As Eli stared, her gaze met his—
Eli took a step back. It could not be… certainly, this was not she.
The bags he carried slipped from his shoulder, and Eli kneeled, riffling through the contents of one until he found what he sought.
A miniature portrait—a smiling woman, a baby in her arms, and a large hound at her side.
The woman had aged considerably since the portrait was commissioned; her once ebony hair was now shot through with grey, her skin no longer the pale color preferred by the English, and her hips were considerably more rounded. But still, it was she.
She laughed and turned back to the mayor when Eli attempted to hold her stare.
Alice Watson.
Elijah’s mother.
And the woman who’d fled England a month after his birth in pursuit of a man—leaving behind her the memory of Eli’s father who’d died before his birth. She’d abandoned her only son—leaving him to be raised by his grandfather.
Undoubtedly, she’d done well for herself if she was wed to the mayor of Baltimore.
Eli continued to stare at her—a woman he’d known through sporadic letters, a few portraits, and his grandfather’s stories.
The mayor noted his glare, whispering something to Eli’s mother and nodding in his direction.
“Do you know Ally?” Jenkins asked in surprise.
But Eli remained silent as he watched his mother disentangle herself from the man’s lap and move in his direction.
She stopped before him and placed her hands on her hips, taking in Eli’s appearance from head to toe. “Can I help you, sir?” Her British accent had lessened over the years, but it was still detectable. “It is insolent to stare at a person as you are.”
His heart sank further than it had in the long days since his grandfather’s passing—if that were possible.
Eli had always assumed that when he came face-to-face with his mother, she would know him—that deep down, a mother would always recognize the child they’d given birth to. But not a hint of recognition crossed her face as she frowned at him, tapping her foot with impatience.
“Have we met?” Her tone rose a notch in irritation, yet her stare scrutinized his face. Did she notice his resemblance to the generations of Ridgefeld men who’d come before him?
“We certainly have, Mother.”
Her eyes widened in shock before narrowing on his face as if she studied his every feature—but then Stiles called for her.
“I will only be a moment, love,” she called over her shoulder, but the merry tone in her voice had disappeared.
The room grew silent as his mother continued to assess him, her expression going from disbelief to inquiry to horror.
“Will you not introduce me to your husband, Mother?” Eli glanced toward the piano where the mayor had stood and was now headed in their direction.
She flinched when Stiles arrived at her side and held his hand out for Eli to shake it. “I’m Mayor George Stiles,” he greeted. “Is there trouble, Ally?”
“No, I—“ His mother stumbled over her words, looking between the pair.
“My mother was preparing to introduce her son—the one she abandoned in England over twenty years ago—to her husband.”
“Her husband?” Jenkins and Stiles exclaimed in unison.
“You are married?” Stiles turned to Eli, his mouth gaping.
The man certainly must jest. If Stiles were not his mother’s husband, then why was she here… with him… sitting upon his lap?
Elijah’s stomach churned—it could not be… Alice, his mother, would not lower herself to such a deplorable level…
“Tell me you are married!” Elijah fumed, prepared to avenge his mother’s honor. “Mother?”
“Elijah.” She stumbled over his name as if she’d never spoken it aloud. “You must leave. Go back to your grandfather and England—where you belong.” She grimaced, averting her eyes and inching closer to Stiles. “Come, Georgie Pie.” She turned, running her fingers down the mayor’s sleeve in invitation as she sauntered back to the piano, her hips swaying with each step.
Stiles leaned in close and whispered, “Find your own ladybird.” He laughed. “Or, if you can wait a few days, I just might be done with old Ally, and you can have her.”
Elijah stood frozen as the pain in his chest almost pulled him to his knees—the immense agony could only mean one thing. His heart, fractured from his grandfather’s passing, was now completely shattered.
The man leapt and ran after Eli’s mother, pinching her posterior as he moved past her, inciting a round of laughter from the other men in the room, including Jenkins, who stood behind Elijah.
