And she will need nothing from you.’
Tinmore’s mouth quirked into a fleeting smile, but his scowl returned and he waved a hand. ‘Marry her, then. Get her out of my sight.’
* * *
Marc stood in the hallway, outside the closed door of the private sitting room where Lord Tinmore presumably still sat in his throne-like chair.
He should be on his way to London, not offering marriage, but he’d had no choice, had he? It had been his duty.
The honourable thing to do.
Of all the reasons to marry, this must be the most foolish. Not out of passion. Not a love match. Not a well-considered decision.
So much for his pragmatic choice of marrying Doria. So much for paying the debt he owed to Charles. No comfortable life for him. Lost was the serenity marriage to Doria would offer. Lost was the respectability of her family. He, the son of the scandalous Lord and Lady Northdon, would marry the daughter of scandalous Sir Hollis and Lady Summerfield.
Tongues would wag.
He would not save her from gossip, after all. Perhaps he’d not done her so large a favour.
He must find her. Speak to her. Tell her what he’d done.
She needed to make the choice. The discredit of marrying him or the ruin of crying off.
But, if Tinmore made good his threat, she would also be impoverished.
A footman approached him. ‘I am to show you to your room, sir.’
‘Never mind my room,’ he responded. ‘I need to speak to Miss Tess Summerfield.’
The man’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘I cannot take you to Miss Summerfield.’
‘Deliver a message to her for me, then.’
The footman shook his head. ‘I do not think Lord Tinmore would approve.’
Marc gestured for him to lead the way. ‘Lord Tinmore will not mind. The lady and I are going to be married.’
* * *
Tess sat in Genna’s bedchamber again, like she had done only the day before, her two sisters with her.
It seemed an age ago.
Genna and Lorene had been waiting for her outside Lord Tinmore’s drawing room. They’d hugged and cried and Lorene scolded her for giving them such a fright. While they walked to her bedchamber she filled them in on what had happened to her.
In her room a bath awaited. Tess bathed and washed her hair quickly, before dressing in warm, dry clothes. Hot porridge, bread, cheese and tea were set before her and the mere scent of it made her stomach ache with hunger.
Her mind, though, was on Mr Glenville. Would he convince Lord Tinmore that nothing happened between them? Would Tinmore let him go? The whole experience had become like a dream. Would it fade from her memory?
She did not want to forget him.
The maids came to remove the bath and straighten the room. Tess and her sisters retired to Genna’s room and her sisters’ relief at finding her safe had worn off.
‘Tess, how could you have been so foolish?’ Lorene paced, as she had paced the previous morning. ‘It is one thing to seek shelter. Quite another to share a bed with a man.’
‘It was cold,’ Tess explained. She remembered Mr Glenville climbing on to the cot, covering them both with his blanket. She remembered the warmth of his body next to hers, both comforting and thrilling.
‘Do you know what the guests are saying?’ Genna offered. ‘They are saying you met by design. That you planned the tryst. Why else would you venture out on an obviously rainy day?’
Lord Attison must have been very busy telling tales.
‘That is ridiculous!’ Tess cried. ‘I told you how it happened. I never even met Mr Glenville before!’
‘You might have met him some other time.’ Genna settled herself on the window seat. ‘You are known to take walks alone.’
Tess glared at her. ‘Are you doubting my word, Genna? I went to the village to shop.’
Not to the nearby village, though. To Yardney. To see Mr Welton, had he been there.
‘No.’ Genna spoke as if this were some interesting problem happening to someone else. ‘But you did not bring any lace or ribbon, did you?’
The lace and ribbon. She’d forgotten her parcel. ‘I left the parcel at the cabin. We could send someone for it.’
‘It would not matter. What really happened does not matter.’ Lorene still paced. ‘Appearances. That is what matters.’ She shook her head. ‘I do not know what Lord Tinmore will do. This is such a trial for him and it has already put a strain on the house party.’
‘A trial for him? A strain on the house party?’ Tess rose off the bed. ‘Goodness, Lorene. I did not choose to have this happen. I simply walked to the village and became caught in a horrible storm. Perhaps I should have tried to cross the bridge or continued down the roads even though water was rushing over both. Then I would have drowned. Or perhaps Mr Glenville should have left me on the road to freeze to death. Either way would have been so much less trouble for Lord Tinmore!’
Lorene grabbed Tess and hugged her. ‘Do not say that. Never say that. That is what we all thought happened to you.’
Tess hugged her back. ‘I had hoped you’d think I stayed in the village.’
There was a knock at the door and a maid stuck her head in. ‘Pardon, my lady, but his lordship wishes to speak with Miss Summerfield immediately. In the library.’
Lorene released her. ‘You must go.’ She turned to the maid. ‘Tell Lord Tinmore she will be there directly.’
The maid rushed off.
‘I will accompany you,’ Lorene said.
Genna rose from the window seat. ‘I will come, too.’
‘No.’ Tess held them back with her arm. ‘It is best you stay out of it.’ Lord Tinmore would only become upset with them because of her.
Genna sat again and looked sulky. ‘Well, you had better come back right away and tell us all about it.’
‘I will walk with you, at least,’ Lorene said.
As they walked the distance to Lord Tinmore’s private sitting room, Tess tried to quiet her nerves. Would Mr Glenville still be there? Goodness, she hoped Lord Tinmore allowed him to dress in dry clothing and get something to eat.
Had he been able to convince Lord Tinmore to let the incident pass? She hoped so. She prayed so.
‘Tinmore is a reasonable man,’ Lorene said when they entered the long hallway leading to his private rooms.
Lord Tinmore had seemed fairly unreasonable to Tess. Unlike Glenville, who had come to her defence.
At the stairs, a footman approached and handed Tess a piece of paper. ‘A message for you, miss.’ He glanced warily at Lorene, the new lady of the house, and hurried away.
Tess unfolded the paper and read the note. ‘It is from Mr Glenville. He wishes to speak with me right away.’ She folded the paper again and put it in a pocket. ‘I should see him first.’
She turned around, but Lorene seized her arm. ‘You cannot see Mr Glenville!’
‘Why not?’ She tried to pull away. ‘He is waiting in the morning room. I can see him there.’
‘No!’ Lorene cried. ‘You must attend Lord Tinmore first!’ She pulled her along to Lord Tinmore’s sitting room. Another footman stood at the door and opened it when they approached.
‘Go to him.’ Lorene gave her a little push.
Tess entered the room.
Lord Tinmore was alone, seated in the same chair where he had been before. His demeanour had not softened.
Tess curtsied. ‘You asked to see me, my lord.’
His lips pursed. ‘I trust you are comfortable now.’
‘I am, sir. Thank you.’ She remembered what Glenville had said. Make no apologies. They had done nothing wrong. ‘I hope you allowed the same courtesy to my rescuer.’
‘You need not concern yourself with Mr Glenville,’ Tinmore snapped.
She straightened her spine.
He frowned. ‘You have created a great deal of trouble for yourself, for my wife and for your younger sister.’
She looked him directly in the face. ‘The rain caused a great deal of trouble for me. I was in danger and a gentleman rescued me. Surely you can make something sensible of that without a great deal of trouble.’
‘Such as what?’ He stiffened in his chair.
‘Such as nothing.’ Her heart pounded. Perhaps he could be convinced. ‘Declare Mr Glenville a hero and allow him to go on his way.’
‘A hero?’ His expression turned shrewd. ‘You seem immoderately concerned about Mr Glenville.’
Her hopes were shaken. ‘Do not try to make something of that, sir. He saved my life and I am not so much a simpleton as to miss the fact that you are trying to punish him for it.’
‘Punish him?’ Lord Tinmore’s rheumy eyes flashed. ‘He was caught in bed with you. That cannot be ignored.’
‘It can be ignored if you wish it,’ she shot back. ‘The world will believe what you, sir, wish it to believe.’
He stared at her before continuing. ‘You have bedded a man and been caught at it. At least your paramour understands you must pay the consequences.’
Her heart pounded. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He will marry you.’
‘No!’ she cried. ‘He will not.’
He half-rose from his chair. ‘He will and that is that.’
Fear exploded inside her, but she could not allow it to show. Instead she moved closer to him and leaned down into his face. ‘You know, sir,’ she said in a low voice. ‘You know that Mr Glenville and I did nothing wrong, nothing to truly compromise me. You know he rescued me. Saved my life. You know all you have to do is tell your friends the truth. Tell everyone the truth.’
‘No.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘Glenville said he’d marry you and that will resolve matters nicely, with the minimum of scandal tainting my marriage.’
‘Your marriage? Why should what happened to me taint your marriage?’ she countered.
‘It adds scandal to my wife’s name,’ he said. ‘Your mother and father’s carnal excesses are bad enough. I’ll not tolerate more...’ He shook his head. ‘Stranded in a storm! Hmmph!’
She glared at him. ‘You know it is true, sir.’
He waved her words away. ‘You will marry Glenville and that is the final word.’
Her insides felt shredded, but she made herself lift her chin. ‘What has Mr Glenville to say to this?’
Tinmore’s mouth moved against his gums, an old man’s gesture. ‘Mr Glenville knows his duty. He made the offer.’
‘No.’ Her entire body began to shake. ‘He does not wish to marry me. I cannot marry a man who does not wish to marry me.’
‘He may not wish it.’ Lord Tinmore smirked. ‘But he’ll do it. As will you.’
‘You cannot force this marriage on him. Or on me!’ she cried.
‘Glenville made the offer. It is up to you to accept or not.’ He leaned forward. ‘But understand this. For you there will be no dowry, no Season.’
His words were a blow.
She swallowed the pain. And loss.
She lifted her chin. ‘If you choose to break your bargain with my sister, it is no concern of mine.’
He worked his mouth as if unable to form words.
He finally spoke. ‘If you do not marry Mr Glenville, I will also withdraw all funds and support from your sister Genna and your by-blow of a brother. Your sister will not have a dowry and your brother will not see a penny of mine.’
She felt the blood drain from her face. ‘You would not be so cruel.’
He stared her directly in the eye. ‘You will marry Mr Glenville after all, will you not?’
She fixed her gaze on Lord Tinmore and would not allow her voice to show her utter defeat. ‘For my sisters’ and brother’s sakes, I have no choice. I will marry Mr Glenville.’
‘Excellent!’ Lord Tinmore clapped. ‘Tomorrow I will send you with him to London in my carriage.’
‘Tomorrow!’
‘I want you out of sight of my guests. Once they know you are to be married, the talk will disappear. By the time I bring my wife and your younger sister to London, all will be forgotten.’
He was sending her away. She’d already lost so much. Her mother. Her father. Her home. Now she was to lose her sisters, as well.
And to be married to a man who would undoubtedly resent her and detest having been trapped into marriage with her.
* * *
As soon as Tess left Tinmore, she hurried to the morning room, but Mr Glenville was not there. If only she could speak with him. There must be some way out of this.
She waited there an hour, pacing back and forth. Finally a footman opened the door and told her Lord Tinmore wished her to return to her room. She was not to come to dinner with her sisters and the house-party guests. She was expected to remain in her room.
And she was forbidden to seek out Mr Glenville.
Chapter Five (#ulink_315dbb7b-ca79-50e8-94d4-244f58ec4113)
The next morning, Tess walked through the cavernous house, her sisters at her side. They made their way to the front door where Lord Tinmore’s carriage and Mr Glenville would await her. One of the Tinmore maids, whom she did not know, was to accompany her to London, but return with the carriage.
Lorene had been scolding her every step of the way. ‘I gave you the chance to choose who to marry and look what you do.’
Perhaps it was too much to hope that her sister would take her part against her husband.
Tess was beyond defending herself, in any event. She was sick with grief and trepidation. This was the very worst way to be married. Not out of love. Not even for status or financial gain. Mr Glenville was forced to marry her because he’d rescued her in the rain and taken her to a cabin to keep warm and dry.
If only she had been able to talk with him. Why had he not waited for her in the morning room?
Tess could not believe she would walk through Tinmore Hall’s great door into a new life among people she did not know, in a place she’d never been before.
Genna had been in tears the whole morning. ‘Why do you have to leave now?’ She sniffed. ‘Why can you not come to London when we go there?’
‘It is better this way.’ Tess was determined that her sisters not know how devastated she felt. ‘Besides, I will see you in London in just a few weeks.’ Although she had no assurances that Lord Tinmore would allow it. He might forbid her to call. Her sisters might be totally lost to her, as well.
Lorene had been so wrong about the reclusive earl. He was not reasonable. Nor benevolent. He went back on promises and wielded his power in the cruellest possible way. He had better not treat Lorene with cruelty or Tess would—
What could she do?
Nothing.
‘You were supposed to marry happily,’ Lorene went on. ‘Now what was the use of my—my—’ She could not say the words, but Tess knew—they all knew—what she meant.
They reached the hall. The arsenal of swords and pikes and other weapons hung on the wall surrounding the door seemed like a harbinger of pain and destruction.
She turned to Lorene. ‘I will do very well, Lorene. I will be a viscountess some day. How grand will that be?’
‘You will become like Mama,’ Lorene rasped through her tears. ‘You will be unhappy.’
She hugged Lorene. ‘Do not concern yourself about me.’
Lorene held on to her. ‘I meant something so different for you. A London Season. A chance to meet many fine young men, a chance to find your own true love.’
