Daring to Love the Duke's Heir

by Janice Preston

  The landlord had barely changed in the twelve years since she had last seen him, save to grow a little rounder, and while Nancy felt very different inside, outwardly she knew that with her height and abundance of dark hair she looked much the same as she had done all those years ago, when she had slipped away on the common stage with nothing but a hastily packed portmanteau and the little money she had managed to save. Looking back, it was a wonder she had survived the past dozen years relatively unscathed. But she had survived and with very few regrets.

  Within minutes they were travelling again. The snow had ceased, at least for the moment, and the waning crescent moon shone down intermittently between ragged clouds. However, it was noticeably colder. Nancy pulled her cloak more tightly about her and tried to sleep, but it was impossible in the lurching carriage. Very soon she became aware that they were slowing again and sat up. When they came to a complete stop she let down the window.

  ‘What is it?’ she called. ‘What has occurred?’

  The coachman had jumped down and was now standing beside the team.

  ‘One of the wheelers has cast a shoe, ma’am,’ he called to her, beating his hands together to warm them. ‘We’ll have to go back now—’

  ‘No.’ Nancy looked out at the moonlit landscape. ‘No, it makes more sense to go forward rather than back. Let us push on to the Black Bull.’

  ‘But we have come barely two miles from Tuxford—’

  ‘Then we are closer to the Bull,’ Nancy told him. ‘It has a smithy next door.’ Or at least there used to be. ‘Come, now, let us press on.’

  They continued at a much-reduced pace and Nancy breathed a sigh of relief when at last they reached the cluster of cottages that comprised the village of Little Markham. The Black Bull was a much smaller hostelry than the Crown at Tuxford and it was patronised mainly by local gentry and farmers. Nancy had passed this way frequently in her youth, but she had never stopped here before. Nevertheless, she kept her hood up, shadowing her face as the landlord escorted her and her companion into a small private parlour.

  ‘Thank heaven they have a good fire,’ muttered Hester, moving to the hearth. ‘I hope to goodness the smith won’t be too long about his business.’

  ‘I hope so, too,’ Nancy responded, drawing off her gloves. ‘But it is not so very bad. We shall take up the landlady’s offer of dinner and we can then travel through the night and make up the time. There is some moonlight, after all.’

  The older woman turned to look at Nancy. ‘You wouldn’t stop at Tuxford and now you are very anxious to move on. Why would that be, madam? Do you know this area?’

  ‘I know it very well. I grew up near here.’

  Nancy was grateful that she did not press her to say more, but she was not surprised, for they understood one another. Hester Yelland was a widow whom Nancy had hired to be her companion while she was in London. They had become firm friends and when Nancy had invited her to travel north with her, Hester had jumped at the chance.

  ‘After all,’ she had said, giving one of her rare smiles, ‘there’s no one here to care whether I go or stay.’

  Now she merely shrugged, accepting Nancy’s reticence and saying gruffly, ‘Very well, you make yourself comfortable, madam, and I’ll go and chivvy the landlady to bring us our dinner as soon as possible!’

  * * *

  When they had finished their meal, the two women moved to the chairs by the fire. Hester was soon dozing, but Nancy was far too restless. She was impatient to be gone, but the coachman had not long returned from the smithy and would not yet have started his dinner. She knew she could insist that they set off immediately—after all, the men were being paid handsomely for their services—but she would not. She knew only too well what it was like to be at the beck and call of a selfish and demanding employer.

  She went over to the window and looked out. The sky had cleared and the snow-blanketed fields gleamed bluish-silver in the pale moonlight. An icy frost glittered on the roof tiles of the buildings and all at once Nancy felt stifled by the little parlour. She glanced at Hester, who was snoring gently, then she quietly left the room, picking up her cloak and swinging it about her shoulders as she went.

  The night air was so clear and cold it caught in her throat. Nancy paused for a moment, deciding which way to go. The majority of the cottages hugged the roadside to the south of the inn, but to the north the road wound its way through an expanse of heath, the open vista broken only by a small copse in the distance. Nancy put up her hood and set off northwards, striding out purposefully, glad to be active after so many hours cooped up in the carriage. It was very still and nothing was moving—soon even the sounds of the inn were left behind. Fleetingly, Nancy wished she had remembered her gloves, but to go back now might disturb Hester and she was loath to do that, for her companion was clearly exhausted by the journey. She might also try to dissuade Nancy from walking out alone at night, although there was nothing to fear: she had a clear view across the snowy heath and nothing was stirring. There was no sound save the crunch of her boots on the thin layer of snow that covered the iron-hard ground.

  She glanced at the eastern horizon, where black clouds were massing, threatening more snow. That might well delay even further her return to Compton Parva and all her friends at Prospect House. She had been away for several months and wondered how they had managed without her to fuss and cosset them. Almost immediately she scolded herself for such conceit. No one was indispensable and she had no doubt they had coped exceedingly well. She hoped they had missed her, then was shocked to realise how little she had missed them while she had been in town.

