Lost With a Lord

by Emily Murdoch

  As Teresa hit the water, the freezing cold seemed to burn her skin, dragging her down as her skirts became drenched.

  An attempt to scream was stifled by the rush of water that flowed into her throat, and her desperate arms moved wildly in an attempt to keep herself afloat.

  “Help me!” she spluttered, desperation preventing her mind from knowing that there was no one who could help her.

  This could not be happening – she was not going to drown here, she was not going to die! But there seemed little chance of any other outcome as the freezing current started to pull her downwards, and there was nothing she could do, she could not swim, and her head sank under the waves and her hands were the only things still above the water, and this was it, this was how her life ended –

  A hand. A strong hand, a hand on hers. Teresa felt it dimly, as though it was happening a thousand miles away from her, but it was definitely a hand, and there was a pain in her shoulder and she could not understand why, and her lungs were on fire and yet her mouth was full of water, and suddenly a rush of water was cascading down her as she was hauled out of the water and dropped onto something that felt as heavenly as earth …

  Teresa took in the deepest breath of her life. Coughing and spluttering, the cold night air absolutely glacial on her skin as it hit the droplets of Thames still dripping from her, her gown sodden and ruined, the silk completely destroyed, she opened her eyes.

  Before her were a large pair of men’s boots. There were legs inside them.

  “What in God’s name were you doing in there?”

  The words were harsh, from a deep male voice, and cutting in their tone.

  Teresa tried to speak, but spluttering was all that she could manage. Her lungs were painful, throbbing pulsated in her throat as she tried again, but her body could do nothing.

  “Fool,” muttered the same voice, and suddenly a heavy coat was covering her sprawled body.

  Heat now rose within her, but it was of shame and embarrassment, not thanks to the greatcoat that enveloped her. To think that she should be seen like this, bedraggled, hair a mess, gown ruined, and by a man of some repute too, if the quality of his greatcoat was anything to go by.

  Teresa took another deep breath, and tried once more to speak. “Th-thank you.”

  It was not enough, she knew, to say to the man who had saved her life, but it was all that she could manage at the moment.

  “How did you fall in?” asked the voice, and Teresa pushed herself into a sitting position on the damp ground to look at the face of her rescuer.

  He was tall. Seated as she was, Teresa had to tilt her neck backwards to reach his face, and it was only then that she realised that he was just as drenched as she was. He had a dark, olive complexion, dark hair – although perhaps it looked darker because it was wet – and a questioning eye that did not blanch as she examined him.

  “I did not fall in,” she said eventually, arching an eyebrow with a smile. “I was pushed.”

  “Pushed?” The man seemed astonished, and despite the cold, wet, and slightly uncomfortable position that she was in, Teresa could not help but smile. It was always reassuring to see that she had what it took to confuse a man.

  Teresa nodded, and struggled to her feet. “‘Tis of no matter, I assure you.”

  “No – no matter?” Now it was her rescuer’s turn to splutter. “My dear lady, if a man has made an attempt on your life, you should inform the Bow Street Runners, immediately! I will be glad to assist – ”

  “No,” said Teresa curtly. The last thing that she needed was for a peeler to get anywhere near her. At the raised eyebrow of her rescuer, she added, “I am sure it was an accident, and I would be loath to get a gentleman in trouble for an accident.”

  Now that she was standing, the man’s height seemed diminished slightly. The broadness of his shoulders, perhaps, distorted the view, for he was still just as tall, but strong, young like she was, perhaps even a little younger.

  Teresa pulled a blonde strand of hair away from her cheek, and smiled. “Now, I have an appointment to make. Do excuse me, sir.”

  Looking about her, she saw that she was back on the north bank; most inconvenient, as it was going to be a long walk back to the dockyard. Perhaps she could find –

  “Appointment?” The man stared at her. “What sort of appointment – with whom?”

  Teresa smiled, and removed the greatcoat from her shoulders. “No one of your acquaintance, I am sure, Mr . . ?”

  For a moment, she thought she saw a flash of confusion over his face, but then he sighed and said, “Alexander.”

  “Well, thank you, Mr Alexander, for your kind rescue.” Teresa put all her beauty, drenched as it was, into the smile that she gave him. “I certainly do not know what I would have done if you had not come along, but I am quite safe now.”

  She reached out the greatcoat, but he did not take it. “It is not Mr Alexander, actually. ‘Tis just, Alexander. That is my name.”

