Ravishing Regencies- The Complete Series

by Emily Murdoch

  The coachman dropped his eyes. “Aylesbury, my lady.”

  Rowena tried not to let the disappointment wash over her, so she nodded, and then strode over to the forlorn and stupid Mr Bentley.

  “I must admit myself disappointed for the second time today,” she said curtly. “This coach is departing for the opposite way from which I would like to go – but you, Mr Bentley, should embark immediately. Is that not towards your home?”

  “I – I must say,” Mr Bentley spluttered, hands clasped together and eyes beseeching, “No apology can be sufficient, Miss Kerr, I understand that, but if you could understand just how sorry I am, perhaps you would find it in your heart to forgive – ”

  “Get on the coach,” said Rowena, rolling her eyes as she stared across the sodden ground to the only coach that seemed likely to arrive today. “And tell no one – no one, mark me, Bentley – of what has happened here. If I find that you have…”

  She did not need to finish her sentence: he knew exactly what power she held over him. He would say nothing.

  Rowena felt the rain finally reach her skin as she stood and watched Mr Bentley silently clamber into the coach. An awkward parting, that was true, but a necessary one. If she were honest with herself, she was relieved to see him go.

  The coach did not linger for long. Within five minutes, it was trundling away from the Wingston Inn in the same direction from which it came, and Rowena felt a weight lift from her shoulders.

  She was still wet, and was now growing cold, but at least he was gone.

  “My lady, will you not come inside?”

  Rowena turned to see the proprietor of the Wingston Inn standing in the doorway, staring at her standing there in the rain.

  She shook her head. “I am waiting for the coach to Marshurst – or anywhere near it.”

  The man sighed, and beckoned her in once more. “That coach will not be here for two days, my lady – come, into the warm.”

  Rowena’s shoulders slumped, and she groaned aloud as her eyes tracked an elaborately decorated coach pull up to the Wingston Inn. Another two days?

  James, Viscount Paendly, was jerked awake as the coach he was sleeping in made an abrupt stop, and he groaned.

  To think he was still in this godforsaken coach – how long had it been now, five days? Six? Had no man suffered as deeply as himself? There was surely no one who could commiserate fully with the boredom he was encountering. Such a long journey, with nothing to do, nothing to see, and nothing to look forward to when he arrives.

  Sleep was the only refuge for the truly bored, he reflected with a sardonic smile as he pulled his greatcoat around his shoulders. But then, when you lived a boring life as he did, there was little change of scenery when you spent the best part of a week trapped in a rattling box on wheels.

  Yes indeed, life was boring – but it was the title that did that. Duties, responsibilities, actions: but no joy. No mirth, no opportunity for frivolity, or revelling. No, the Viscount Paendly had to be serious, had to be dependable. You could not have the Viscount Paendly doing anything interesting.

  It was why he had jumped to help her, of course, but now Giselle was off, and back to France, there was nothing to do but to return to his boring existence.

  James glanced out of the window, and saw nothing but a grey dull inn, stained brown with rain and mud.

  Was there ever a man more desperate for excitement than himself? James shook his head bitterly. One only had to think of his friend Pierre, and the ridiculous excitement that he had enjoyed recently – an escape from France, a woman in his life to shock him and force him out of banality!

  By God, if he could procure a similar adventure for himself.

  James blinked, and brought the sad damp inn back into focus. There was someone there, standing outside the inn with no thought for the driving rain that had been the companion of all travellers for nigh on twenty minutes.

  It was a woman.

  James leaned unconsciously towards the opening in his carriage, and saw the dejected expression on her features. She was dishevelled and wet, to be sure, but he had rarely seen a person hold themselves with such elegance.

  The more he looked, the more he saw. Her clothes were rich, and she evidently came from some wealth. He could not see her features closely, as she kept turning to argue with a man who was standing just inside the dry by the door of the inn.

  He could not hear their words, but the root of their conversation was clear enough: she wanted to be left alone, and yet the man continued to force his conversation on her.

  A strange feeling of impulse began to creep over him.

  James shook his head with a smile. No, he needed to fight that unusual feeling: he was not the man to randomly act. Everything for him was calculated, planned in advance, prepared carefully. Was that not what being the Viscount Paendly was all about?

  But the desire was growing in him, out of character as it may be, but the need to do something different, something totally unlike anything he had ever done before was overwhelming.

  Before he really knew what he was doing, James had pushed open the door of the carriage, dropped onto the mud with his nice clean boots, and stridden over to her.

  The closer that he got the easier it was to see her expression – now startled at his approach. James’ jaw dropped: never before had he seen such bedraggled beauty. It was enough to amaze him, and he had seen much of the world.

  “What exactly seems to be the problem?” he found himself saying, glancing between this stunning young woman, and a gentleman of definitely lower rank who bowed deeply as he approached.

  In a low murmur, the man said with a grovelling smile, “My lord, I was merely offering the lady some refreshment and shelter, but she is adamant that she will wait outside for a coach – a coach, moreover, that goes in the Marshurst direction, and I have informed her will not be here for another two days.”

