by Emily Larkin
A curricle clattered into the yard, its horses streaked with sweat. Isabella’s heart leapt. “Nicholas!”
Major Reynolds thrust the reins at his groom and jumped down, his driving coat flaring, the many capes fluttering like little wings. “I thought I’d have caught up to you before this,” he said, reaching for her hands. “You must have been springing your horses.”
“I have been,” Isabella said, returning the pressure of his fingers. “We’re only fifteen minutes behind them.”
“Do you wish to ride with me?”
Isabella glanced at the sky, at the rain misting the horizon. “Yes.”
She gave orders to her coachman while fresh horses were harnessed to the curricle, and climbed up into the seat vacated by Major Reynolds’ groom.
The ostler stood away from the horses’ heads and deftly caught the coin Major Reynolds tossed him.
“So Harriet wants to be a lady’s companion?” the major said as he negotiated the turn onto the main street.
“No, not at all.”
“Then why . . . ?”
“It’s a Noble Sacrifice. She thinks she’s a burden to me.” Isabella pursed her lips thoughtfully. “But I think a great deal of it has to do with us. You and me.”
The major overtook a wagon. “Us?”
“Our attachment. Harriet felt the awkwardness of Saturday quite acutely.”
“Saturday?” He huffed a laugh. “Yes, it was more than a little awkward.”
The major kept a sedate pace until they were out of Froxfield, then he let the horses have their heads. Hedgerows and ditches flashed past. Air scented with the smells of the countryside—grass, manure, woodsmoke—tugged at her bonnet. Isabella put a firm hand on it. The major snatched a glance at her, and grinned. “Feels a bit like a French farce, doesn’t it?”
Isabella choked back a laugh at this unexpected humor. “A French farce?”
“Can’t you imagine it at the theater? Everyone chasing each other across the stage?” He sent her another swift, grinning glance. “We have almost a full cast of characters. The damsel in distress, the cruel guardian, the loathsome suitor, the dashing hero waiting in the wings for his cue.”
“Earnest hero,” Isabella said. “Not dashing. Mr. Fernyhough is an earnest hero.”
“Earnest hero, then,” Major Reynolds said, feathering the reins as the curricle swept around a bend.
“What’s my rôle?” Isabella asked him, amused.
“It’s a puzzle. I’m not quite sure what Botticelli’s Venus is doing in a French farce.” He cast her another grin. “Perhaps you’re meant to tame the loathsome suitor’s ogreish heart?”
Isabella’s own heart skipped a beat. I love this man.
A long stretch of road opened before them. Half a mile ahead was another coach. “Ah,” the major said. “This looks promising.”
Isabella held onto her bonnet as Major Reynolds urged the horses in a ground-eating gallop. The distant vehicle resolved itself into a large, top-heavy coach, moving with sluggish speed, and then, as they drew closer, into the Bristol stagecoach, piled with luggage and with three miserable passengers hunched on the outside seats.
Major Reynolds drew alongside and shouted at the coachman to stop. The man stared steadfastly ahead, ignoring him.
The major muttered under his breath. The curricle surged past the swaying coach and swung in front of it. Major Reynolds slowed his horses to a trot, keeping the curricle firmly in the middle of the road, with no room to pass.
Isabella clutched her bonnet even more tightly as the stagecoach loomed behind them. Noise enveloped her—the thunder of hooves and wheels, the shouted voices of men—and then the stagecoach slowed, too.
Major Reynolds brought his horses to a walk, and then a halt. “Here,” he said, thrusting the reins at her. “Hold them.”
Isabella did, twisting in the seat to watch as the major strode back to the coach. He overrode the coachman’s indignant voice. “Looking for a runaway,” he said curtly, and wrenched open the heavy door.
The reins tugged in her hand as one of the horses pulled at its bit. Isabella glanced at it, and then back at the stagecoach. Major Reynolds was closing the door. His expression was frowning. He spoke with the driver. Isabella couldn’t hear the words, but from his gestures he was describing Harriet.
The coachman shook his head. His answer was brief.
“Where is she?” Isabella asked as Major Reynolds climbed up into the curricle and reclaimed the reins.
“She got off at Froxfield,” he said, guiding the curricle to the side of the road. The stagecoach rolled past, the outside passengers craning their necks to look at them.
“Froxfield? But she was booked to Chippenham. Why on earth would she get off early?”
“She was in conversation with a man. Not a passenger; a man who was at the inn. And she got off the stagecoach and asked for her luggage.”
“A man?” Alarm leapt in Isabella’s chest.
“Yes,” the major said grimly, turning the horses. “We’d better get back to Froxfield. Fast.”
Isabella glanced at his face, and past him to the undulating hills. They weren’t far from where Harriet had grown up. “Perhaps Colonel Durham? Did the coachman say how old—”
“A young man.”
“Did . . . did he say whether Harriet knew him?”
“He said that she was upset. Crying.”
“Oh.”
They drove in tense silence, pausing only to redirect her carriage when they met it. “Back to Froxfield,” Major Reynolds instructed her coachman, not waiting to give an explanation.
