‘Mama, I am only one and twenty.’
‘And next year, you shall be twenty-two.’ She said it in a dire tone that implied her death was imminent. ‘There are still a few names left. Tell me about Sir Robert Gascoyne.’
‘Thirty-two and widowed. A baronet. Brother of Jack Gascoyne, the war hero. Possessor of an estate not two miles from here.’
‘And...’ her mother said significantly.
‘There is little more to tell. The man is practically a hermit.’
‘He has the nicest house in the county,’ her mother prompted. ‘Twenty acres and nearly as many rooms in the manor. Just think of the parties you will have there, should you marry him.’
‘Should he offer for me,’ Emma corrected. ‘Which I doubt he shall, since we have yet to meet him in person at any of the gatherings in the public assembly halls we have been to. He does not go to the balls in London, nor does he entertain in his own home. And I have yet to meet a single person who can claim his acquaintance.’
‘That will change, once he is married,’ her mother insisted. ‘You will have a ball and invite titled ladies and gentlemen. In return, they shall invite you to their homes. He might stay at home as much as he wishes, but you, my dear, will be a success. And when you are, I hope that you will remember your poor mother and make introductions.’
‘Of course,’ Emma said weakly. As the months of the season had passed, her mother had grown more and more obsessed with the idea of finding a way into the aristocracy for their family. Her current strategy involved Emma’s successful marriage. Perhaps it was lack of effort on her part, as her mother claimed. Or perhaps she was simply not wanted. Thus far, all those careful plans had been unsuccessful.
‘Study the list.’ Her mother pressed the paper into her hands with a sense of urgency. ‘Knowledge is the key to everything.’
‘I will, Mama,’ she said, tucking it into the back of the novel she had been reading. ‘But for now, I think a walk is in order, if I wish to continue in robust good health.’
‘Then walk in the direction of the Gascoyne house and see if you can find a way to meet our neighbour Sir Robert,’ she said with a firm nod. ‘All you need is one happy accident with the right gentleman and you shall have maids calling you My Ladyship by Christmas.’
* * *
Sir Robert Gascoyne liked his solitude.
Rather, he tolerated it, as one would an old and somewhat tiresome friend. He had been alone for so long that he could not think of any other way to be.
Since it did not make him actively unhappy, he told himself that it was for the best that he remained secluded. When one had the luck of the Gascoyne family, it was better to live in isolation as one would when suffering from a disease. Self-quarantine spared the people around him from contagious misfortune.
Though that plan spared others, for Robert there was no escaping the family curse. According to his man of business in London, though every other mine in Cornwall flourished, the tin mine he had invested in had run out of ore. While he had been to visit it, his coachman had been kicked by a horse and broken a leg.
And yet, it could have been worse.
He must be thankful that he was still healthy enough to drive himself home, rather than leaving his best carriage in the hands of inexperienced grooms. With his finances in ruins and his strategies in chaos, it felt good to be in the driver’s seat and not dependent on the actions of another. He needed something he could successfully command to steady his nerves and to allow him to believe, for a few hours at least, that his life and destiny were something he could control, as easily as he could command a team and carriage.
The trip thus far had been uneventful. He was an excellent driver more than capable of handling any equipage. The horses were receptive to every flick of the reins. If the wheels stayed on the brougham, he would be home in less than an hour.
That was why he looked at the woman on the road ahead with trepidation. The way was wide enough for a pedestrian and she was well over to the side. There was no reason to believe that she was at risk from him. But there had been no reason to believe that a productive mine could lose the vein right after he had put money down on it. When Robert Gascoyne was involved, bad things happened.
As he approached her, he pulled as far to the opposite side of the road as he thought safe and slowed to a trot. Since she appeared to be absorbed in the book she was reading, he called to the groom to blow a warning on the carriage horn.
Perhaps he had waited too long to make his presence known. At the sound, she gave a start of alarm and so did the horses. The team shied and, as he struggled to control them, he lost sight of her. One minute she was there, the next she had disappeared from sight.