‘I will still be there for the Season, will I not?’ She pasted on a smile. ‘Genna will have more fine young men to fall in love with her this way.’
‘Do not look to me.’ Genna wiped her eyes. ‘I wanted nothing to do with this.’ She turned to Lorene. ‘This is your fault, you know. None of this would have happened if you had not married, Lorene.’
‘I did it for you.’ Lorene burst into tears. ‘For both of you.’
‘Stop. Stop.’ Tess could not bear this. ‘We must not fight and, for heaven’s sake, do not cry. I will be fine. Mr Glenville is not a bad man. He rescued me, did he not? His proposal of marriage was honourable, was it not? I will do very well, I am sure.’
She hoped she convinced them, because she was having a great deal of difficulty convincing herself that all would be well.
The huge front door opened and a footman stepped in. ‘The carriage is awaiting you, miss.’
Tess’s heart jumped into her throat. ‘I must leave.’
Her sisters followed her outside.
Tess looked past the carriage to the man on horseback—Mr Glenville astride his horse. Apollo.
‘Is that him?’ Genna asked.
His face was shaded by his hat and he sat stiffly in his saddle. What had Lord Tinmore threatened him with to make him offer to marry a woman he did not even know?
‘Yes, that is Mr Glenville,’ she responded.
Genna sniffed. ‘Well, at least he is not fat.’
Nor ugly, Tess thought. On the contrary, he was handsome and tall and strong, and when his blue eyes fixed on her, something stirred deep inside her.
But he did not love her. How could he?
He had already selected his intended bride, a woman who could be an advantage to him, a woman who had the one thing Tess could never give him—a family reputation free from scandal.
He nodded to her and her cheeks burned. She hugged her sisters one last time before allowing the footman to assist her into the coach.
* * *
Marc followed the carriage, his mood nothing but dark. Anger seethed inside him. Anger at Lord Tinmore. Anger at Miss Summerfield’s sister for marrying such a man.
Anger at himself for not waking before dawn and making certain he and Miss Summerfield were not discovered. Even more, he should have known better than to share her bed, even if he’d done nothing but warm her.
He’d waited as long as he could in the morning room where he’d been served his food, but she had not come. Eventually an elderly butler arrived and insisted he leave.
Not that it would have made any difference, although he might have reassured her in some way.
Damned Tinmore. If the man had stated that he believed them, the scandal would have faded quickly. Instead he’d been unnecessarily cruel. Miss Summerfield did not deserve cruelty. All she’d done was walk to the village to shop. Good God. Shopping was his mother’s primary entertainment. How could any woman be faulted for wanting to visit shops? Miss Summerfield had also misjudged the weather. Well, so had he.
They reached Yardney, the village Miss Summerfield had tried to reach in the storm, the village where she had purchased her ribbons. From his seat on Apollo’s back, he could see her face peeking out of the carriage window, looking desolate.
Fate was a cruel jokester.
If she had shopped an hour longer or an hour less, maybe even minutes more or minutes less, she would not have been on the road during the storm and she would be free.
Instead she was trapped into marrying him.
* * *
At least the coachman kept up a good speed, considering the roads were not yet dry. This trip would take them at least three days. Apollo was accustomed to hard rides.
The carriage changed horses when necessary and Marc made certain they did not resume the journey until Apollo had rested. When they reached a coaching inn in Bourne, it was past noon and time they stopped long enough to eat a meal.
It would be his first chance to speak to her.
He handed over care of Apollo to one of the stable boys and walked over to help her from the coach.
‘Thank you,’ she said. She looked tense and fatigued.
‘Miss Summerfield, will you dine with me?’ he asked.
She nodded.
A maid who’d seen the better part of her forties had accompanied her in the coach. The woman scowled and sniffed impatiently. ‘Will you be needing my services, miss?’ She spoke in an overly solicitous and distinctly unpleasant manner.
‘No, Ivers,’ Miss Summerfield replied in a tight voice. ‘Please have a pleasant repast. Do—do you need any money?’
Did Miss Summerfield have any money? Marc wondered. Had Lord Tinmore cut her off that completely?
The maid lifted her nose. ‘His lordship provided for me.’ The woman marched away.
Miss Summerfield blew out a breath.
‘Well, she is certainly unpleasant,’ Marc said.
Miss Summerfield sighed. ‘That is couching it in the mildest terms.’
Marc did not offer his arm, because he did not think she would wish to take it, but she walked next to him into the inn. The public room was not crowded.
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Diane Gaston
His Scandalous BrideTess Summerfield’s life is changed for ever when she’s rescued from drowning by the mysterious Marc Glenville. Forced to shelter with him in a deserted cottage, she spends the night wrapped in his arms for warmth.When they are discovered the tongues of the ton start wagging, and Marc knows the only way to silence them is to marry Tess. But his duties as a spy soon tear Marc away from the marriage bed. When they’re at last reunited can they rekindle the flame born from the ashes of scandal?The Scandalous Summerfields: Disgrace is their middle name!
THE SCANDALOUS SUMMERFIELDS
Disgrace is their middle name!
Left destitute by their philandering parents, the three Summerfield sisters—Tess, Lorene, and Genna—and their half-brother, Edmund, are the talk of the ton … for all the wrong reasons!
They are at the mercy of the marriage mart to transport their family from the fringes of society to the dizzy heights of respectability.
But with no dowries, and a damaged reputation, only some very special matches can survive the scandalous Summerfields!
Meet tempestuous Tess in
Bound by Duty
April 2015
And look out for the rest of the family’s exploits, coming soon!
AUTHOR NOTE (#ulink_868c83b9-311f-5c17-a27d-dcb37a46abb4)
An idea for a story might come from anywhere. A random event. A place. A character from history. For my new mini-series, The Scandalous Summerfields, the spark came from a previous generation of my own family—my mother and her sisters and brother.
I did not want to tell their life stories, though. They lived ordinary lives, heroic in ordinary ways, minus the drama and conflict of a romance novel. Instead I took inspiration from them.
Like my mother and her sisters, the Summerfields are left to fend for themselves at a young age. My mother’s parents died when my mother was barely in her twenties and her youngest sister was still in high school. Their brother—the oldest—had already married and had children of his own, so the three sisters needed to band together to take care of each other. As a result, my mother and my aunts were extremely close for their whole lives. My Aunt Loraine even lived with us until I was a teenager. There was not a day that went by when she and my mother did not talk on the phone, nor a week that passed without them calling my Aunt Gerry, who lived some distance away.
I wanted my Summerfield sisters to have this closeness to each other, and to their brother. I wanted to honour that special bond I saw in my mother and aunts—a bond I share with my own two sisters.
I hope you enjoy Book One of The Scandalous Summerfields.
Bound by Duty
Diane Gaston
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
DIANE GASTON always said that if she were not a mental health social worker she’d want to be a romance novelist, writing the historical romances she loved to read. When this dream came true she discovered a whole new world of friends and happy endings. Diane lives in Virginia, near Washington, DC, with her husband and three very ordinary house cats. She loves to hear from readers! Contact her at www.dianegaston.com (http://www.dianegaston.com) or on Facebook or Twitter.
To the memory of my mother, Teresa Gaston, a kind and gentle soul who was always quietly there for me, and who would never, ever hurt anyone’s feelings.
Contents
Cover (#uc3d228ea-7ee8-5c07-833b-a8b614d122db)
Introduction (#u129cfa81-4ccc-5839-9b0d-447f6471434c)
Author Note (#u6325ce59-10ac-5e04-9ff7-e3164aa4b8cd)
Title Page (#u5917aa23-8d2d-578b-8319-ab49e6130971)
About the Author (#u1808b937-ad21-5dd1-8d80-661985696f41)
Dedication (#ua262783c-b999-5105-80bc-d12aa0f37bdf)
Chapter One (#u6110f165-d161-5f1d-b976-5067fadc7c0f)
Chapter Two (#u8f7d27c9-675e-50d3-b95f-88227ecff0e9)
Chapter Three (#u6282d026-2938-55ce-966b-4cad1c30000c)
Chapter Four (#u52c4a4d6-5e28-5f22-b232-b3104c7649ac)
Chapter Five (#ub0c23968-0a90-5c9d-a7d8-0361727240f9)
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)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_c94eac5e-189b-59a8-a815-9bdb9fcb487f)
February 1815—Lincolnshire, England
The winter wind rattled the windowpanes of Summerfield House as Tess Summerfield answered her older sister’s summons.
Come to the morning room immediately, her note said.
More bad news, Tess feared. It seemed lately that the only time Lorene summoned her and their youngest sister, Genna, to that parlour was to hear bad news.
The wind’s wail seemed appropriately foreboding.
The morning room on its best sunny days filled with light, but this day it seemed awash in grey. Lorene stood ominously by the fireplace. Genna sat sulkily in a nearby chair.
‘What is it, Lorene?’ Tess asked.
Lorene had been acting oddly lately, leaving the house on unexplained errands and remaining away for hours.
Their father’s sudden death two months ago had seemed the worst of circumstances, but shortly afterwards they’d also discovered that he’d depleted their dowries before he died. Next, the distant cousin who was to inherit their father’s title and property made it very clear he had no intention of providing for them. After all, everyone believed the scandalous Summerfield sisters were really not Summerfields at all. Rumour always had it that each had been sired by a different lover.
Before their mother ran off with one, that was.
This heir to their father’s baronetcy also made it clear he wished to take possession of the entailed property as soon as possible and that meant the sisters must vacate the house, their home for all their lives.
What more could happen to them?
‘Please sit,’ Lorene said, her lovely face lined with stress.
Tess exchanged a glance with Genna and sat as instructed.
Lorene paced in front of them. ‘I know we all have been worried over what would become of us—’
Worry was too mild a term. Tess expected they would be split apart, forced to take positions as governesses or lady’s companions, if they should be so lucky as to find such positions, given the family’s reputation.
‘I—I have come upon a solution.’ Lorene sent them each a worried look.
If it was a solution, why did she appear so worried? ‘What is it, Lorene?’
Lorene wrung her hands. ‘I—I discovered a way to restore your dowries. A way to make you eligible again.’
It would take a sizeable dowry to erase the scandal that had dogged them their whole lives. If their mother’s abandonment were not enough, there was also their father’s scandal. Even before their mother left, he’d brought his bastard son home to rear. Of course, Tess and her sisters loved Edmund; he was their brother, after all, even if his presence generated more talk.
‘What nonsense,’ Genna grumbled. ‘Nothing makes us eligible. Our mother had too many lovers. That is why we look nothing alike.’
That was not entirely true. They all had high foreheads and thin faces, even if Lorene was dark-haired with brown eyes, Genna was blue-eyed and blonde, and Tess was somewhere in between, with chestnut hair and hazel eyes.
Like their mother, Tess was told, although she did not remember precisely what her mother looked like.
A thought occurred to her. ‘Lorene, do not say that you found our mother. Is she restoring our dowries?’
Tess had been only nine when their mother left.
Lorene looked surprised. ‘Our mother? No. No. That is not it.’
‘What is it, then?’ Genna asked testily.
Lorene stopped pacing and faced them both. ‘I have married.’
‘Married!’ Tess rose from her chair. ‘Married!’
‘You cannot have married,’ Genna protested. ‘There were no bans.’
‘It was by special licence.’
No. Impossible! Lorene would never have kept such a big secret from Tess. They shared every confidence—almost.
‘Who?’ she asked, trying not to feel hurt.
Lorene’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Lord Tinmore.’
‘Lord Tinmore?’ Tess and Genna exclaimed in unison.
‘The recluse?’ Tess asked.
Since the deaths of his wife and son years before, Lord Tinmore had secluded himself on his nearby estate in Lincolnshire, not too distant from their village of Yardney. Tess could not think of a time Lorene could have met the man, let alone be courted by him. No one saw Lord Tinmore.
‘He must be eighty years old!’ cried Genna.
Lorene lifted her chin. ‘He is only seventy-six.’
‘Seventy-six. So much better.’ Genna spoke with sarcasm.
Her adored older sister married to an ancient recluse? This was too much to bear. ‘Why, Lorene? Why would you do such a thing?’
Lorene’s eyes flashed. ‘I did it for you, Tess. For both of you. Lord Tinmore promised to provide you with dowries and host you for a Season in London. He will even send Edmund the funds to purchase an advancement in the army and the means to support its expenses. He is a fine man.’
She married this man so they could have dowries? And Edmund, advancement?
‘I never asked you for a dowry,’ Genna said. ‘And Edmund can earn advancement on his own.’
‘You know he cannot, now that the war is over,’ Lorene shot back. ‘He does not have enough as it is. It costs him money to be an officer, you know.’
Genna shook her head. ‘Did our dowries not provide Edmund enough?’
Their father had used the last of their dowry money to purchase the lieutenancy for Edmund.
Lorene leaped to Edmund’s defence. ‘Edmund has no knowledge of that fact, Genna, and you are never to tell him. He would be sick about it if he knew. Besides, Papa intended to recoup the funds for our dowries. He assured me his latest investment would yield all we would need.’
Of course, it would most likely go the way all his too-good-to-be-true investments went. If it paid off now, which was unlikely, the money would go to the estate’s heir. Their father’s will provided only for their now non-existent dowries.
But Lorene would say nothing bad about their father. Or about anyone. She believed the best of everyone. Even their mother. Lorene would insist that abandoning her daughters had been the right thing for their mother, because she’d run off with a man she truly loved.