Froxfield came into view. Isabella kept her eyes anxiously on the church spires, watching them grow nearer. At the inn, she scrambled down from the curricle before it came to a complete halt. She ran across the courtyard and pushed open the door, almost knocking over the innkeeper. “A girl,” she said breathlessly. “A girl got off the stage. About half an hour ago. She met with a man.” She was conscious of Major Reynolds behind her, blocking the doorway, huge in his driving coat. “Do you know where they are?”
“They’re in the parlor, ma’am.” The innkeeper gestured down the corridor. “But—”
Nicholas pushed past them both. His footsteps rang on the flagstones. He wrenched open the door to the parlor and stepped inside.
“Excuse me,” Isabella said, and hurried after him. “Harriet—”
She halted in the doorway, taking in the scene: the small parlor with a sofa and two armchairs and a little oak side table, the man standing silhouetted against the window, his face freckled and earnest, his mouth half-open in shock, Harriet shrinking back on the sofa, a handkerchief clutched in her hand, and Major Reynolds standing in the center of the parlor. He was a tall man, and in this low-ceilinged room seemed even taller. A giant, in that many-caped driving coat. An ogre. He stood silently, not moving, and yet he filled the room with his rage. The sense of threat was so palpable that she understood Harriet’s cringing terror.
“Mr. Fernyhough,” Isabella said, stepping into the room. She closed the door on the innkeeper. “How very glad I am to see you.”
The major’s head swung around. His expression relaxed slightly. “Mr. Fernyhough?”
“Yes.” Isabella smiled at the young man. She held out her hand. “How do you do?”
Mr. Fernyhough glanced at Major Reynolds, swallowed, straightened his spine, and pushed away from the window. He skirted the major warily.
I don’t blame you, Isabella thought, as Mr. Fernyhough bowed over her hand. I would be frightened of him, too. How did Nicholas do it? There had been no shouting, no bluster, and yet he was clearly and quite unmistakably dangerous. “What are you doing here?”
Mr. Fernyhough glanced nervously at Major Reynolds again. “Harriet . . . that is to say, Miss Durham wrote to tell me that she was leaving London to seek employment in Chippenham.” His chin rose. The look he sent Major Reynolds was slightly defiant. “So I came to stop her.”
>
“How very good of you,” Isabella said warmly. She looked at Harriet, huddled on the sofa. The girl looked pale enough to faint. “Shall we partake of refreshments while we talk? Nicholas, if you wouldn’t mind asking the innkeeper?”
Major Reynolds gave a short nod. With him gone, the level of tension in the room dropped markedly.
Isabella untied the ribbons securing her bonnet and removed it. She placed it on the little oak table and laid her gloves alongside. “Harriet, my dear,” she said, going to sit beside the girl. “There was no need in the least for you to leave.”
“I couldn’t stay, ma’am,” she whispered. “I just couldn’t.”
Major Reynolds reentered the parlor. His expression was mild, but both Harriet and Mr. Fernyhough flinched slightly. Isabella lost her smile. Can’t they see past the scar?
Harriet’s gaze darted to the major’s ruined cheek and fell. She stared down at her handkerchief.
“Mr. Fernyhough,” the major said, with a gesture at the door. “A word in private, if you don’t mind.”
Mr. Fernyhough swallowed audibly. “Of course, sir.”
Harriet began to sob as the door shut behind the men. “He’ll kill him—”
“Of course he won’t!” Isabella said. She took a deep breath and made herself smile at the girl. “My dear, while I appreciate that you left my house with the best of intentions, I must tell you that it was completely unnecessary.”
“I’ve been such a nuisance for you,” Harriet said, weeping despairingly into her handkerchief.
“Nonsense,” Isabella said. “My cousin has greatly enjoyed your company, and as I told you earlier, I’m indebted to you; I wouldn’t have met Nicholas otherwise.”
But these words didn’t stem the flow of Harriet’s tears.
How do I stop her crying? Isabella thought helplessly. To her relief the door opened again. Mr. Fernyhough stood on the threshold. His expression made her look at him more closely. Joy? She glanced enquiringly at Major Reynolds, standing behind him in the doorway.
“Harriet,” Mr. Fernyhough said, stepping into the parlor. “There’s no need to cry.”
Harriet gulped and stopped sobbing.
“I think we can safely leave Miss Durham in Mr. Fernyhough’s company,” the major said, with a faint smile. He held out his hand to Isabella.
Isabella rose gratefully. She let Major Reynolds take her hand and draw her out into the corridor. “What . . . ?” she asked, glancing back at the parlor as the major closed the door.
“Mr. Fernyhough has something of a private nature to say to Miss Durham.” The major led her down the corridor to the coffee room. It was empty.
“But what—?”
“I believe he’s asking her to marry him.” Major Reynolds escorted her to a cushioned bench beneath the window. Rain streaked the tiny panes.
“Marry?” Isabella said, sitting. “But he’s beholden to Colonel Durham.”
“Not any longer.” The major felt in a pocket, and pulled out a letter. “The earnest hero has received his cue and will be sweeping the heroine off to Gretna Green later this month.”
Isabella unfolded the letter and read swiftly. “A living in Norfolk?” She glanced up at him. “Oh, Nicholas!”