Robert felt a moment of blind panic as he tugged hard on the reins, cursing his carelessness and infernal bad luck, and hating each movement of hooves that might be further trampling the poor girl. The lack of cries was an ominous silence which made him wonder if she’d been killed outright by the first blow.
But, no. When he was able to hop down, she was not under the horses, but laying in a heap at the bottom of the ditch beside the road, face down and dangerously close to a puddle.
He stumbled down the hill after her, praying that he was not already too late as he rolled her face towards the sky. God bless her, though unconscious, she was still breathing. Her fair looks had survived quite well under a coating of muck and despite the cut on her forehead that was releasing a steady trickle of blood, vibrant red against her coppery hair.
‘Miss?’ he said gently, not wanting to startle her again. But the word did not earn even a moan of response. The pulse where he touched her hand was weak and her gown was torn in several places, a sign of the battering she had taken on the tumble downhill. She needed cold compresses for the bruises and someone more skilled than he to identify further injuries.
He dropped her fallen book into his pocket and scooped her into his arms, then laboured up the hill, surprised at her height which must be near to his own when she was capable of standing. Hopefully, this giantess would have stamina worthy of her size and shake off her injuries as quickly as she’d encountered them.
But for now, what was he to do with her? The village would be the more proper destination. But if there was something seriously wrong with her, his home was several miles closer and nearer to the surgeon’s home as well. He would see to her welfare first. Then, with luck she would come round enough so that he could establish her identity and send someone for her people.
With a sigh of frustration, he carried her to the carriage and laid her down on one of the seats, signalling to a groom to take the reins for the last few miles to the house, before climbing in beside her and resting her head on his lap.
As they travelled, he fixed his eyes on the opposite wall, trying to ignore the strange, unsettled feeling of having a woman so close in the privacy of the carriage. It had been a long time since he’d been alone with any sort of female and even longer since his needs had been met by one. It was wrong to even think about such things in the presence of a well-born young lady, but he could not seem to turn his mind away from them.
He glanced down at her, then quickly away again. She was not the prettiest girl in England, but she was certainly one of the most striking he had seen. Would her eyes be blue or green when she opened them? Either would be an appealing match to her hair.
If she opened them, he reminded himself, reaching into his pocket and finding a handkerchief, then splashing some brandy from his flask on to it so he could clean the wound on her head. Her skin was pale, but he suspected it was naturally so. Redheads often had the sort of luminous complexion that this woman did. Even smudged with dirt, there was an almost regal dignity about her that was clearly a sign of excellent breeding. She put him in mind of a sleeping princess, albeit a very tall one.
He could not help casting a glance at her left ha
nd and its empty ring finger. He was not in the market for a wife, now or ever. Nor was he the prince that this girl deserved. After seeing what damage he could do in a wordless meeting, she would be wise to run from him before they had spoken. Since she was unable to escape, it would be his responsibility to keep her safe and free of his company.
But a part of him did not want to. He liked the feeling of her resting against him. It also helped to know that, although he had been responsible for her accident, he was doing his best to make things right again. It went against his nature to leave the work to others, if there was something he could do to help.
Perhaps it was simply because she was young and pretty, but he wanted to be the one who could help this girl. He could imagine her waking, her golden lashes fluttering and the puzzled look on her face turning to relief as he explained that he had rescued her. Then, he would assure her that everything would be right from this point on, for both of them.
He shook his head, rejecting the misguided idea that a happy future would come, just because he wished for it. Then, he reached behind him and opened the window that communicated with the driver and urged the groom on the seat to go faster, so they might arrive home before he had any more foolish ideas.
Copyright © 2020 by Christine Merrill
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ISBN-13: 9781488065835
The Highlander and the Wallflower
Copyright © 2020 by Michelle Willingham
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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The Highlander and the Wallflower Page 24