  James found that as the man spoke, his gaze meandered over to the woman. Captured by her beauty, he was astounded to find that she was staring back at him defiantly, with no coquettish blush on her cheeks, no gentle turn of the head to display her neck in the most elegant fashion. No, she was doing nothing but glaring at him.

  “And as you can see, my lord,” the man was continuing to bleat, “the weather being what it is, I wanted to ensure that the lady – ”

  “I am going in that direction.” For a moment, James was unsure exactly who had spoken, but the way that both the woman and the innkeeper were staring at him, the words must have come from his own lips. “I can take you half the way.”

  What was he doing? Had he gone mad, to be accepting stowaways onto his coach?

  But James did not feel mad. He felt more alive than he had done in weeks, and he watched the young woman, soaking wet as she was, hesitate to reply to his offer.

  He saw the clenching of her jaw, the way her eyes flickered over him, attempting perhaps to guess at his class and therefore his honour, and found himself silently hoping that she would accept his offer.

  “I – I thank you,” she eventually said stiffly, and James marvelled at the softness of her tone. “I would be most grateful for any distance that you can take me.”

  “My lady!” The innkeeper looked affronted, and he glared at James as the cause for the loss of a potential customer. “Do you know this gentleman?”

  James glanced at the woman, who shook her head without taking her eyes from him.

  “And you will step into his carriage, without even knowing his name?” The man sounded aghast, but his words lit a fire in James’ stomach and caused him to grin.

  “All part of the adventure,” he found himself saying with a shrug. Moving quickly forward, he grasped the one piece of luggage that sat in the mud beside the young lady, and offered his arm to her.

  There was another moment’s hesitation, and James felt his heart thundering in his chest. This was unlike anything he had ever done, or would do again in all likelihood. Why not play the part
of rescuer to perfection?

  But the woman he was rescuing did not seem to have any idea of letting him have his own way entirely. With a contemptuous look at the innkeeper, and a raised eyebrow at James’ arm, she strode ahead of him and was in the carriage in a trice.

  A flicker of excitement rose in James’ chest. This woman was unlike anyone he had ever met – and there was plenty of adventure left in the road.

  Without saying another word to the innkeeper, James, Viscount Paendly, followed his new travelling companion into the carriage.

  2

  Rowena tried to keep her breathing steady as she settled herself into the unfamiliar coach.

  What was she doing? This decision was not just strange, it was unheard of, ridiculous – perhaps even dangerous. What did she know of this man, whose life she had unceremoniously entered with little thought to the consequences?

  It was a large coach, and splendidly designed, with the comfort of its passengers evidently thought through at every stage.

  Her wandering eyes shied away from the other occupant.

  Rowena bit her lip. She was so far gone beyond society’s expectations at this point that perhaps this latest wild decision barely mattered? No one would be any the wiser of her folly, she hoped, and that could include this rather unusual method of getting back home.

  The coach jostled her slightly as it began moving, and Rowena sighed quietly. It was impossible not to accept the offer of a quicker route home, and now at least she should be able to move quickly.

  She settled into the deep cushions of the handsome coach, and tried not to think of the damp patch that her sodden clothes were going to leave. Perhaps her rescuer had not considered that when he had given her the gift of fast travel back to her home.

  The man who had invited her into the carriage was determinedly looking out of his window, and her curiosity about the gentleman overtook her. Rowena stared at him, trying to ascertain exactly what he was like.

  He was handsome, there was no doubt about that. Tall, from his advancement towards her outside the inn which had forced her heart to pound, and now that he was seated opposite her on the other side of the carriage, she could see the Grecian profile that gave him such an aristocratic look. That he was noble seemed to be in no doubt: the wealth of the carriage, the indolent way he had spoken to the innkeeper, the bearing that he held even now, whilst only in view of herself.

  And yet he seemed conscious of his handsome features, somehow. Rowena could not put her finger on what it was, but there was something knowing in his wry smile that was directed out of the carriage.

  “Faster, Smith.”

  The words were spoken by her companion in clipped tones, in that same deep voice that had cowed the innkeeper.

  Rowena watched him for a few minutes in silence, desperate to say something but unsure exactly what words were correct for such a situation. What sort of etiquette did this require? Surely there was nothing quite like it – perhaps because, Rowena smiled to herself, there had never been another woman so foolish as herself to get in this situation!

  “You know, he was right.”

  Startled, Rowena stared at him. He had spoken without looking at her, as though they had resumed a conversation.

  She swallowed. Suddenly, her throat seemed dry, and it was not the chill of her clothes that caused a shiver to move up her spine.

  “Right?”

  The gentleman turned to look at her, and she coloured immediately at the intensity of his gaze.

  “It is ridiculous that we do not know each other’s names,” he said lightly. “Especially as we are now travel companions for what could be a relatively long journey. Marshurst, I think you said? ‘Tis at least two days away, and so it would make conversation much easier if I knew how to address you.”

  Rowena swallowed. Had she not forced Mr Bentley to keep their secret as best she could? Would she now be foolish to give her real identity now?

  “Rebecca Kirkland,” she invented wildly, her eyes dropped to her hands in her lap. “And you are?”