“What did I tell you?” he said. “A French farce. The hero and heroine have their happy ending and the curtain can now fall.” He reached into his pocket again and handed her another letter. “This is our happy ending,” he said softly.
Isabella unfolded the second letter—and discovered that it wasn’t a letter at all, but a marriage license with the Archbishop of Canterbury’s seal affixed to it. For a moment she couldn’t breathe. Her gaze flew to him. “Nicholas . . .”
Major Reynolds sat beside her on the bench and drew her into his arms. “Sometimes the villain gets to live happily ever after, too.”
“You’re not a villain!”
He grinned at her. “It’s generally my rôle in plays.”
“You might be Harriet’s villain,” Isabella told him, clutching the marriage license tightly, “but you’re my hero.”
The major laughed, and dipped his head and kissed her. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” She breathed in his scent—dusty roads and horses—and then said fondly, “Ogre.”
“The luckiest ogre in England,” he said, and kissed her again.
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If you’d like to read the first chapter of The Earl’s Dilemma, a Regency romance novel about an earl who needs to marry in a hurry, please turn the page.
The Earl’s Dilemma
Kate Honeycourt was sitting on the floor of the priest’s hole when he arrived. The library door opened and she heard his voice, and her brother’s. She started, spattering ink over the page of her diary. James was here!
Her gaze jerked down to the diary in her lap. I shall, of course, treat James as if my feelings go no deeper than friendship. That goes without saying. But why does it grow no easier? One would think, after all these years, that— The sentence ended in a splotch of ink.
The voices became louder. Her secret hiding place had become a trap.
Kate dropped the quill and hastily snuffed the candle. The hot wick stung her fingertips. She blinked and for a moment could see nothing. Then her eyes adjusted to the gloom. The darkness wasn’t absolute. A tiny streak of light came from the peephole.
“—can’t offer you any entertainment,” her brother said.
Kate rose to her knees in the near-darkness. The diary slid off her lap with a quiet, rustling thump that made her catch her breath.
“I don’t expect to be entertained!” James sounded affronted. “Honestly, Harry, what do you take me for? You didn’t invite me. I invited myself!”
Kate leaned forward until her eyes were level with the peephole. She saw her brother, Harry, the Viscount Honeycourt.
“Don’t cut up stiff,” Harry said, grinning. “You’re always welcome. You know that.” He walked across the room to where the decanters stood. “Sherry? Scotch? Brandy?”
“Brandy,” James said. He came into Kate’s line of sight and her pulse gave a jerky little skip. His back was towards her, but his tallness and the strong lines of his body were unmistakable. He ran a hand through his black hair and turned. Kate’s pulse jerked again at the sight of his face, with its wide, well-shaped mouth and slanting black eyebrows. His features were strong and balanced, handsome, but some quirk of their arrangement gave him an appearance of sternness. The planes of his cheek and angle of his jaw were austere. When lost in thought or frowning, his expression became quite intimidating. She’d seen footmen back away rather than disturb him. The sternness was misleading; anyone who knew James well knew that his face was made for laughter.
Had been, Kate corrected herself. James hadn’t laughed during the past months and today his face was unsmiling. He looked tired, and as always when not smiling, stern.
Kate clasped her hands together and wished she knew how to make him laugh again. She watched as he walked over to one of the deep, leather armchairs beside the fire and sat. He stretched his long legs out and leaned his head back and c
losed his eyes, his weariness almost tangible.
“Your timing is excellent,” Harry said, a brandy glass in each hand. Late afternoon sunlight fell into the room. The crystal gleamed and the brandy was a deep, glowing amber. “My cousin Augusta has gone to Bath for two months.”
James opened his eyes. “I count myself very fortunate,” he said, as he accepted a glass.
“So do we!” Harry sat so that Kate could only see the back of his head, his hair as bright red as her own. “Well? Your letter didn’t explain a thing. What’s this matter of urgency?”
Kate drew back slightly from the peephole. Should she cover her ears? Whatever Harry and James were about to discuss was none of her business. She raised her hands. To eavesdrop would be—
“Marriage,” James said.
Kate flinched. Her heart seemed to shrink in her chest. She’d known this moment must come one day, but that didn’t stop it hurting. James is getting married. She lowered her hands and leaned closer for a better view of the library.
“Ah.” Harry settled back in his chair. “You’ve found a suitable wife?”
James’s laugh was short and without humor. “No,” he said, and swallowed some of his brandy.
“You want me to help you? Is that it?”
James frowned at his glass. “My birthday’s soon,” he said. “You know I must marry before then.”
Kate wrinkled her brow. What?
“You could let Elvy Park and the fortune go,” Harry said in an offhand tone. “I’m sure your cousin would appreciate them.”
James transferred his frown from the brandy to Harry. “Would you?”
Her brother, possessor of an extensive estate and a comfortable fortune, shook his head. “No.”
“Of course not. And neither will I. I’ll marry before my thirtieth birthday, but . . .” James rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “I wanted— Oh, God, I know it sounds stupid, Harry, but I wanted what my brother had.”
He didn’t need to explain what that was. Harry knew as well as she did: a love match.