Alice Watson had abandoned her only son to move to America—the land of opportunity and dreams—to become a common strumpet, nothing more than a courtesan.
She’d rather live the life of a harlot than be a mother to him.
“Your room, sir?” Jenkins ventured up a narrow staircase farther down the hall.
“I’ve changed my mind. I will not be needing a room this night.” Elijah kneeled, pushing the portrait back into his bag and closing it tightly, then slinging both onto his shoulder once more.
“A meal or a pint?”
Jenkins’ inquiry echoed through the corridor as Eli retraced his steps and fled out the front door and through the hanging gate—not bothering to right it on its broken hinge.
Chapter 1
Derbyshire Countryside, England
April 1819
* * *
Miss Samantha Pengarden looked up at the looming storm clouds as the gusty winds whipped her skirt around her legs and tendrils of her auburn hair came loose from her coiffure. At least, she’d seen fit to don her sturdy walking boots for her outing—for she may very well be caught in a sudden spring downpour before she reached Hollybrooke Manor. She could barely make out the vast country home of Lord Cummings in the distance over the rolling green hills several miles outside Derby. The small town was the closest thing to civilization Sam had seen in over a fortnight.
A single droplet of rain fell, hitting her nose and dripping off the tip to the front of her gown. When she’d departed the manor no more than two hours before, the day had dawned clear with not a cloud on the horizon. After the hectic days of travel from London and the many hours spent preparing for her sister’s wedding, the warm breeze had felt welcome on her face.
Sam took hold of her skirt and quickened her pace. It would not do to have her gown ruined by the coming storm—with four women traveling in one carriage, there was limited space in the boot for all their needed wardrobe and other necessities. Her eldest sister, Marce Davenport, had demanded they pack sparingly for the trip.
It would have suited Sam fine if she had been excluded altogether—not that she was against her sister, Jude, marrying Lord Cartwright; however, she had only just begun to settle into her place in London. She enjoyed everything about her days spent calling on newfound friends, rides in Hyde Park, afternoons at the modiste’s, and evenings at the opera, playhouse, or any number of soirées. Many a night, she took to bed as the promise of a new day dawned.
It was thrilling, to say the least.
The dashing men clamoring to place their name on her dance card. The women insisting she call them friend. The matrons giving her the evil stare because of her beauty and appeal.
Since she’d left London, none of those things had come to pass.
Here in Derbyshire, Judith Pengarden—her identical twin in almost every visible way—was the shining star. Set to marry an earl in two days’ time, all attention was directed at her, leaving Sam confused and alone—forgotten and neglected. Not a speck of it was fair.
Everyone would agree that Sam was the one who drew notice. With her deep, raspy voice and graceful poise, she was the sociable sister to her twin’s reserved ways. They may look exactly alike, but it was Sam who received envious stares from the other debutantes in ballrooms, not Jude.
But she kept tha
t fact to herself, for another lecture from Marce about her vanity was not to be endured quietly—and any argument during her eldest sister’s scoldings always ended with the offending sister banished to her bedchambers and denied outings for days on end.
It was as if she were a child, old enough to leave the schoolroom but not yet a mature woman having reached her nineteenth spring.
Sam huffed when several more raindrops landed on her face, neck, and her exposed wrist above her glove. She would have been wise to bring a hooded cloak with her, but she’d never expected to seek extended hours away from Lord Cummings’ manor—especially on a walk far from his land.
Consequences.
Another word Sam had come to loathe hearing from Marce’s mouth.
The wind howled through a stand of trees not far off the road, tearing her skirt from her hand, and Sam stumbled, righting herself before she fell to the hard ground. Bruised knees, ripped gown, and sopping wet hair was not how she sought to return to the manor brimming with guests arriving to bear witness to Jude and Simon’s special day.
Maybe she’d catch a cold from the moisture and take to her bed until it was time to return to London.
Not likely—her luck could not be that stellar.