What of the love a mother should have for her children? Tess wondered.
Now Lorene was making the same mistake as their parents—engaging in a loveless marriage.
She glared at Lorene. ‘You cannot possibly love Lord Tinmore.’
‘No, I do not love him,’ Lorene admitted. ‘But that is beside the point.’
‘Beside what point?’ Tess shot back. ‘Did you learn nothing from our parents? You will be miserable. You will make him miserable.’
‘I will not.’ Lorene straightened her spine. ‘I promised I would devote my life to making him happy and I intend to keep my promise.’
‘But what of you?’ Tess asked.
Lorene averted her gaze. ‘I could not think of what else to do. What would become of you and Genna if I did nothing?’ Her question required no answer. They all knew what fate had been in store for them.
‘Well, you did not have to fall on your sword for us,’ Genna said.
‘I thought about it a great deal,’ Lorene went on, seemingly ignoring Genna’s comment. ‘It made sense. If I had done nothing, we all would have faced dismal lives. By marrying Lord Tinmore, you and Edmund have hope. With good dowries you can marry as you wish. You will not be desperate.’
What Lorene meant was that she, Genna and even Edmund could now marry for love. They could avoid the unhappiness of their parents and still have security. They had a chance for a happy life and all it had cost Lorene was her own chance for happiness.
A chance for love.
God help her, Tess felt a tiny spark of hope. If she had a dowry, Mr Welton could court her.
She turned her face away. How awful of her! To be glad for Lorene’s sacrifice.
She composed herself again. ‘How did you accomplish it, Lorene? How did you even meet him?’
‘I went to him. I asked him to marry me and he agreed.’
Without telling her sister, the person closest to her? ‘Without a courtship?’
Lorene gave Tess an exasperated look. ‘What need was there for a courtship? We settled matters in a few meetings and Lord Tinmore arranged for a special licence. When his man of business procured the licence for him, the vicar of his church married us in his parlour.’
‘You could have invited us,’ Genna chided.
Genna was hurt, as well, obviously.
Lorene swung around to her. ‘You would have tried to stop me.’
‘Yes. I would have done that.’ Genna spoke firmly.
The wind gusted and the windowpanes banged. Would Tess have tried to stop Lorene? She did not know.
The clouds that cast a pall on them parted and light peeked through.
They were saved. Lorene had saved them.
By sacrificing herself.
* * *
A mere two weeks later Tess Summerfield lounged on the bed in one of the many bedchambers of Tinmore Hall. This room had been given to Genna who stood behind an easel, facing the window. Lorene again paced nervously back and forth, which seemed to be her new habit.
‘It is a lovely house party, is it not?’ Lorene asked, looking hopefully at each of them.
‘Lovely!’ Tess agreed eagerly.
So much had changed so very quickly. Two days after Lorene announced her marriage, they moved out of the only home they’d ever known, taking with them no more than a trunk of belongings each. Now Lord Tinmore had invited several guests in a hastily arranged house party to introduce his new bride to his closest society friends. In another month or so they would travel to London for a whirlwind of dress fittings and hat shopping in order to show them off to best advantage when the Season began. Lorene’s marriage was still a shock, but Tess could not help but be excited about what lay ahead.
She was also deeply, deeply grateful to Lorene—as well as feeling guilty.
Genna was not grateful, however. She remained as surly as the day Lorene had told them her secret.
‘It is lovely, isn’t it, Genna?’ Tess, too, reeled from the loss of their home, but she was determined to show Lorene her support.
Genna threw her paintbrush into its jug of water and spun around. ‘I hate the house party. I hate everything about it.’
‘Genna!’ Tess scolded.
Lorene made a placating gesture. ‘It is all right. Let her speak her mind.’
Genna’s face flushed. ‘I cannot bear that you married that man—that old man—for money. His guests call you a fortune hunter and they are correct.’
‘That is enough, Genna!’ Tess cried. ‘Especially because Lorene did it for us.’
‘I did not ask for it.’ Genna turned to Lorene. ‘I would never have asked it of you. Ever.’
‘No one asked me.’ Lorene went to her and placed her hand on Genna’s arm. ‘Besides, the earl is a good man. Look what he has done for us already.’
He’d given them a new home at Tinmore Hall. He’d had them fitted for new dresses by the village seamstress. He was in the process of arranging dowries for her and for Genna and an allowance for Edmund whose regiment was somewhere on the Continent.
Tess sat up. ‘It was a brave sacrifice. Don’t you see that, Genna? We have a chance now. Lord Tinmore will provide us with respectable dowries. We’re going to have a London Season where we can meet many eligible young men.’
Mr Welton would be in London. He’d said he would be there for the Season. Tess wanted so much to tell him of her changed circumstances.
Lorene squeezed Genna’s arm. ‘You will be able to have a choice of young men. You won’t have to marry merely for a roof over your head and food in your mouth. You will be able to wait for a man you are able to truly esteem.’
‘You can make a love match.’ It was what Tess desired more than anything. That and to always be close to her sisters.
Lorene’s tone turned earnest. ‘I want you to have a love match, to have that sort of happiness.’
Tess was known as the practical sister. Sensible and resourceful. Would Lorene and Genna not be surprised to learn that she had a secret tendre for a man? To even think of him made her giddy with excitement.
Genna’s face contorted as she faced Lorene. ‘You married an ugly, smelly old man so that Tess, Edmund and I could marry for love. Bravo, Lorene. We’re supposed to be happy knowing that because of us you must share his bed.’
Lorene blanched and her voice deepened. ‘That part of it is not for you to speak of. Ever. That is my private affair and mine alone. Do you hear?’
‘What about your life, Lorene? What about your choices? Your love match?’ Genna’s voice turned shrill.
Lorene put a hand to her forehead. ‘I did make a choice. I chose to do this. For you. And Lord Tinmore has been good enough to provide you with this lovely room, with your paints and paper. He’s ordered us each a new wardrobe and soon he will take us all to London for even more finery—’
Genna broke in. ‘And what must you do in return, Lorene?’
Lorene glared at her. She straightened and turned towards the door. ‘I must go now. I must see that everything is in order for our guests. I expect you to behave properly in front of them, Genna.’
‘I know how to behave properly,’ Genna snapped, still recalcitrant. ‘Did Papa not teach us to never behave like our mother?’
Lorene shot her one more scathing—and, Tess thought—pained look and left the room.
Tess leaped off the bed. ‘Genna, how could you? That was terrible to say. About...about sharing Lord Tinmore’s bed.’ And about their mother.
Genna folded her arms across her chest. ‘Well, it is what we think about, is it not? What she must do for him? Because of us?’
Tess felt a pang of guilt.
She took it out on Genna, walking over to her and shaking her. ‘We cannot speak of it! It hurts her. You saw that.’
Genna pulled away, but looked chagrined.
Tess went on. ‘We must make the best of this, for her sake. She’s done us an enormous service at great sacrifice. She has given us a gift beyond measure. We are free to choose who we want to marry.’ She thought of Mr Welton. ‘We must not make her feel bad for it.’
‘Oh, very well.’ Genna turned back to her watercolour. ‘But what are we to say when we hear the guests speak of her marrying Lord Tinmore for his money? Are we to say, “Yes, that is it exactly. She married him for his money and his title. Just like our mother did our father”?’
That was another truth best left unspoken.
‘We pretend we do not hear anything.’ Tess spoke firmly. ‘We act as if Lorene’s marriage to Lord Tinmore is a love match and that we are delighted for them both.’
‘Hmmph. A love match between a beautiful young woman and a very old, smelly man.’ Genna stabbed at her painting. ‘And what do we say when they accuse us of exploiting Lord Tinmore, as well?’
‘Us?’ Tess blinked. ‘Has anyone said that?’
Genna shrugged. ‘Not to my face. Yet. So tell me what I ought to say when they do.’
Tess had not considered that possibility, but it made sense. In a way, she, Genna and Edmund stood to gain more from Lord Tinmore’s money than Lorene. His money would open possibilities for them, possibilities that filled Tess with joy.
Until guilt stabbed at her again. ‘We simply act grateful for everything he does for us, because we are grateful, are we not?’
Genna made a false smile. ‘Very grateful.’
Genna bore watching. She was entirely too impetuous and plain speaking for her own good.
Tess changed the subject. ‘I do not think Lord Tinmore has anything planned for us until dinner.’
The guests, all closer to his age than to his bride’s, were in need of rest after travelling to Lincolnshire the day before. Tess supposed they had accepted the first invitation to Tinmore Hall in thirty years because they wanted to see what sort of woman caused Lord Tinmore to finally open his doors.
Tess dreaded their second meeting of the guests. The ladies’ travelling clothes were finer than her best gown. Their dinner gowns took away her breath. The new gowns Lord Tinmore had ordered would not be ready for a week, but Tess could not bear for her and her sisters to look so shabby in the meantime.
‘Would you like to walk to the village with me?’ she asked.
Genna looked surprised. ‘Why are you going to the village?’
‘For lace and ribbons. I believe I can embellish our gowns so it does not appear as if we are wearing the same one, night after night.’ They might be charity cases, but they could at least try not to look like ones.
‘You are being foolish to go out.’ Genna gestured to the window. ‘It will rain.’
Tess glanced at the overcast sky. ‘The rain should hold off until I return.’
‘Well, I am not chancing it.’ Genna dipped her brush in some paint.
‘Very well. I can walk alone.’ Tess always walked alone to Yardney, the village that once had been her home.
But it was only a few short miles from here. Obviously Lorene had walked the distance often enough to get married. Why not walk to Yardney instead of the village nearby? It would take only a little longer. If she went to Yardney she could call upon Mr Welton’s aunt. If Mr Welton was still her house guest, she could tell him about having her dowry restored.
‘You should take a maid or something,’ Genna said. ‘Is that not what wealthy wards do?’
If she wanted someone to know where she was bound, perhaps. Besides, Lord Tinmore was not their guardian. They’d not been appointed a guardian after their father died. There had been no property or fortune to protect. They were under Lord Tinmore’s protection, though.
‘Lord Tinmore will not care if I walk to the village when I’ve been walking the countryside my whole life.’ At least Tess hoped he would not care. She and Genna had hardly seen him, only for a few meals. She opened the door. ‘In any event, I am going.’ With luck she could change their dresses by dinnertime and see to her future, as well.
Genna did not look away from her watercolour. ‘Well, if it pours and you get soaking wet and catch your death of a cold, do not expect me to wipe your nose.’
That was much how their father had become ill. Surely Genna did not realise.
‘I never catch colds.’ Tess walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.
* * *
The rain did not begin until Tess left Yardney and was already on the road back to Tinmore Hall. The first drops that splattered the dirt road quickly grew to a heavy downpour. Moments later it was as if the heavens had decided to tip over all their buckets at once. In mere minutes Tess’s cloak was soaked through. Even her purchases, wrapped in paper and string and held under her cloak, were becoming wet.
‘Genna, you are going to gloat,’ she muttered.
But it had been worth it. Tess discovered that Mr Welton had indeed left for London, but he knew about Lorene’s marriage. She told his aunt about her changed circumstances.
He would find her when Lord Tinmore took them all to town for the Season. Only a few more weeks.
Mud from the road stuck to Tess’s half-boots, and it became an effort merely to lift one foot in front of the other. Water poured from the drooping brim of her hat and the raindrops hit her face like needles of ice. She had at least two miles to go before she’d cross through the gatehouse of the estate.
The mud grabbed at her half-boots like some devious creature bent on stopping her. Trying to quicken her pace was futile, but at last she spied the bridge ahead through the thick sheets of rain.
But the stream now rushed over it.
‘No!’ Her protest was swallowed by the wind.
What now? She did not know of any other way to reach Tinmore Hall. There was no choice but to walk to the nearby village as she ought to have done in the first place. The rain was cutting into her like knives now, not needles.
She glanced at the wooded area next to the road. If this were home, she’d know precisely how to cut through the woods and cross the fields. She might be home already, sitting in front of a fire, letting the heat penetrate instead of this rain. Here she did not dare leave the road that she knew led to Tinmore Village.
Do not think, she told herself. Just put one foot in front of the other. Despair nudged at her resolve.
She walked and walked until she thought she saw a vague outline of the village church tower. She hurried on, but up ahead water was streaming across the road. She could not go forward. She could not go back.
But she could go home, home to Yardney, at least. Perhaps she would seek shelter at Mr Welton’s aunt’s house. Or knock at the door of Summerfield House.
She turned back, retracing her steps, passing the road leading to the blocked bridge. A short distance from there, the road was flooded. Turning back again, she walked until she found another road, not knowing where it would lead her.
If only she were closer to home. She would be able to turn in any direction and find someone’s house who would welcome her, but she no longer knew where she was or how to find her way to anywhere familiar. She was lost, wet and terribly cold.
Chapter Two (#ulink_bcf7d79d-6915-5a4c-8b83-81bafe994f8e)
Marc Glenville cursed the rain.
Why there must be a downpour while he was on horseback on his way to London was beyond him. Unless the gods of weather somehow caught his mood.
Returning to London was never a joy.
But there was nothing else for him to do. His business in Scotland was complete.
His horse faltered and his head dipped. A stream of water trickled down his back.
Business in Scotland. Ha!