  Her only excuse was that she had been very busy and it had not been a trip of pleasure. Nancy had gone to London, masquerading as the rich widow of a tradesman, to help a good friend, but she could not deny she had enjoyed herself, wearing fine clothes and shopping in Bond Street, visiting the theatre, attending parties. Dancing. Flirting. It had all been pretence, of course. A charade, necessary for the character she was playing, but it had given her a glimpse of what her life might have been, if she had not cut herself off from the polite world. She might even be happily married by now. Perhaps with children.

  Nancy gave herself a little shake. She had made her choice and it was too late to change now. And she did not regret her decision to remain single and independent. Not at all. Yet the little worm of doubt gnawed away at her, the vague feeling of dissatisfaction, as if something was missing from her life. Not something, she realised now. Someone.

  ‘Bah. You are becoming sentimental,’ she scolded herself, her breath misting in the cold air. ‘Just because you are passing so close to your old home. That is all in the past now, you have a good life with your friends at Prospect House. And you are not totally bereft of family.’

  She had her sister, Lady Aspern, but they only ever communicated by letter, and in secret. Mary’s husband disapproved of undutiful daughters who disobeyed their fathers and ran away. Thinking of Aspern, Nancy’s lip curled. He was just the sort of gentleman she most despised. She would much rather keep her independence than be wed to such a man.

  But the feeling of discontent still gnawed at her and she was forced to admit that she was not as keen to return to her old life as she had thought she would be. The future stretched ahead of her, safe, predictable. Dull.

  She was so lost in her own thoughts that it was something of a shock to find herself beside the little wood, the thin, straight trunks and bare branches forming a black latticework against the night sky. Heavens, had she walked so far? She was about to turn back when something in the copse caught her eye. There was no more than a dusting of snow on the ground between the trees and a faint shaft of moonlight sliced between the straight trunks and rested on a more solid block of white, something that almost gleamed in the shadowy copse. Curiosity got the better of Nancy. She stepped into the little wood. Leaves crunched beneath her feet as she move
d closer. Then, when she was almost upon it, she realised it was a man’s shirt of fine linen. And the owner was still wearing it.

  Her heart began to pound heavily. The man was lying face down on the ground and dressed only in his shirt, breeches and top boots. She dropped to her knees beside him and put her fingers against his neck. The skin was cold, but she could feel a faint pulse. Nancy became aware of the smell of spirits and spotted an empty bottle on the ground nearby. Her lip curled. A drunkard, then, who had wandered out half-dressed. Even so, he was someone’s son. He might be a husband and father. She could not bring herself to leave him here to perish. She shook him roughly by the shoulder.

  ‘Come along, man, you must get up. If you stay here, you will be dead of cold by the morning.’

  There was no response. She took hold of him and tried to turn him over. Nancy was not a small woman and she considered herself no weakling, but he was a tall man and heavy. It took her a great deal of effort to turn him on to his back. His damp shirt front was covered with twigs and leaf mould. Her eyes moved to his face. She expected to see a haggard countenance, blotched and ravaged by drink, but even in the near dark of the trees she could see he was a handsome man, despite an ugly bruise on his cheek. He was clean-shaven, his dark hair tousled and falling over his brow. Absently she put out a hand to smooth it back and felt the warm stickiness of blood on her fingers. Her first thought was that he had been attacked and she snatched her hand away in alarm. She glanced fearfully around her. There was no movement, no sound. She breathed slowly, trying to settle her jangled nerves. She was surely being fanciful, for who would be abroad on a night like this? It was most likely the man had cut his head when he had fallen in a drunken stupor.

  ‘And serves him right,’ she muttered, wiping her fingers on her handkerchief. ‘Wake up!’ She slapped his cheeks. ‘Wake up, damn you, or I will leave you here to die.’

  A response, at last. No more than a faint groan, but Nancy exhaled with relief. She patted his face again and this time he grimaced and moved his head.

  ‘Confound it, woman, stop hitting me!’

  His voice was deep, no trace of a local accent. He was most likely a gentleman, then, and educated, thought Nancy. Someone who should know better than to indulge in a drunken spree. The fact did nothing for her temper.

  ‘I am trying to save your life, you idiot.’ She tugged insistently at his shoulder and helped him as he struggled to sit up. ‘You may be damnably drunk, but you cannot stay out much longer in this icy cold.’

  ‘I am not damnably drunk,’ he growled. ‘I am not drunk at all.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She sat back on her heels. ‘Only a sober man would go abroad without his coat.’ He was shivering and she untied the strings of her cloak. ‘Here.’ He did not object as she wrapped the thick woollen mantle about him. ‘Now, can you stand?’

  He breathed out, clutching his ribs as he did so.

  ‘Madam, I do not know where you have come from, but I think you should go. Now.’

  Nancy gasped. ‘Well, of all the ungrateful—’

  He interrupted her. ‘Being anywhere near me puts you in danger. Someone intended to kill me tonight.’

  Copyright © 2019 by Sarah Mallory

  ISBN-13: 9781488047374

  Daring to Love the Duke’s Heir

  Copyright © 2019 by Janice Preston

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