The sound of approaching carriage wheels, horses’ hooves, and the jingling of reins had Sam spinning around. Someone was coming down the lane—and she looked no better than vermin, thankfully not drenched vermin as yet; but if the rain increased, it would only take a few moments for her hair and gown to be saturated.
Although, the thought of returning soaked through to her skin, her hair plastered to her neck, and her boots sloshing, had Sam restraining her laughter, though it escaped as a snort instead.
She clamped her lips tightly as a large traveling carriage with four massive, black horses pulling at the reins barreled toward her. The coachman hunkered down on his bench as much as possible, exposed to the elements as he coaxed the beasts onward.
Did the man not see her?
Sam leapt for the rutted road as the carriage neared with no signs of slowing down, let alone stopping to offer assistance. People this far north of London were certainly lacking in manners—it would have been best to turn down Lord Cummings’ offer to host Jude and Cart’s wedding in his impressive garden; however, Jude had little dowry to speak of, and Cart was still diligently working to return his family coffers to what they had once been.
Had Sam known the barbaric nature of Derbyshire, she’d have argued against journeying into this wild, rolling countryside—unknowingly filled with runaway coaches and vision-impaired drivers.
She stood several feet off the road, safely out of the carriage’s path as it ambled past her. The curtains were drawn, hiding the occupants within.
Likely more guests arriving at Hollybrooke Manor. With her luck, they’d be disembarking their carriage as she strolled down the drive, rain dripping from her windblown hair and her boots squishing with water.
Splendid.
“Halt!” The man’s shout could barely be heard over the thrashing of the coming storm and the carriage. But the coachman pulled tightly at the reins and began to slow—coming to a stop about two hundred feet from where Sam stood.
She eyed the carriage as the coachman jumped down from his perch and lowered the steps, pulling the door wide. Inside, she saw an extravagant dark burgundy velvet interior as a lamp swung to and fro, casting a dim glow on the man exiting the conveyance.
The lamp at his back threw a shadow in her direction and darkened his face, making it impossible for Sam to see his features. He could be missing all his teeth or wearing an eye patch, and Sam would be none the wiser. He sauntered toward her as if oblivious to the pelting rain that had only grown in intensity. She glanced skyward; surprised to notice that the clouds, which had loomed in the distance, were now solidly above them, their grey bellies rolling much like the landscape before her.
The man’s height grew the closer he approached—certainly over six feet.
A tendril of warning ran down Sam’s spine when the man stopped in front of her until he brushed his dark hair from his forehead and a smile settled on his lips.
All caution—and common sense—fled in that moment.
The man… he was… dashingly handsome.
Stubble clung to his sharp jawline as if he’d missed his morning blade. His eyes—a deep cocoa—matched his wayward hair, currently being blown back across his forehead. Straight, white teeth were revealed by his smile… and a single dimple formed high on his right cheek.
Relieved she did not stare into the toothless face of a pirate with an eye patch, Sam’s attention returned to the man’s eyes. Something lay behind them—sorrow, perhaps—which belied his smile.
“My lady?” he asked.
“Oh. Yes?” She’d been so distracted by his appearance, she’d missed what he’d said.
“I asked if you require a ride somewhere,” he repeated. “The storm appears to be gaining steam, and I cannot, in good conscience, allow a woman to remain unattended out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“You must not be from Derbyshire.”
“Pardon?” His brows drew together, creating a stream of rain that gushed down his nose.
She’d spoken her inane thought aloud.
Marvelous.
Not only was she becoming increasingly drenched as the seconds passed, but now she appeared addlebrained, as well.
“I am bound for Hollybrooke Manor, but I am in no hurry and can deliver you home safely before continuing on my way,” he said.
Maybe her luck was improving. She decided to test his offer. “Yes, I would much enjoy passage home.”
“And your directions?” He glanced over his shoulder at his coachman, who waited patiently. “I do not know the area, but if you can give my driver your location, we will be on our way. Come, allow us to seek refuge from the storm.”