That was the fiction he told his parents and would tell anyone else who questioned his whereabouts these last long months, but it was not the truth.
He’d been to France. Paris and the countryside, mixing with Bonapartists and others discontented with returning Louis XVIII to the throne, keeping an ear tuned to whether discontent was apt to erupt in insurrection.
All for king and country.
Unrest was not widespread. The French, like the British, were fatigued with war. Mark had made his reports. No more would be asked of him.
It was time to face more personal matters.
Time to face again the fact that his brother would never again grin at him from across the dinner table and his best friend would never again come to call. When he was pretending to be Monsieur Renard, citoyen ordinaire of France, he could almost forget that Lucien, his brother, had been gone for four years and Charles, not quite three. Whenever he returned, though, he half-expected to see them walk through the door when he was home.
Grief shot through him like a bolt of lightning.
Foolish Lucien. Reckless Charles. They’d died so needlessly.
Marc willed his emotions to cool, lifting his face to the rain that was already chilling his bones. Best to keep emotions in control. When deep in espionage, it could save his life; back in London, it might save his sanity.
Good God. Was the near-freezing rain begetting gloomy thoughts as well as soaking him to the bone? Concentrate on the road and on his poor horse. Slogging through muddy, rut-filled roads was a battle, even for the sturdy fellow.
The stallion blew out a breath.
‘Hard going, eh, Apollo?’ Marc patted the horse’s neck.
He’d hoped to reach Peterborough by nightfall, but that was not in the cards in this weather. He’d be lucky to make the next village, whatever that was, and hope its inn had a room with a clean bed.
The rain had forced him off the main route and he and Apollo were inching their way through any roads that remained passable.
The delay did not bother him overmuch. No one was expecting him. He’d not informed his parents he was coming to town. Let it be a surprise.
Marc dreaded the family visit, always, but it was time to take his place as heir, now that duty did not call him elsewhere. He’d call upon Doria Caldwell, Charles’s sister, and make official what had been implied between them since Charles was killed. He owed that much to Charles.
Besides, the Caldwell family, now consisting only of her and her father, was so ordinary and respectable—and rational—he would relish being a part of it.
Lightning flashed through the sky and thunder boomed. Was he now to be struck by real lightning, instead of being struck figuratively?
He must be near a village; he’d been riding long enough. Gazing up ahead, he hoped to see rooftops in the distance or a road sign or any indication that shelter might be near, but the rain formed a grey curtain that obscured all but a few feet in front of him. What’s more, the curtain seemed to move with him, keeping him engulfed in the gloom and making his eyelids grow heavy.
Lightning flashed again and he thought he’d seen someone in the road. He peered harder until through the curtain of rain a figure took form. It was a woman on foot, not yet hearing his horse coming up from behind.
‘Halloo, there!’ he called out. ‘Halloo!’
The woman, shrouded in a dark cloak, turned and waved her hands for him to stop.
As if any gentleman could pass by.
He rode up to her and dismounted. ‘Madam, where are you bound? May I offer some assistance?’
She looked up at him. She was a young woman, pretty enough, though her face was stiff with anxiety and exhaustion. ‘I want to go to Tinmore Hall.’ It seemed an effort for her to speak.
‘Point the way,’ he responded. ‘I’ll carry you on my horse.’
She shook her head. ‘No use. Floods. Floods everywhere. Cannot get there. Cannot get to the village.’ Her voice shook from the cold.
He extended a hand. ‘Come. I’ll lift you on to my horse.’ Her cloak was as wet as if it had been pulled from a laundry bath. Her hat had lost any shape at all. Worse, her lips were blue. ‘We’ll find a place to get you dry.’
She nodded, but there was no expression in her pale eyes.
She handed him a sodden parcel which he stuffed in one of his saddlebags. He lifted her on to Apollo and mounted behind her. ‘Are you comfortable? Do you feel secure?’
She nodded again and shivered from the cold.
He encircled her in his arms, but that offered little relief from the cold. He took the reins. Poor Apollo, even more burdened now, started forward again.
‘I am not from here.’ He spoke loudly to be heard through the rain’s din. ‘How far to the next village?’
She turned her head. ‘Lost. Yardney—cannot find it.’
Yardney must be a nearby village. ‘We’ll find it.’ He’d been telling himself he’d find a village this last hour or more.
She shivered again. ‘Cold,’ she said. ‘So cold.’
He’d better find her shelter quickly and get her warm. People died of cold.
She leaned against him and her muscles relaxed.
He rode on and found a crossroads with a sign pointing to Kirton.
‘See?’ he shouted, pointing to the sign. ‘Kirton.’
She did not answer him.
A little further on, the road was filled with water. He turned around and backtracked until he came to the crossroads again, taking the other route. Someone was farming the lands here. There must be houses about.
If only he could see them through the rain.
The road led to a narrower, rougher road, until it became little more than a path. He followed it as it wound back and forth. Hoping he was not wasting more precious time, he peered ahead looking for anything with a roof and walls.
A little cottage appeared in front of them. No candles shone in the windows, though. No smoke rose from the chimney. With luck it would be dry.
‘Look!’ he called to his companion, but she did not answer.
Apollo gained a spurt of energy, cantering to the promise of shelter. As they came closer, a small stable also came into view and he guided Apollo to its door. He dismounted carefully, holding on to her. She slipped off, into his arms. Lifting her over his shoulder, he unlatched the stable door. Apollo walked in immediately.
Marc lay the woman down on a dry patch of floor. ‘Cold,’ she murmured, curling into a ball.
At least she was alive.
He turned back to his horse, patting him on the neck. ‘She comes first, old fellow. I’ll tend to you as soon as I can.’
He left the stable and hurried up to the door of the cabin. He pounded on it, but there was no answer and the door was locked. He peered in a window, but the inside was dark. Reaching in a pocket inside his greatcoat, he pulled out a set of skeleton keys—what self-respecting spy would be without skeleton keys? He tried several before one clicked and the latch turned.
The light from outside did little to illuminate the interior of the cabin, but Marc immediately spied a fireplace and a cot with folded blankets atop it. It was enough.
He hurried back to the stable.
Apollo whinnied at his return. ‘You’ll have to wait a bit longer, old fellow.’
He lifted the woman again, her sodden garments making her an even heavier burden. She groaned as he put her over his shoulder and hurried back through the rain to the cabin door.
His first task was to get her wet clothes off. He placed her on the floor where it would not matter if her clothes left a puddle. After tossing off his greatcoat, he worked as quickly as he could, cutting the laces of her dress and her corset and stripping her down to her bare skin.
She tried to cover herself, but not out of modesty. ‘Cold,’ she whimpered.
She was a beauty. Full, high breasts, narrow waist and long, shapely legs. He swallowed at the sight, but allowed himself only a glance before grabbing a blanket and wrapping it around her. He carried her to the cot and wrapped the second blanket around her.
By this time his eyes were accustomed to the darkness of the room. He saw a stack of wood and kindling and a scuttle of coal. On top of the fireplace were tapers and a flint. He hurried to make a fire. When it burned well enough, he flung his greatcoat around him again and ran back out in the rain to tend to Apollo.
The stable was well stocked with dry cloths and brushes. He dried off the poor horse as best he could, covering him with a blanket. There was hay, which Apollo ate eagerly, and a pump from which Marc drew fresh water to quench Apollo’s thirst.
‘There you are, old fellow.’ He stroked Apollo’s neck. ‘That is all I can do for you. Soon the rain must stop and, with luck, we will be on our way before night falls. For now, eat and rest and I will check on you later.’
Marc ran back through the unrelenting rain to the cabin. He checked on his new charge. Her cheeks had some colour, thank God, and her skin seemed a bit warmer to the touch. Her features had relaxed and she slept.
He blew out a relieved breath and, for the first time, realised he, too, was wet and cold and weary. He stripped down to his shirt and breeches and pulled a chair as near to the fire as he could. He really ought to hang up their wet clothes to dry, but the warmth of the fire was too enticing. Instead he stared at the woman.
She was lovely, but who was she?
Hers was a strong face, with full lips and an elegant nose. Her brows arched appealingly and her lashes were thick. He could not tell from her clothing what her station in life might be. What sort of woman would be walking in the rain? She mentioned Tinmore Hall. Lord Tinmore’s estate? Perhaps she was in service there.
If he could look at her hands, he might learn more. Were they rough from work? They were tucked beneath the blanket. Her hair was pulled back in a simple knot such as any woman might wear on a walk to the village. It would never dry that way.
He reached over and pulled the pins from her dark hair and unwound it from its knot. He spread it over the pillow as best he could. He leaned back.
Good God, now she looked like some classical goddess. Aphrodite, perhaps. Goddess of love, beauty, pleasure.
When she woke, would she wish for pleasure? His blood raced.
It did more to warm him than the fire.
* * *
Tess woke to the crash of a thunderclap and the constant keen of rain. She remembered walking. She remembered the rain soaking into her clothing.
Her clothing!
She sat upright. She was covered by a blanket, nothing more.
‘You are awake,’ a man’s voice said.
He sat on a nearby chair. That was right—a man on a horse. She’d really seen him, then.
‘Where am I?’ she rasped. Her throat was dry. ‘Where are my clothes?’
‘I fashioned a clothes line and hung them.’ He pointed behind her.
She turned and saw her cloak, her dress, her corset and her shift hanging from a rope strung across the room. Next to her clothes were a man’s greatcoat, coat and waistcoat.
He continued talking. ‘We are in a cabin somewhere in Lincolnshire, but blast if I know where. You fell victim to the cold. I had to get you dry and warm or...’ He ended with a shrug of a shoulder.
‘You brought me here?’ And removed her clothing? Her cheeks burned at the thought.
‘It was shelter. It was dry and stocked with firewood and coal.’
Tess blinked and gazed about her. It was a small cabin with what looked like a scullery in one corner. It was furnished with a table and chairs, the chair he sat upon, and a bed pulled close to the fire.
She was warm, she realised.
The man shifted position and his face was lit by the firelight. His hair was as dark as a raven’s wing, with thick brows to match and the shadow of a beard. In contrast, his eyes were a piercing blue. She had never seen a man quite like him and he was dressed in only his shirt and breeches. Even his feet were bare.
A breath caught in her throat. ‘Who are you?’ The blanket slipped off her shoulder and she pulled it about her again.
He stood. He was taller than her half-brother and Edmund reached six feet. ‘I am Marc Glenville.’ He bowed. ‘At your service.’ His thick brows rose. ‘And you are?’
Tess swallowed. ‘I am Miss Tess Summerfield.’ She frowned. She ought to have introduced herself as Miss Summerfield. Lorene was Lady Tinmore now, so Tess had become the eldest unmarried sister.
She touched her hair. It was loose! What had happened to her hair?
‘I took out your hairpins.’ The man—Mr Glenville—sat again. ‘I did undress you, Miss Summerfield, but only because you were suffering from the cold. I give you my word as a gentleman, it was necessary. A person can die from the cold.’
He was a gentleman. His accent, his bearing, were that of a gentleman.
‘I do not remember any of it.’ She shook her head.
‘A function of the cold. An indication that there was some urgency in getting you warm.’ His voice was deep and smooth and soothing.
She ought to be more frightened, to be in a strange place, with a strange man. Naked. But it had been far more frightening to be wandering for hours in the chilling rain.
‘I must thank you, sir,’ she murmured. ‘It seems I owe you my life.’
He glanced away as if fending off her words. ‘It was luck. I found this cabin by luck. A groundskeeper’s cabin, I suspect, used only when he works this part of the property.’
She looked around the cabin once more.
He stood again. ‘Are you hungry? I have a kettle ready to make tea.’
She nodded. ‘Tea would be lovely.’
He hung the kettle above the fire and reached over to pick up what looked like a saddlebag near his chair.
‘Your horse!’ She remembered a horse.
He smiled again. ‘Apollo.’
Was the animal out in the rain? ‘You must bring him in here.’
He made a calming gesture with his hand. ‘Do not fear. Apollo is warm and dry in a stable, with plenty of water and hay. I’ve checked on him. He was quite content. I will check on him again in a few minutes.’ He carried the saddle-bags over to the table, searched inside them and pulled out a tin and an oilskin package.
When he walked to the scullery and his back was turned, Tess rose from the bed and, careful to keep the blankets around her, went to check her clothing. Her dress was still very wet, but her shift was almost dry.
‘Mr Glenville?’ She pulled her shift from the line.
He turned. ‘Yes?’
She clutched her shift to her chest. ‘Will you please keep your back turned? I—I wish to don my shift.’
Without saying a word, he turned his back again and faced the window.
* * *
Marc watched her reflection in the window. Not very well done of him, but he was unable to resist. Her figure was every bit as tantalising from the back as from the front.
No harm in looking.
Except he could feel his body stir in response. He resumed his search for teacups and a teapot. He found the pot, but had to settle for two Toby jugs.
‘You can look now.’ Her voice turned low. Did she know how seductive it was?
‘Is your shift dry?’ he asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact rather than like a man battling his baser urges.
‘It is a little damp, but I feel better wearing it.’ She was still wrapped up in the blanket.
He lifted the jugs for her to see. ‘These will have to do for tea. Who the devil knows why they are here?’ He placed them on the table. ‘Do you mind waiting for tea? I should check on my horse.’
‘Apollo?’ She remembered the name. ‘Of course I do not mind. I should feel terrible if your horse suffered because of me.’