  Why did he not take the coat? Teresa tried to keep her smile on her face, but it was a little more brittle now. She was late to meet Lord George Northmere as it was, and if she missed it, she was unlikely to get a second chance.

  “Alexander? Surely you have a surname?”

  He looked even more uncomfortable at this, and Teresa could not sense why. There was such a simplicity about him, really, completely unlike most of the men she knew.

  But she did not have time to play naming games with a stranger on the bank of the Thames. She had somewhere to be.

  Throwing the greatcoat over one of his shoulders, Teresa said gaily, “Well, whoever you are, thank you. Good evening.”

  She turned away from him, and began to walk briskly – partly to reach Lord George in time, and partly, in truth, to keep warm.

  Hurried footsteps followed her, and she rolled her eyes before Alexander reached her side.

  “But you cannot just – you are soaking wet!”

  “Yes, I am aware of that, thank you,” Teresa attempted to keep the sarcasm out of her voice, but it was incredibly difficult with such a silly man. Why could he not leave her alone? “And yet I am almost sure I know the remedy for that, so good evening to you.”

  He was a handsome man, she could see that now. That olive complexion, that chiselled and finely shaved jaw, that essence of strength that a man either had or had not. You could not replicate it, you could not pretend.

  This Alexander had it in spades.

  “My dear lady – what is your name?”

  Teresa was attempting to increase her pace, but the dratted man was just as quick as she was. “Teresa.”

  They rounded a bend in the river, and passed a gaggle of revellers, undoubtedly thrown out by one of the gentleman’s clubs. Teresa swore under her breath. If she did not find Lord George soon, she would be too late to take advantage of throwing out time, and then she would be in a difficult spot.

  “Teresa . . . you must have a surname.”

  Alexander placed a hand on her arm as he attempted to slow her down. “Surely you cannot be any sort of real rush, Miss – ”

  “I am,” she said, wrenching her arm away from him and glaring at him. “Miss Metcalfe, not that it means a thing to you, Mr . . ?”

  If she had not known better, she would have said that he looked a little embarrassed.

  “Duke, actually.”

  She did not have time for this, every second wasted on this man was one that she was losing with Lord George. “As I said, thank you, Mr Duke, for helping me out of the river, but there really is no need to accompany me.”

  And yet he still did not disappear, even when she started walking again. “I am not Mr Duke, I am a Duke.”

  That was enough to stop her in her tracks. Teresa flew around to stare at him. “A Duke?”

  Alexander grinned at her, almost apologetically. “Duke of Caershire, believe it or not.”

  Teresa stared at him, calculating. Well, knowing that he was a Duke certainly turned thing
s around a bit; now that she took a closer look, she could see the unmistakable signs of wealth. But pennies in your pocket were worth more than guineas in someone else’s, and she had no time to waste.

  “I would have curtseyed, had I known,” she said with a cheeky grin, and she saw the answering preen in his stance that she knew would come. My, but weren’t men predictable? “Good evening, my lord.”

  His surprised face drew level with hers, even though she was walking as fast as she could – almost running. “You – you do not want my protection?”

  “I do not need your protection,” Teresa said hurriedly, and with just a little of her irritation seeping through. “To tell the truth, my lord, I have somewhere to be, and it is not a somewhere that you should be seen. Go away.”

  Darting down a side alley, Teresa broke out into a run – anything to be rid of this puppy of a Duke. But she had underestimated him; his reflexes were quick, and so were his feet, and within twenty seconds he had caught up with her, caught hold of her, and thrust her against a wall.

  “God’s teeth, let go of me!” Teresa cried, and then, in a desperate hope that the knowledge would release her, exclaimed, “I am a courtesan, you fool!”

  Historical Note

  I always strive for accuracy with my historical books, as a historian myself, and I have done my best to make my research pertinent and accurate. Any mistakes that have slipped in must be forgiven, as I am but a lover of this era, not an expert.

  About the Author

  Emily Murdoch is a historian and writer. Throughout her career so far she has examined a codex and transcribed medieval sermons at the Bodleian Library in Oxford, designed part of an exhibition for the Yorkshire Museum, worked as a researcher for a BBC documentary presented by Ian Hislop, and worked at Polesden Lacey with the National Trust. She has a degree in History and English, and a Masters in Medieval Studies, both from the University of York. Emily has a medieval series, a Regency series, and a Western series published, and is currently working on several new projects.

  You can follow her on twitter and instagram @emilyekmurdoch, find her on facebook at www.facebook.com/theemilyekmurdoch, and read her blog at www.emilyekmurdoch.com