Sam looked between the carriage, the man before her, and his coachman. If he were journeying to Hollybrooke Manor, then he was either a friend of Lord Cartwright’s, or an acquaintance of Marce’s. He could not mean her harm—certainly, a man with such a heavenly smile could not cause anyone injury.
With a shrug, she led the way back to his carriage. The wind at her back blew her tangled hair forward as she sloshed through the muck, the deepening mud attempting to hold tightly to her boots.
The rain hammered against her the entire way, making its way down her neck and into the back of her gown. Embarrassing, yet unavoidable, she feared. There was no sense in fretting over something she was incapable of doing much about.
Sam accepted the coachman’s hand and hurried up the steps into the dry, warm, expensively adorned carriage.
Her rescuer must have sensed her hesitation or noted her delay in selecting a seat. It would be the height of impropriety to mar his lovely velvet bench with her rain-soaked bum. When she realized that he remained in the elements while she debated her next move, she quickly sat on the rear-facing seat and awaited him.
He alighted, and they settled into silence as the driver closed the door and made his way to this perch once more to await her directions.
“I fear I am traveling in the opposite direction of Hollybrooke Manor,” she said, brushing her hands down the front of her gown to push away any water that hadn’t soaked her clear through to her undergarments. “And it is quite a distance to ask you to travel.”
He cleared his throat, his inviting smile returned. “It is no trouble. I can have my driver turn the carriage around and head back toward Derby. Where is your home located exactly?”
“London.” She clasped her hands in her lap, knowing her request was absurd, but he had offered to transport her home—and her home was in London… and it was where she desired to be. At around eight miles per hour, even with stopping overnight to rest the horses, she could be home by the next evening.
Meeting his wide-eyed stare, Sam suspected she would not be arriving home until she journeyed with her
sisters after the wedding. “Very well,” she sighed. “I am staying at Hollybrooke Manor, as well, but I would much prefer to be in London.”
“If it were within my power—and not against several laws and highly indecent—I would rush you back to London with a swiftness unparalleled, my lady.”
“Alas, I understand why you cannot,” she concurred, her lips turning up in a grin.
He moved over to the window and drew the curtain back, leaning slightly out the opening to be heard over the growing storm. This gave Sam the opportunity to take in his own posterior—as divine as his face, as it turned out.
“On to Hollybrooke, Mathers!” he shouted before regaining his seat.
Sam’s gaze was fixed on his fingers as they expertly undid the top button of his wet overcoat to reveal only a slightly dampened white linen shirt beneath. She swallowed to be rid of the spittle that had collected at the sight of his neck as he attempted to fix his neckcloth. Surely this man was a figment of her imagination, his dark complexion with midnight hair and dark brown eyes were not the standard Englishman’s appearance. She should be frightened by his intense features, hard jaw, and broad shoulders; but then he smiled once more and the dimple returned.
The carriage swayed as the coachman commanded them to be on their way.
“I am Elijah Watson.” He paused, and the sadness she’d noticed in his eyes returned. “The Marquis of Ridgefeld.”
A marquis? What had she expected with the lavish adornment of his traveling carriage? Velvet cushions with nary a blemish, except where the excess rain drained from her person and onto the material.
“Are you surprised?” he asked, his brow raised in question as the smile fell from his face. “Do I not look like a grand marquis?”
She took him in from head to toe before answering, and she noted he sat a bit straighter under her scrutiny. She tapped her forefinger against her chin when she spoke, narrowing her gaze. “If you are not indeed Lord Ridgefeld, then you did a superb job of commandeering the most luxurious town coach I have ever had the pleasure to see—especially this far from London in the wilds of Derbyshire.” Sam made a show of widening her eyes in fright. “Tell me we will not be set upon by the law before we arrive at Hollybrooke Manor.”
The Mistress Enchants Her Marquis Page 2