Was this sarcasm? He peered at her, but saw only concern on her face.
Consideration of his horse’s well-being was nearly as seductive as her naked reflection and her lowered voice.
He took his greatcoat off the rope and threw it over his shoulders. ‘I will only be a moment. I’ll tend to the tea when I return.’ He stepped outside.
The mud beneath his bare feet felt painfully cold, but that was preferable to wearing his sodden boots even if he were able to get his feet into them. The rain had slowed, but the sun was low in the sky. Even if the rain stopped, the roads would not improve before dark.
He and Miss Summerfield would spend the night together.
It would be a long, painful night. No matter what his body demanded, he would not take advantage of her. Besides, he well knew a man must keep his passions in check.
On the other hand, if she approached him...?
Apollo whinnied.
‘How are you faring, old fellow? Are you warm enough?’ He ran his hand down the length of the horse’s neck.
He and Apollo had been through adventures more dangerous than this one, but Marc was sorry to have subjected the stallion to one more hardship.
He found a blanket to put over Apollo. ‘This will keep you warm.’ He mucked out the stable and replenished the hay and water before returning to the cabin.
When he opened the door Miss Summerfield handed him a towel. ‘I found this. You can dry your feet.’
The cabin was brighter. ‘You lit lamps.’
‘Only two, so I could see to fix the tea.’ She walked to the table. ‘It has been steeping. It should be ready.’
She fixed the tea?
‘Come, we can sit.’ She walked over to the table.
She still wore a blanket, but she’d fashioned it like a tunic and belted it with a rope. ‘You’ve made yourself a garment.’
She turned and smiled, making her face even lovelier. ‘I devised a way that the blanket will not fall off me if I wish to use my arms. I suppose I should leave a coin to pay for cutting holes in the blanket for my head and for the belt.’
He hung up his greatcoat. ‘I would say you are resourceful.’
She smiled again. ‘Thank you.’
He sat at the table and she poured him a Toby jug of tea.
‘I could not find any sugar,’ she said.
‘No matter.’ His fingers grazed hers as he reached for the jug. He glanced at her hands and saw no evidence of hard work in them.
She sat and poured herself some tea. ‘I have never drunk tea from jugs like this. I have never drunk anything from Toby jugs. I have seen some like them in the village shop, though.’
He frowned. A well-bred young lady might not have used a Toby jug. Perhaps a woman in service would not have used a Toby jug either.
Who was this Miss Tess Summerfield?
He took a sip of tea and tapped his jug with his fingers. ‘You said something about Tinmore Hall when I picked you up. Are you employed there?’
‘Employed there?’ She looked puzzled. ‘No, I live there. Now, that is. We—my sisters and I—recently moved there.’ She paused as if trying to decide to say more. ‘My sister Lorene is the new Lady Tinmore.’
But this made no sense. ‘I thought the old lord was still alive. He had a grandson?’
She met his eye. ‘Lord Tinmore is still alive and he has no grandson. My sister married the old lord.’
His brows shot up. ‘The old lord? The man must be in his seventies.’
‘He is nearly eighty.’ She lifted her chin. ‘How do you know Lord Tinmore?’
He took a sip of tea. ‘I do not know him. I know of him. My father went to school with his son and I remember my father mentioning the son’s death. It was sudden, as I recall.’ He stared at her. ‘Your sister married a man in his seventies?’
‘Yes.’ Her gaze did not waver.
She was sister to Lord Tinmore’s wife? Well, she certainly was not a housemaid, then.
He’d wager the old earl did not marry below his station—most men of his social stature did not. Most gentlemen were wiser than that.
‘Who is Tess Summerfield that an earl would marry your sister?’ he asked.
She met his eye. ‘I am the second daughter of the late Sir Hollis Summerfield of Yardney.’
Sir Hollis?
Ah, yes. Sir Hollis. He’d heard of him. Or rather, he’d heard of his wife. It was said his wife had had so many lovers her daughters were sired by different men and none of them her husband.
Even so, they must have been reared as respectable young ladies and now were under the protection of the Earl of Tinmore.
He rubbed his forehead. ‘This changes matters. We must be very careful not to be discovered together.’
She sat up straighter. ‘I have no intention of being found with you! I assure you I hope to be gone as soon as the rain stops.’
He did not have the heart to tell her that it would likely be dark before then.
She took another sip of tea. ‘I am sorry, Mr Glenville. I did not mean to sound so ungrateful. You might have left me in the road.’
He opened his eyes and gazed at her. Her expression was soft and lovely.
‘You did not sound ungrateful, Miss Tess Summerfield.’ He savoured the sound of her name.
She blushed, as though she had read his thoughts. ‘I know what you did for me,’ she said quietly. ‘You rescued me. And I do realise that being alone with you in this cabin, especially in my state of undress, is a very compromising situation.’
She was direct; he appreciated that.
‘I have no wish to see you ruined,’ he explained. ‘That is all I meant.’
She faced him again. ‘All I need is to reach the road back to Tinmore Hall. I will tell no one where I’ve been or who I’ve been with. If you can help me get that far, you can trust that I will say nothing of this. Ever.’
‘I will see you to safety.’ He’d always intended to do so. ‘And I, also, will say nothing of this.’
She extended her hand across the table. ‘Let us shake on it.’
He placed his large, rough hand in her smaller, smooth one. ‘We have a bargain, Miss Summerfield.’
Chapter Three (#ulink_9e7db356-4287-50bb-91b0-5a5b77f1a357)
Up so close, Mr Glenville’s blue eyes shone with such intensity Tess could not look away. Nor could she move her hand from his strong grasp. Her face grew warm.
‘Are you hungry, Miss Summerfield?’ he asked, releasing her.
‘A little,’ she managed. She was famished.
He pulled the oilskin package towards him. ‘I have some bread and cheese here.’ He untied the string and unfolded the oilskin. Inside was a small loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese. He tore the bread in half and handed her a piece.
It was damp, but she did not care. She took an eager bite.
He broke off a piece of the cheese for her.
It was all she could do not to gobble it down.
‘Do not eat too fast,’ he warned, taking a bite of the cheese.
His manner had changed in a way she did not quite understand, but his gaze warmed her as effectively as the fire.
He’d shown her nothing but kindness. Indeed, he’d saved her life. How awful it would be to have someone discover them here. Some women might use such a situation to trap a man into marriage.
It would be dreadful to base a marriage on an accidental mishap. Even Lorene’s marriage made more sense than that.
She took sips of tea between bites and held the doughy taste of the flour and the sharp tang of the cheese in her mouth as long as she could. If she had been served wet bread and cheese at someone’s dinner table or at an inn, she would have been outraged.
‘How can I thank you, Mr Glenville?’ she murmured. ‘This is ambrosia.’
He glanced at her and his eyes still filled her with heat.
He quickly looked away. ‘Tell me why you were out walking in a rainstorm.’ It was said conversationally.
She waved a dismissive hand. ‘I had an errand in the village.’
‘It must have been important.’
It had not been. It had been foolish. She’d hoped to see Mr Welton. And to buy ribbons.
Her ribbons! ‘I had a parcel... Was I carrying a parcel when you found me?’
He lifted a finger and leaned down to pull something out of his saddlebags. He held it up to her. ‘A parcel.’
She took it.
‘The reason for your walk to the village?’ He inclined his head towards the parcel.
She felt her cheeks burn. ‘Ribbons and lace.’
He responded with surprise.
She shrugged. ‘It may not seem important to you, but it was to me.’ Even more important had been learning about Mr Welton. ‘Besides, I thought the rain would hold off until later in the day.’
He took another bite of cheese.
She pulled off a piece of bread and rolled it into a ball in her fingers. ‘So why were you out in the rain?’
He swallowed. ‘I am travelling to London.’
She kept up the challenge. ‘And set off even though there was threat of rain?’
He lifted his Toby jug, as if in a toast, and smiled. ‘Point taken.’
If his eyes had power, so much more did that smile.
Tess lowered her voice. ‘I am glad you set off even though there was a threat of rain. What would have happened to me had you been wiser?’
‘Someone else would have found you,’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘I walked for hours. I saw no one else on the road.’
He held her gaze with those riveting eyes.
She glanced away. ‘Why were you bound for London?’
‘I finished my business in Scotland.’ He lifted his Toby jug. ‘So I am returning to London.’
‘Do you have business in London?’
He sipped his tea. ‘Of a sort.’
A sort of which he obviously did not want to discuss.
‘I shall be travelling to London soon,’ she said, trying to cover her sudden discomfort. ‘For the Season. Will you be attending the Season’s entertainments?’
His face turned serious. ‘I am not certain.’
She felt as though he had withdrawn from her completely, but she did not know why. Perhaps he’d tired of her conversation. She felt suddenly as lonely as she had been when wandering in the storm. She missed her sisters. They would think she was in Tinmore. Tess hoped they would presume she was safe. If only she could get back to them soon.
She finished her piece of bread and cheese, and he wrapped up the rest of his food.
It turned deadly quiet.
‘The rain!’ she cried. ‘I think the rain has stopped!’
She jumped from her chair at the same time as he and they hurried to the door. Both stood there for a moment staring at it.
He reached over and opened it.
The rain had stopped, but it was black outside.
She looked over at him. ‘There is no chance we can leave now, is there?’
‘None,’ he responded. ‘It is too wet and too dark. I am afraid we are here all night.’
All night.
* * *
Marc wished he could erase the disappointment on her face.
To her credit she said not one word of complaint, even though their situation was now clearly worse than before. Instead she busied herself pouring more hot water from the kettle into the teapot. She did not complain, but, then, she did not say anything.
A cold wind soon rattled the windows and put even more chill into the cabin. Marc rooted through the room again. He found two more blankets, stored in a chest tucked in a far corner. One for her; one for him. He handed her one and they pulled chairs from the table to be near the fire. They wrapped themselves in their blankets, sipped weak, but hot, tea and stared into the fire.
He felt as if he’d lost her company.
He wanted it back. ‘Do you go to London for the marriage mart, then?’ he asked.
She jumped. He’d startled her.
‘I would not choose those words, precisely.’ Her voice was hesitant. ‘My younger sister and I will come out. We might even be presented to the queen, if Lord Tinmore requests it.’
‘I am surprised,’ he said.
‘Why?’ she shot back. ‘Why should we not be presented?’
He held up a hand. ‘I am surprised any lady would wish all that fuss.’
Miss Summerfield stiffened. ‘It would be an honour.’
Did his sister wish it? If so, it would never happen for her.
‘An honour, indeed, I suppose,’ he said.
‘As would procuring vouchers for Almack’s,’ she went on. ‘Will you be getting a voucher for Almack’s?’
He gave a dry laugh. ‘Not likely.’ The London Season was not a good time for his family.
She gazed into the fire. ‘Why not? I thought you were high born.’
He sat up straight again. ‘Why did you think that?’
‘You said your father went to school with Lord Tinmore’s son.’
He had said that.
‘I am high born.’ But he’d been deliberately evasive about who he was. Now that they were to spend the night together, she might as well know. ‘You have likely heard of Viscount Northdon?’
She looked blank. ‘No.’
She must be the one person in England who had not heard of Viscount Northdon. ‘You see, Miss Summerfield, I come from a family with a tarnished reputation. Viscount Northdon is my father and, because he married my mother, our family is not accepted in the highest circles of society.’
He expected to see curiosity in her expression. Instead, he saw sympathy.
It touched him more deeply than he was willing to admit and made him go on. ‘My mother is French and came from trade.’ It pained him to say the rest. ‘But that is not the worst of it. Her father became active in the Terror.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Hence we are not welcome at Almack’s.’
She lowered her gaze and spoke in a quiet voice. ‘It is likely our family will not receive vouchers to Almack’s, either, even if Lord Tinmore wishes it.’ She raised her eyes to him. ‘I, too, have a scandalous mother.’
‘I have heard of your mother,’ he admitted. He’d also heard she’d abandoned her husband and children to run away with one of her lovers.
Pain filled Miss Summerfield’s eyes. ‘I suppose everyone has heard of our mother.’ She pulled her knees up so that her feet rested on the chair’s seat. ‘I expect they will stare wherever we go. And whisper—’
He knew firsthand she was correct. ‘Lord Tinmore’s reputation will ease matters for you.’
‘Yes.’ Her expression filled with resolve. ‘Lord Tinmore will do much for us.’
He could reassure her even more. ‘Your sister will be seen as having made a brilliant match. No reason you cannot do the same.’ Especially with her face and her figure.
‘I do not want to wish to make a brilliant match,’ she snapped. ‘My parents made a brilliant match and look what happened to them.’
And look what happened to his parents for making such an unwise one.
She rested her chin on her knees. ‘I do not care about titles or position. I want to marry someone who will love me for myself and who will not care what members of my family have done.’
‘Love?’ His parents had married for love. Or at least for the physical desire that so often masquerades as love. ‘Better to make a marriage of mutual advantage.’
‘My parents married for advantage,’ she said. ‘Believe me, it does not work.’
Such a marriage had a better chance than one made out of love. Love led to rash acts and later regrets.
And constant discord.
‘What say you of your sister’s marriage, then?’ The woman had not married the man out of passion, that was for certain.
She uncurled herself and leaned towards him. ‘What can you know about my sister’s marriage?’
