“Good day – good day, where is this coach going to? Where is its next destination?”
Most of the previous occupants pushed past her, desperate to get out of the thrashing rain and into the dry, warm, and hopefully food-filled air of the Wingston Inn, but Rowena clutched at the driver’s arm.
“You must tell me. Where will this coach take me?”
She dropped the man’s arm quickly when he saw the leering smile that he gave her, his eyes moving up and down her body. Rowena smiled nervously, and wished that she had thought to put a coat on. Her gown, a deep rich purple in the dry, was now almost black, and clung to her body in a most disgraceful way.
“This coach, girlie?” The coachman sniggered. “Anywhere you want it to go, my sweet.”
Rowena coloured, and held herself a little more upright as she repeated, “Where will this coach take me?”
She did not attempt to use an aristocratic eye very often, but her striking features and undeniable beauty was not something to be ignored.
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 silent 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 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 what 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 strode 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 had 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 ho
nour, 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. “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 will 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.
HISTORICAL NOTE
I always strive for accuracy with my historical books, as a historian myself, and I have done my best to make my research pertinent and accurate. Any mistakes that have slipped in must be forgiven, as I am but a lover of this era, not an expert.
About the Author
Emily Murdoch is a historian and writer. Throughout her career so far she has examined a codex and transcribed medieval sermons at the Bodleian Library in Oxford, designed part of an exhibition for the Yorkshire Museum, worked as a researcher for a BBC documentary presented by Ian Hislop, and worked at Polesden Lacey with the National Trust. She has a degree in History and English, and a Masters in Medieval Studies, both from the University of York. Emily has a medieval series, a Regency series, and a Western series published, and is currently working on several new projects.
You can follow her on twitter and instagram @emilyekmurdoch, find her on facebook at www.facebook.com/theemilyekmurdoch, and read her blog at www.emilyekmurdoch.com
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