  There was something of an intensity in his face that she could not bear, and with nowhere else to look in the enclosed carriage that did not run the risk of accidentally catching his gaze, Rowena looked outside the window. The rain was pouring down in sheets.

  If she did not know any better, she would have said that he hesitated before he said, “James Paendly, at your service.”

  If Rowena had hoped that silence would intimate to Mr Paendly that she would like to be left alone, she was sorely mistaken.

  “What bad weather we are experiencing,” he remarked.

  Rowena almost laughed aloud. The weather? There was hardly a more British pastime, it was true, than discussions about the weather, but it felt a little forced in this carriage rattling along at twelve miles an hour between two complete strangers.

  “Yes, it is,” she said quietly, not taking her eyes away from the window. Surely he would understand from her silence that she did not wish to speak.

  Apparently not.

  “And are you drying off, Miss Kirkland?”

  For a heart-stopping moment, Rowena almost turned around to stare at him, confused – but then remembered the false name that she had but moments ago given the gentleman. Her cheeks coloured slightly.

  “No,” she said honestly, “I am not.”

  In another life – goodness, only three days ago – she would have been mortified to give such a blunt answer to a gentleman, and one who was so evidently well born and well bred. But the past twenty-four hours had changed Rowena, and she could not hide from that. There was something harder in her now, she could feel it. Something that did not tolerate fools, but was also less tolerant of herself. It was a harshness, a coldness. Something that Mr Bentley had done to her.

  “Well, I hope that this will be a quicker route home for you,” said Mr Paendly easily, and out of the corner of her eye, Rowena saw him stretch out his legs. “Marshurst is not far away, in the grand scheme of things.”

  Rowena tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry. What a fool she had been, giving her genuine destination to this man! Why, it would not take him five minutes of conversation with anyone in Marshurst to discover her true identity, to learn of the scandal that she had left behind! How stupid she was!

  Heart racing faster and faster, Rowena tried to keep her eyes away from him as she said, “But Marshurst is just a change in my journey, sir, not my final destination.”

  Try as she might, she found it impossible to keep her gaze away from him – and was startled to find that Mr Paendly, handsome and incredibly present in the enclosed carriage, was staring directly at her.

  A blush that she fought against and lost the battle with, spread across her cheeks.

  “Miss Kirkland, have we ever met before?”

  Rowena swallowed. He was a curious man, and that curiosity could be her very undoing.

  “I…I do not think so,” she said slowly, returning her eyes to the window and the pouring rain. “I am rarely in town.”

  She dropped back into silence again, hoping beyond hope that Mr Paendly would take the hint – but it was not to be.

  “Now, that is a shame,” he said jovially. “Why?”

  Rowena could feel her pulse quicken in her wrists as she clasped her hands together in her lap. This was insufferable – perhaps she would have been better of if she had stayed at the Wingston Inn for two additional days, waiting for the coach.

  But no. By that time, Oscar – Mr Bentley – would have arrived back at his parents’ home, and without her. It would not do to spark the scandal this early.

  “I am not fond of town,” she lied quietly. “I spend much of my time in…in Scotland. With my great-uncle.”

  The lies tasted bitter against her tongue, but she had no choice: Mr Paendly was far too curious for his own good. Her heart thundered against her chest. It would never do for him to find out – or work out – her secret.

  James could not help
it: he could do nothing but stare. Had he ever felt more intrigued about another living soul on this earth?

  He could not remember being so, and so the stare continued, even as he saw the pink flush of consciousness of his gaze creep across Miss Kirkland’s cheek as she looked resolutely out of the window.

  There was nothing to see there; naught but mud and storm. She could only be fixated on it so sternly to avoid himself, and this suggested more questions than it answered. Why was she so vague about her destination, so secretive about why she was rarely in town? What was she hiding?

  Now that she was sitting down mere feet from him and not standing dishevelled in the rain, James had the time to notice her incredibly fine eyes. Large and full of expression, it seemed impossible for Miss Kirkland to hide what she was thinking at any point, something that endeared her to him immediately.

  Why would you not wish to spend time around a woman so easily moved to deep emotion?

  But the more he looked, the more detail he noticed. Soft and rounded lips, frequently drawn together in a perfect mirror to the frown across her forehead. Her gown, in the latest fashion as it was, clung to her waist and legs as it slowly started to dry. Her hair starting to curl as the moisture left it, curling around her ear, frizzing around the base of her neck which curved delightfully into a heaving chest as she tried, and failed, to calm her breathing.

  James grinned. He could only hope that it was himself that was having such an intense effect on her. Uncomfortable, she may be, but surely she had met gentleman like him before? The elegant stance, the rich clothes – she surely must be a relatively wealthy woman.

  So what was she doing alone, standing in the rain, outside a mediocre inn?

  “What were you doing there?”

  In an instant, James realised that he had asked the question aloud, and cursed himself silently. Was it not clear that Miss Kirkland was already uncomfortable with him? But then, if you did not ask …

  For the first time since she had stepped into his carriage, James received a proper reaction from her – but it was not a friendly one.