‘I can guess she thought it to her advantage to marry Lord Tinmore.’ Why Tinmore might have married her was not a topic for the ears of a young lady.
‘That she married him for his money, do you mean?’ Her voice rose.
‘Of course she married for money. And a title. And Lord Tinmore gained a young wife and a reason to emerge from seclusion. There is no shame in any of that.’
She settled back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Lorene had no wish for a title or wealth any more than I do.’
That he very much doubted. ‘Then what were her reasons?’
The pain returned to Miss Summerfield’s eyes. ‘She did it for us. For me and for Genna. And even Edmund. So we—so we could have a chance for decent, happy lives. So Genna and I could have dowries. So we could marry as we wish. And—and not be forced to accept just any offer. So we would not have to become lady’s companions or governesses.’ She took a breath. ‘I assure you, Lorene married Lord Tinmore for the noblest of reasons.’
‘Your situation was that dire?’ he asked quietly.
She nodded.
‘Then I commend your sister even more. I wish her well.’ He’d sacrifice for his sister, if he could.
Her brows knitted. ‘I fear she will be miserable.’ Her chin set. ‘That is why I am determined that I should make a love match and be happy. For my sister.’
He peered at her. ‘You would allow your heart to rule your choice?’
‘I would insist upon it.’
He tapped his temple. ‘Better to use your head, Miss Summerfield.’
She lifted her chin. ‘How can you know? You are not married, are you?’
‘Married? No.’ But he did speak from experience.
When his father had embarked on his Grand Tour as a young man, he met Marc’s mother and eloped with her. They continued his tour for a passionate year, but their wedded bliss ended almost immediately when they set foot back on English soil.
‘Believe me, Miss Summerfield. A marriage is best contracted by one’s brain, not one’s heart.’ Or one’s loins.
She leaned back in her chair again. ‘Then I pity the woman who becomes your wife.’
He shrugged. ‘On the contrary. She is like-minded.’
She blinked. ‘You are betrothed?’
‘No.’ He rose and put the last of their lumps of coal on the fire. ‘But we have an understanding. She is the main reason I am bound for London.’
* * *
It ought not to bother Tess that there was a woman he planned to marry. It should not bother her that she might see the woman on his arm in London. Or dancing with him at a ball. She had dreams of dancing with Mr Welton, did she not?
But somehow it would have been a comfort to meet him in London without a woman in tow and to pretend they did not have a huge secret between them.
‘Are you certain this woman will marry you, simply because you offer her—what? That you are a viscount’s son?’ she asked him.
He shifted in his chair. ‘I am heir to the title, not that I ever wished to be.’
‘Why would you not wish for the title?’ Both their father and Edmund would have been greatly gratified if Edmund had been the legitimate son and heir.
In fact, their father should have married Edmund’s mother. She had been the woman he loved.
Mr Glenville turned his blue eyes on her. Grieving blue eyes. ‘My brother had to die. Believe me, I would rather have my brother back than a thousand titles.’
She reached over and touched his arm. ‘I am so sorry,’ she said truthfully. ‘It is a terrible thing to earn a title. Someone must always die.’
He smiled, a sad smile. ‘Not always. One can earn a title from winning a war, like the Duke of Wellington.’
His smile made her insides flutter. She glanced back to the fire. ‘You do not worry that this woman you wish to marry would marry you merely because you will be a viscount someday?’
‘Mind?’ His smile remained. ‘That is what I have to offer. A title. Wealth. Why should she not want those things?’
A title did not keep a man from becoming a bitter person. Wealth could be fleeting, as well she knew.
‘Why should you want her, then?’ she asked. ‘What advantage does she offer you?’
His expression sobered. ‘She is the sister of a good friend. We’ve known each other since childhood. Her family is extremely respectable and that will do much to erase the damage my parents’ reputations have done.’
‘You will marry her for her family’s reputation?’ Was that not like marrying for social connections? Her father had married her mother for her social connections, all of which disappeared when she ran off with another man.
He gazed at her with understanding. ‘Perhaps you and your sisters never suffered the stigma of your mother’s scandals.’
She glanced away again. ‘Our father never took us to London.’ There were, though, a few ladies around Yardney who whispered when they were in view and a few gentlemen who’d spoken—rudely.
He added, ‘You will benefit from Lord Tinmore’s reputation in London, no doubt.’
She turned to him. ‘I do understand that. Without Tinmore’s wealth and reputation, we should be invited nowhere. But that does not mean that I would accept an offer of marriage from a man for whom I do not feel great regard.’
‘I feel regard for my intended bride, but I will not let emotions dictate my choices.’
‘You like her, then?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘I like her well enough.’
Well enough. She was beginning to feel very sorry for his intended. ‘But you do not love her?’
He gazed at her and the firelight made his eyes even more intense. ‘Are you asking if I have a passion for her? If my mind goes blank and my tongue becomes tied when I am with her? The answer is no.’ He turned back to the fire. ‘But I like her well enough.’
Perhaps if Tess’s father had loved their mother, she would not have sought lovers. Perhaps if her mother had loved her father, he would have indulged her and flattered her and cosseted her as she wished. Tess and her sisters had discussed this many times.
‘I hope you learn to love her,’ Tess told Mr Glenville. ‘I hope she loves you.’
His expression remained implacable.
She adjusted her blankets and stared into the fire. The chair felt hard and the wind found its way inside. The fire was losing its battle to keep the place warm.
They were silent for a while until Mr Glenville spoke. ‘How old are you, Miss Summerfield?’
‘I am two and twenty.’
His brows rose. ‘And your sister, Lady Tinmore?’
‘She is five and twenty.’
He peered at her. ‘In your twenties and you have had no suitors? That is hard to believe.’
She straightened. ‘I did not say we had no suitors. Our situation has not been such that those suitors could make an offer. We had no dowries.’
‘Your father did not provide you and your sisters with dowries?’ he asked.
If he’d heard of their mother, surely he could guess. Their father did not believe they were his daughters.
But she would not speak that out loud. ‘Our father was fond of making risky investments. He wanted to be fabulously wealthy so our mother would regret leaving him, but his investments were terrible ones. He used the last of his funds—our dowries—to purchase a commission for Edmund.’
‘Edmund is your father’s illegitimate son?’
So he also knew that part of her family story, as well.
‘Yes.’ She added, ‘Our half-brother.’
She and her sisters likely shared no blood with Edmund. The sisters shared a mother. He came from their father.
She went on. ‘I do not disagree with you that one needs some fortune and reputation in order to make a good match. Lorene has given us this, but wealth and reputation are not enough for a marriage. It is love that is the answer. Love can get one over the inevitable hurdles of life.’
‘Now you are sounding philosophic. There are some hurdles that mere emotion can’t jump over.’ He peered at her. ‘Do you have a suitor?’
She felt her face grow red.
He frowned. ‘You have a suitor. A man who would not court you because you had no dowry.’
She flushed with anger this time. ‘Perhaps I do have such a suitor. Perhaps that is why I say the things I do.’
He threw off his blanket and stood. ‘I am going to check on Apollo.’ Before he reached the door he turned back to her. ‘I hope it all works for you, Miss Summerfield. But before you make that final vow with your suitor, think with your head and forget your heart.’
She wanted to snap back at him, but his tone disturbed her. And what he said was true. Mr Welton could not court her when she had no dowry, but that did not mean his heart could not be engaged.
Did it?
He opened the door and the wind rushed in. The temperature dropped even lower in just that brief moment. Tess forgot about dowries or love matches or reputations. The air was freezing and they’d put the last of the coal on the fire. How would they stay warm through the night?
‘I’ll look for more firewood,’ Mr Glenville said, as if reading her mind. ‘What we have won’t last the night.’
Chapter Four (#ulink_7e8f2739-0a32-503b-82b8-162f79f258d1)
Ice crunched under Marc’s bare feet as he crossed the yard to the stable. His feet ached from the cold as he tended to Apollo. Why could he not have been stranded in June instead of February?
It was not only the icy cold that disturbed him. His conversation with Miss Summerfield did, as well.
It cut too close. All this talk of marriage. Love.
His parents had fallen in love and where had it led them? To shouting, accusations, recriminations, declarations that they wished they’d never set eyes on each other. They’d ruined their lives, he’d heard over and over.
Then there was Lucien and Charles. Where had love led his brother and his friend?
No falling in love for him. He’d control such runaway emotions.
‘That is the sensible way, eh, Apollo?’
His horse snorted in reply and Marc leaned his face against Apollo’s warm neck. He found another blanket to help keep Apollo warm and tried not to think of the icy hammers pounding on his feet.
‘We’ll be on our way in the morning,’ Marc murmured. ‘Stay steady, old fellow.’
He searched the stable for scraps of wood to burn and found a few pieces to add to the fire. They would burn quickly, though. He and Miss Summerfield were headed for a very cold night, he knew from experience. He’d spent many a cold night in the French countryside, hiding from men whose suspicions about him had been aroused.
Gritting his teeth, he crossed the icy mud again and entered the cabin. She was crouched by the fire, pouring water from the kettle into the teapot.
‘I found some wood.’ Not enough wood, though. He dropped it by the fireplace, coming close to her.
She looked up at him. ‘I thought you might like more tea. It will be even weaker than before, but it might warm you.’
‘Tea will be most welcome.’
Her eyes showed some distress. He wanted to touch her, ease her worry. Instead he moved away to hang his greatcoat on the line.
His feet hurt even worse as the blood rushed to them. He hurried back to his chair by the fire and wrapped his feet in the blanket.
‘What is wrong?’ she asked, gazing at his feet.
‘Cold.’ He rubbed his feet. ‘I believe my wet boots will be preferable at this point.’
She rose and walked over to the clothes line. ‘Your socks are fairly dry.’ She brought them to him and knelt at his feet. ‘I’ll put them on for you.’
Her hands felt too soothing and his body came to life, precisely what he did not wish to feel.
‘Perhaps this is not the thing for a lady to do,’ he managed to protest.
She placed one sock on his foot. ‘It is so little, after what you have done for me.’
At least now he felt warmer. He endured the pleasure of her slipping the second sock on the other foot, gazing down at her as she worked it over his heel. Her hair was in a plait down her back, but tendrils escaped to frame her lovely face.
She was a woman a man could lose his head over. For once he wished he could be like his father had been—blinded by passion and unaware of the disaster ahead of him.
But his eyes were open.
She wrapped his feet in a blanket again and moved away to pour their weak, but hot, tea.
Take care in London, he wanted to tell her. There were men who knew how to play upon a young woman’s heart. Love came in many disguises, some even more hurtful than the pain his parents inflicted on each other.
Perhaps he could watch out for her. Perhaps he could warn her away from the worst dangers of love.
No. He needed to stay away from her. She tempted him too much.
She handed him his jug. ‘Such as it is.’
He nodded thanks.
She sat in her chair and they sipped the hot liquid that only retained the barest hint of tea. The fire dwindled to embers, but Marc held off on placing the last of their wood on it. He glanced around the room and wondered if he ought to try to break up the furniture.
It seemed an extreme measure and greatly unfair to the owner of the cottage.
Miss Summerfield yawned and curled up in her chair.
He reached over and touched her arm. ‘You should lie on the cot and get some sleep. I’ll move it closer to the fire.’
‘Where will you sleep?’ she murmured.
He shrugged. ‘The chair will do.’ He’d slept in worse places.
The wind found its way through the walls of the cabin. Miss Summerfield shivered. ‘It is cold.’
And it would get colder. ‘You’ll be warmer on the cot.’
She did as he asked and she was soon tucked in under her blanket as close to the fireplace as he could place the bed.
He watched her as she slept and shivered as the temperature dropped even further and the fire consumed the wood. He scavenged the cabin and found a few more lumps of coal, but the room was very, very cold.
She woke, shivering, but not complaining.
There was only one way he could think of to keep her warm now, but it was a proposition that no young lady should accept. It was also a thought that consumed him much too often.
She rolled over and gazed at him. ‘You should take a turn on th-the cot. You must be colder than I am.’
‘I’m not going to trade places with you, Miss Summerfield.’
She got up and carried her blanket over to her chair. ‘I’ll sit here, then.’
He raised his voice. ‘Get in the cot.’
She looked at him in defiance. ‘No. It is your turn.’
‘Do not be a damned fool, Miss Summerfield. Get in the cot.’ There was no sense in them both sitting up all night, shivering.
She glared at him. ‘The only way I’ll get in that cot is if you are in it, too.’
The cold was addling her brain, he thought. But this was the answer, the consuming thought. He should not take advantage of it, but, if he did they’d both be warm.
‘Very well.’ He inclined his head towards the cot. ‘Get in the bed and I will join you.’
An anxious look crossed her face and she hesitated, but she carried her blanket over to the cot and lay down, facing the fire. He covered her with another blanket and crawled underneath it.
‘Our bodies will warm each other,’ he murmured in her ear. ‘Do not fear. This is for warmth and nothing else.’
He hoped he could keep that promise.
* * *
Exhaustion helped where desire refused to waver. Even though she was warm and soft against him, the comfort of her had made him fall asleep almost immediately. He did not even wake to feed the fire the last lumps of coal. He knew nothing until the sound of muffled voices reached his ear.
The latch of the door rattled.
The worst had happened. They were discovered.
‘Miss Summerfield!’ He shook her, but had only time enough to bound from the cot when the door burst open.
‘Halloo there!’ a man cried.
Miss Summerfield sat up.
‘I say,’ said the man, a gentleman by appearance. ‘What goes here?’
He entered the cabin followed by two men in workmen’s dress.
‘Is that you, Miss Summerfield?’ the gentleman asked.
Marc took charge. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
Miss Summerfield covered herself with the blanket.
‘I am Lord Attison,’ the gentleman said indignantly. ‘And, more to the purpose, who are you?’
Miss Summerfield answered before Marc could speak, ‘He is Mr Glenville, sir. Allow us to explain.’
Marc put a stilling hand on her arm. ‘First he must explain why he barges in without so much as a knock.’ Put him on the defensive.
Lord Attison shot daggers at Marc. ‘I was sent to find Miss Summerfield.’ He turned to her. ‘You have caused Lord Tinmore much worry, young lady, do you realise that?’
Marc stepped between Miss Summerfield and Lord Attison. ‘Do you have some authority here?’
Miss Summerfield answered, ‘He is one of Lord Tinmore’s guests.’
‘Well,’ Marc spoke sharply, ‘you may tell Lord Tinmore that it is a fine thing to let this young lady nearly freeze to death. You should have come earlier.’
Lord Attison stuck out his chest. ‘And you should have returned her home, sir.’ His gaze shifted to Miss Summerfield. ‘Or would that have ruined your little tryst?’
‘You have it wrong—’ Miss Summerfield protested.
Marc seized Lord Attison’s arm and marched him to the door. ‘We will discuss this outside and allow this lady to dress.’
Once all the men were outside, Marc used his size to be as intimidating as possible to the smaller Lord Attison. ‘You will make no assumptions here, do you comprehend? This lady has been through enough without your salacious comments.’
‘Lord Tinmore—’ the man started to say.
Marc interrupted him. ‘I will explain to Lord Tinmore and to no one else. And, you, sir, will say nothing of this until you are instructed by your host. Is that understood?’
Possibly, just possibly Lord Tinmore would have sufficient power and influence to allow this incident to blow over without any damage to Miss Summerfield.
Or himself.
The cold of the morning finally hit him and it took all Marc’s strength to keep from dissolving into a quivering mess in front of this man. He wore only his shirt and breeches.
And his socks, now damp from the frost on the ground.
Attison looked him up and down. ‘Being undressed in front of an innocent young lady—’ The man smirked. ‘Or is she an innocent?’
Marc seized him again. ‘Silence that tongue!’
Attison’s eyes flashed with alarm, but he quickly recovered and pursed his lips. ‘I will leave you to Lord Tinmore, as you wish.’
Marc released him and turned to the other two men. ‘Do you know who owns this cabin?’
One man nodded. ‘Lord Tinmore. It is a groundskeeper’s cabin.’
‘Are we on Lord Tinmore’s property?’ How close were they to the house?
‘We are, sir,’ the other man answered. He gestured to the south.
Against the milky-white sky rose a huge Elizabethan house with dozens of windows and three turrets adorning its roof.
They had been that close.
‘The roads and bridges were flooded yesterday,’ he said.
One of the men nodded. ‘The water receded overnight.’
Miss Summerfield opened the door, glancing warily at their three early morning visitors. ‘Mr Glenville, may I see you for a moment?’
Attison made a move to speak, but Marc silenced him with a steely glare.
He entered the cabin and closed the door.
‘I have no laces,’ she said to him, presenting her back.
‘I cut them.’ He looked around the room and found her packet of ribbons and lace. He pulled a long ribbon from the still-damp package and started lacing it through the eyelets on her corset and her dress.
‘What do we do now?’ she asked, her voice cracking.
He worked the laces. ‘We tell what happened.’
‘You will speak to Lord Tinmore?’
He tied the ribbon in a bow. ‘I will speak to him. It turns out we are close to Tinmore Hall.’ He turned her to face him. ‘It is important that we make no apology, Miss Summerfield. We did what we needed to do to get through the storm. We did nothing wrong.’
Her jaw set. ‘No apologies.’
At least she had fortitude.
He grabbed his waistcoat and coat and quickly put them on. He shoved his feet into his boots. ‘We must leave now.’
She nodded.
They opened the door and walked out into the cold morning air.
* * *
Within an hour Marc and Miss Summerfield stood in front of a wizened old man in spectacles who nonetheless had a commanding bearing.
From his large wing-back chair, he glared at Miss Summerfield. ‘You have caused your sister great worry, young lady.’
‘It was quite unintended, sir.’ At least she kept her voice strong.
Lord Tinmore, old and wrinkled, wielded his cane like a sceptre, obviously accustomed to authority.
Marc spoke up. ‘We may dispense with this matter quickly if you will listen to what we have to say.’ Men of strength usually respected strength.
Lord Tinmore glared at him over his spectacles. ‘I want your name, sir.’
Marc bowed. ‘Glenville.’
Tinmore tapped his temple. ‘Glenville?’
‘My father is Viscount Northdon. He was a schoolmate of your son’s.’ Maybe that connection would help them.
Pain edged the man’s eyes, but the look vanished quickly. ‘Northdon,’ he scoffed. ‘I know of him.’
Of course. Everyone, except perhaps Miss Summerfield, knew of his father.
Tinmore scowled at him.
Marc continued. ‘Sir. Who I am, who my father is, has no bearing on this matter. I found Miss Summerfield near freezing in the storm. We took shelter in the cabin and it was impossible to leave until morning.’
‘That is the truth!’ Miss Summerfield added, with a bit too much emotion.
Tinmore’s attention swung to her. ‘The truth! The truth is you went gallivanting around the countryside without a chaperone, in bad weather, and wound up spending the night with a man!’
‘We had no choice,’ Miss Summerfield protested, still shivering and wrapping her arms around herself to try to stay warm.
Tinmore wagged a finger at her. ‘You are a reckless scapegrace, girl! A discredit to your sister! And to me!’
‘Enough!’ Marc shouted. ‘Miss Summerfield is still cold. And hungry. She needs dry clothing and food, not an undeserved scolding.’
‘Do not dictate to me, young man!’ Tinmore countered.
Marc glared at him. ‘Give her leave to change into warm, dry clothes.’
Lord Tinmore glared back, but Marc refused to waver.
Marc lowered his voice to a firm, dangerous tone. ‘Let her go.’
‘Oh, very well.’ Tinmore waved a hand at Miss Summerfield. ‘Leave now, girl. But I am not finished with you.’
Miss Summerfield curtsied and started for the door. Before she reached it, she turned back. ‘My lord, Mr Glenville is also cold and hungry—’
Tinmore snapped at her, ‘I told you to leave. Do as I say.’
She did not move. ‘That is little thanks for what he has done, sir. You could find him dry clothing.’
‘Leave!’ Tinmore shouted.
She remained where she was.
Marc spoke to her in a soothing tone. ‘Do not fret over me, Miss Summerfield. Go now. Change into warm clothes. Eat something.’
She nodded and went out the door.
He turned back to Tinmore. ‘That was poorly done of you, sir. She has been through an ordeal.’
Tinmore’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. ‘I’m out of patience with her. She caused her sister much worry and now more scandal. I will not have scandal in my house.’
Did this man not have any heart? ‘She might have lost her life if I had not found her.’
He pursed his lips. ‘Would have served her right.’
By God, would he have preferred her to die? ‘She needs your help, sir. You have the power to stop any talk. If you stand by her, who would question it?’
‘Much you know, Glenville.’ Tinmore took off his spectacles and wiped them with a handkerchief. ‘Attison is a scandalmonger of the first rate. There is no stopping him.’
‘You invited him. And sent him on the search. You are more responsible for any scandal that results than Miss Summerfield. She should not have to pay.’
‘Yes, I invited him!’ Tinmore cried. ‘So he could see firsthand that I am not in my dotage and that my wife is not a fortune hunter who duped me into marriage.’
Was he surprised that was what people would think?
‘This chit has made everything worse. I suppose you know what people say about their mother?’ He grimaced. ‘If she thinks I’m still giving her a Season and providing her a dowry, she has another think coming.’
He would cut her off? ‘You are being unfair.’
‘It is my money to spend as I wish.’ He fixed his gaze on Marc again. ‘You are the one who wronged her, not me.’
Marc had not wronged her. He’d rescued her and kept her safe. But Tinmore was right about one thing. None of that would matter in the eyes of polite society, not if Tinmore refused to stand by her.
‘If you will not protect her, I will.’ Marc stepped closer to the man and glared down at him. ‘I will marry her. That will silence the gossip. And she will need nothing from you.’
Tinmore’s mouth quirked into a fleeting smile, but his scowl returned and he waved a hand. ‘Marry her, then. Get her out of my sight.’
* * *
Marc stood in the hallway, outside the closed door of the private sitting room where Lord Tinmore presumably still sat in his throne-like chair.
He should be on his way to London, not offering marriage, but he’d had no choice, had he? It had been his duty.
The honourable thing to do.
Of all the reasons to marry, this must be the most foolish. Not out of passion. Not a love match. Not a well-considered decision.
So much for his pragmatic choice of marrying Doria. So much for paying the debt he owed to Charles. No comfortable life for him. Lost was the serenity marriage to Doria would offer. Lost was the respectability of her family. He, the son of the scandalous Lord and Lady Northdon, would marry the daughter of scandalous Sir Hollis and Lady Summerfield.
Tongues would wag.
He would not save her from gossip, after all. Perhaps he’d not done her so large a favour.
He must find her. Speak to her. Tell her what he’d done.
She needed to make the choice. The discredit of marrying him or the ruin of crying off.
But, if Tinmore made good his threat, she would also be impoverished.
A footman approached him. ‘I am to show you to your room, sir.’
‘Never mind my room,’ he responded. ‘I need to speak to Miss Tess Summerfield.’
The man’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘I cannot take you to Miss Summerfield.’
‘Deliver a message to her for me, then.’
The footman shook his head. ‘I do not think Lord Tinmore would approve.’
Marc gestured for him to lead the way. ‘Lord Tinmore will not mind. The lady and I are going to be married.’
* * *
Tess sat in Genna’s bedchamber again, like she had done only the day before, her two sisters with her.
It seemed an age ago.
Genna and Lorene had been waiting for her outside Lord Tinmore’s drawing room. They’d hugged and cried and Lorene scolded her for giving them such a fright. While they walked to her bedchamber she filled them in on what had happened to her.
In her room a bath awaited. Tess bathed and washed her hair quickly, before dressing in warm, dry clothes. Hot porridge, bread, cheese and tea were set before her and the mere scent of it made her stomach ache with hunger.
Her mind, though, was on Mr Glenville. Would he convince Lord Tinmore that nothing happened between them? Would Tinmore let him go? The whole experience had become like a dream. Would it fade from her memory?
She did not want to forget him.
The maids came to remove the bath and straighten the room. Tess and her sisters retired to Genna’s room and her sisters’ relief at finding her safe had worn off.
‘Tess, how could you have been so foolish?’ Lorene paced, as she had paced the previous morning. ‘It is one thing to seek shelter. Quite another to share a bed with a man.’
‘It was cold,’ Tess explained. She remembered Mr Glenville climbing on to the cot, covering them both with his blanket. She remembered the warmth of his body next to hers, both comforting and thrilling.
‘Do you know what the guests are saying?’ Genna offered. ‘They are saying you met by design. That you planned the tryst. Why else would you venture out on an obviously rainy day?’
Lord Attison must have been very busy telling tales.
‘That is ridiculous!’ Tess cried. ‘I told you how it happened. I never even met Mr Glenville before!’
‘You might have met him some other time.’ Genna settled herself on the window seat. ‘You are known to take walks alone.’
Tess glared at her. ‘Are you doubting my word, Genna? I went to the village to shop.’
Not to the nearby village, though. To Yardney. To see Mr Welton, had he been there.
‘No.’ Genna spoke as if this were some interesting problem happening to someone else. ‘But you did not bring any lace or ribbon, did you?’
The lace and ribbon. She’d forgotten her parcel. ‘I left the parcel at the cabin. We could send someone for it.’
‘It would not matter. What really happened does not matter.’ Lorene still paced. ‘Appearances. That is what matters.’ She shook her head. ‘I do not know what Lord Tinmore will do. This is such a trial for him and it has already put a strain on the house party.’
‘A trial for him? A strain on the house party?’ Tess rose off the bed. ‘Goodness, Lorene. I did not choose to have this happen. I simply walked to the village and became caught in a horrible storm. Perhaps I should have tried to cross the bridge or continued down the roads even though water was rushing over both. Then I would have drowned. Or perhaps Mr Glenville should have left me on the road to freeze to death. Either way would have been so much less trouble for Lord Tinmore!’
Lorene grabbed Tess and hugged her. ‘Do not say that. Never say that. That is what we all thought happened to you.’
Tess hugged her back. ‘I had hoped you’d think I stayed in the village.’
There was a knock at the door and a maid stuck her head in. ‘Pardon, my lady, but his lordship wishes to speak with Miss Summerfield immediately. In the library.’
Lorene released her. ‘You must go.’ She turned to the maid. ‘Tell Lord Tinmore she will be there directly.’
The maid rushed off.
‘I will accompany you,’ Lorene said.
Genna rose from the window seat. ‘I will come, too.’
‘No.’ Tess held them back with her arm. ‘It is best you stay out of it.’ Lord Tinmore would only become upset with them because of her.
Genna sat again and looked sulky. ‘Well, you had better come back right away and tell us all about it.’
‘I will walk with you, at least,’ Lorene said.
As they walked the distance to Lord Tinmore’s private sitting room, Tess tried to quiet her nerves. Would Mr Glenville still be there? Goodness, she hoped Lord Tinmore allowed him to dress in dry clothing and get something to eat.
Had he been able to convince Lord Tinmore to let the incident pass? She hoped so. She prayed so.
‘Tinmore is a reasonable man,’ Lorene said when they entered the long hallway leading to his private rooms.
Lord Tinmore had seemed fairly unreasonable to Tess. Unlike Glenville, who had come to her defence.
At the stairs, a footman approached and handed Tess a piece of paper. ‘A message for you, miss.’ He glanced warily at Lorene, the new lady of the house, and hurried away.
Tess unfolded the paper and read the note. ‘It is from Mr Glenville. He wishes to speak with me right away.’ She folded the paper again and put it in a pocket. ‘I should see him first.’
She turned around, but Lorene seized her arm. ‘You cannot see Mr Glenville!’
‘Why not?’ She tried to pull away. ‘He is waiting in the morning room. I can see him there.’
‘No!’ Lorene cried. ‘You must attend Lord Tinmore first!’ She pulled her along to Lord Tinmore’s sitting room. Another footman stood at the door and opened it when they approached.
‘Go to him.’ Lorene gave her a little push.
Tess entered the room.
Lord Tinmore was alone, seated in the same chair where he had been before. His demeanour had not softened.
Tess curtsied. ‘You asked to see me, my lord.’
His lips pursed. ‘I trust you are comfortable now.’
‘I am, sir. Thank you.’ She remembered what Glenville had said. Make no apologies. They had done nothing wrong. ‘I hope you allowed the same courtesy to my rescuer.’
‘You need not concern yourself with Mr Glenville,’ Tinmore snapped.
She straightened her spine.
He frowned. ‘You have created a great deal of trouble for yourself, for my wife and for your younger sister.’
She looked him directly in the face. ‘The rain caused a great deal of trouble for me. I was in danger and a gentleman rescued me. Surely you can make something sensible of that without a great deal of trouble.’
‘Such as what?’ He stiffened in his chair.
‘Such as nothing.’ Her heart pounded. Perhaps he could be convinced. ‘Declare Mr Glenville a hero and allow him to go on his way.’
‘A hero?’ His expression turned shrewd. ‘You seem immoderately concerned about Mr Glenville.’
Her hopes were shaken. ‘Do not try to make something of that, sir. He saved my life and I am not so much a simpleton as to miss the fact that you are trying to punish him for it.’
‘Punish him?’ Lord Tinmore’s rheumy eyes flashed. ‘He was caught in bed with you. That cannot be ignored.’
‘It can be ignored if you wish it,’ she shot back. ‘The world will believe what you, sir, wish it to believe.’
He stared at her before continuing. ‘You have bedded a man and been caught at it. At least your paramour understands you must pay the consequences.’
Her heart pounded. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He will marry you.’
‘No!’ she cried. ‘He will not.’
He half-rose from his chair. ‘He will and that is that.’
Fear exploded inside her, but she could not allow it to show. Instead she moved closer to him and leaned down into his face. ‘You know, sir,’ she said in a low voice. ‘You know that Mr Glenville and I did nothing wrong, nothing to truly compromise me. You know he rescued me. Saved my life. You know all you have to do is tell your friends the truth. Tell everyone the truth.’
‘No.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘Glenville said he’d marry you and that will resolve matters nicely, with the minimum of scandal tainting my marriage.’
‘Your marriage? Why should what happened to me taint your marriage?’ she countered.
‘It adds scandal to my wife’s name,’ he said. ‘Your mother and father’s carnal excesses are bad enough. I’ll not tolerate more...’ He shook his head. ‘Stranded in a storm! Hmmph!’
She glared at him. ‘You know it is true, sir.’
He waved her words away. ‘You will marry Glenville and that is the final word.’
Her insides felt shredded, but she made herself lift her chin. ‘What has Mr Glenville to say to this?’
Tinmore’s mouth moved against his gums, an old man’s gesture. ‘Mr Glenville knows his duty. He made the offer.’
‘No.’ Her entire body began to shake. ‘He does not wish to marry me. I cannot marry a man who does not wish to marry me.’
‘He may not wish it.’ Lord Tinmore smirked. ‘But he’ll do it. As will you.’
‘You cannot force this marriage on him. Or on me!’ she cried.
‘Glenville made the offer. It is up to you to accept or not.’ He leaned forward. ‘But understand this. For you there will be no dowry, no Season.’
His words were a blow.
She swallowed the pain. And loss.
She lifted her chin. ‘If you choose to break your bargain with my sister, it is no concern of mine.’
He worked his mouth as if unable to form words.
He finally spoke. ‘If you do not marry Mr Glenville, I will also withdraw all funds and support from your sister Genna and your by-blow of a brother. Your sister will not have a dowry and your brother will not see a penny of mine.’
She felt the blood drain from her face. ‘You would not be so cruel.’
He stared her directly in the eye. ‘You will marry Mr Glenville after all, will you not?’
She fixed her gaze on Lord Tinmore and would not allow her voice to show her utter defeat. ‘For my sisters’ and brother’s sakes, I have no choice. I will marry Mr Glenville.’
‘Excellent!’ Lord Tinmore clapped. ‘Tomorrow I will send you with him to London in my carriage.’
‘Tomorrow!’
‘I want you out of sight of my guests. Once they know you are to be married, the talk will disappear. By the time I bring my wife and your younger sister to London, all will be forgotten.’
He was sending her away. She’d already lost so much. Her mother. Her father. Her home. Now she was to lose her sisters, as well.
And to be married to a man who would undoubtedly resent her and detest having been trapped into marriage with her.
* * *
As soon as Tess left Tinmore, she hurried to the morning room, but Mr Glenville was not there. If only she could speak with him. There must be some way out of this.
She waited there an hour, pacing back and forth. Finally a footman opened the door and told her Lord Tinmore wished her to return to her room. She was not to come to dinner with her sisters and the house-party guests. She was expected to remain in her room.
And she was forbidden to seek out Mr Glenville.
Chapter Five (#ulink_315dbb7b-ca79-50e8-94d4-244f58ec4113)
The next morning, Tess walked through the cavernous house, her sisters at her side. They made their way to the front door where Lord Tinmore’s carriage and Mr Glenville would await her. One of the Tinmore maids, whom she did not know, was to accompany her to London, but return with the carriage.
Lorene had been scolding her every step of the way. ‘I gave you the chance to choose who to marry and look what you do.’
Perhaps it was too much to hope that her sister would take her part against her husband.
Tess was beyond defending herself, in any event. She was sick with grief and trepidation. This was the very worst way to be married. Not out of love. Not even for status or financial gain. Mr Glenville was forced to marry her because he’d rescued her in the rain and taken her to a cabin to keep warm and dry.
If only she had been able to talk with him. Why had he not waited for her in the morning room?
Tess could not believe she would walk through Tinmore Hall’s great door into a new life among people she did not know, in a place she’d never been before.
Genna had been in tears the whole morning. ‘Why do you have to leave now?’ She sniffed. ‘Why can you not come to London when we go there?’
‘It is better this way.’ Tess was determined that her sisters not know how devastated she felt. ‘Besides, I will see you in London in just a few weeks.’ Although she had no assurances that Lord Tinmore would allow it. He might forbid her to call. Her sisters might be totally lost to her, as well.
Lorene had been so wrong about the reclusive earl. He was not reasonable. Nor benevolent. He went back on promises and wielded his power in the cruellest possible way. He had better not treat Lorene with cruelty or Tess would—
What could she do?
Nothing.
‘You were supposed to marry happily,’ Lorene went on. ‘Now what was the use of my—my—’ She could not say the words, but Tess knew—they all knew—what she meant.
They reached the hall. The arsenal of swords and pikes and other weapons hung on the wall surrounding the door seemed like a harbinger of pain and destruction.
She turned to Lorene. ‘I will do very well, Lorene. I will be a viscountess some day. How grand will that be?’
‘You will become like Mama,’ Lorene rasped through her tears. ‘You will be unhappy.’
She hugged Lorene. ‘Do not concern yourself about me.’
Lorene held on to her. ‘I meant something so different for you. A London Season. A chance to meet many fine young men, a chance to find your own true love.’
‘I will still be there for the Season, will I not?’ She pasted on a smile. ‘Genna will have more fine young men to fall in love with her this way.’
‘Do not look to me.’ Genna wiped her eyes. ‘I wanted nothing to do with this.’ She turned to Lorene. ‘This is your fault, you know. None of this would have happened if you had not married, Lorene.’
‘I did it for you.’ Lorene burst into tears. ‘For both of you.’
‘Stop. Stop.’ Tess could not bear this. ‘We must not fight and, for heaven’s sake, do not cry. I will be fine. Mr Glenville is not a bad man. He rescued me, did he not? His proposal of marriage was honourable, was it not? I will do very well, I am sure.’
She hoped she convinced them, because she was having a great deal of difficulty convincing herself that all would be well.
The huge front door opened and a footman stepped in. ‘The carriage is awaiting you, miss.’
Tess’s heart jumped into her throat. ‘I must leave.’
Her sisters followed her outside.
Tess looked past the carriage to the man on horseback—Mr Glenville astride his horse. Apollo.
‘Is that him?’ Genna asked.
His face was shaded by his hat and he sat stiffly in his saddle. What had Lord Tinmore threatened him with to make him offer to marry a woman he did not even know?
‘Yes, that is Mr Glenville,’ she responded.
Genna sniffed. ‘Well, at least he is not fat.’
Nor ugly, Tess thought. On the contrary, he was handsome and tall and strong, and when his blue eyes fixed on her, something stirred deep inside her.
But he did not love her. How could he?
He had already selected his intended bride, a woman who could be an advantage to him, a woman who had the one thing Tess could never give him—a family reputation free from scandal.
He nodded to her and her cheeks burned. She hugged her sisters one last time before allowing the footman to assist her into the coach.
* * *
Marc followed the carriage, his mood nothing but dark. Anger seethed inside him. Anger at Lord Tinmore. Anger at Miss Summerfield’s sister for marrying such a man.
Anger at himself for not waking before dawn and making certain he and Miss Summerfield were not discovered. Even more, he should have known better than to share her bed, even if he’d done nothing but warm her.
He’d waited as long as he could in the morning room where he’d been served his food, but she had not come. Eventually an elderly butler arrived and insisted he leave.
Not that it would have made any difference, although he might have reassured her in some way.
Damned Tinmore. If the man had stated that he believed them, the scandal would have faded quickly. Instead he’d been unnecessarily cruel. Miss Summerfield did not deserve cruelty. All she’d done was walk to the village to shop. Good God. Shopping was his mother’s primary entertainment. How could any woman be faulted for wanting to visit shops? Miss Summerfield had also misjudged the weather. Well, so had he.
They reached Yardney, the village Miss Summerfield had tried to reach in the storm, the village where she had purchased her ribbons. From his seat on Apollo’s back, he could see her face peeking out of the carriage window, looking desolate.
Fate was a cruel jokester.
If she had shopped an hour longer or an hour less, maybe even minutes more or minutes less, she would not have been on the road during the storm and she would be free.
Instead she was trapped into marrying him.
* * *
At least the coachman kept up a good speed, considering the roads were not yet dry. This trip would take them at least three days. Apollo was accustomed to hard rides.
The carriage changed horses when necessary and Marc made certain they did not resume the journey until Apollo had rested. When they reached a coaching inn in Bourne, it was past noon and time they stopped long enough to eat a meal.
It would be his first chance to speak to her.
He handed over care of Apollo to one of the stable boys and walked over to help her from the coach.
‘Thank you,’ she said. She looked tense and fatigued.
‘Miss Summerfield, will you dine with me?’ he asked.
She nodded.
A maid who’d seen the better part of her forties had accompanied her in the coach. The woman scowled and sniffed impatiently. ‘Will you be needing my services, miss?’ She spoke in an overly solicitous and distinctly unpleasant manner.
‘No, Ivers,’ Miss Summerfield replied in a tight voice. ‘Please have a pleasant repast. Do—do you need any money?’
Did Miss Summerfield have any money? Marc wondered. Had Lord Tinmore cut her off that completely?
The maid lifted her nose. ‘His lordship provided for me.’ The woman marched away.
Miss Summerfield blew out a breath.
‘Well, she is certainly unpleasant,’ Marc said.
Miss Summerfield sighed. ‘That is couching it in the mildest terms.’
Marc did not offer his arm, because he did not think she would wish to take it, but she walked next to him into the inn. The public room was not crowded.
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Diane Gaston
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: His Scandalous BrideTess Summerfield’s life is changed for ever when she’s rescued from drowning by the mysterious Marc Glenville. Forced to shelter with him in a deserted cottage, she spends the night wrapped in his arms for warmth.When they are discovered the tongues of the ton start wagging, and Marc knows the only way to silence them is to marry Tess. But his duties as a spy soon tear Marc away from the marriage bed. When they’re at last reunited can they rekindle the flame born from the ashes of scandal?The Scandalous Summerfields: Disgrace is their middle name!