‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘I think I will be able to sleep now. I will be up and ready to leave first thing.’

For a moment he thought she might rise up on her toes and kiss his cheek, like a sister or a friend, but it was his mouth where her gaze lingered. Heat rushed through him. His blood headed south.

The distance between them was so very slight he could feel the graze of her breath against his throat, see into the warmth in the depths of her melting soft brown eyes. Could such a kind, gentle creature, such a respectable woman, really want a man like him?

Author Note

I have wanted to write Caro and Blade’s story for ages, and finally had the chance in More Than a Lover. Discovering from Blade that he was at Peterloo, a massacre of civilians at St Peter’s Field near Manchester that was vilified in the press of the time, gave me lots of interesting historical background. Having a character tell you where he was and how it affected him is always the icing on the cake for an author. I hope you enjoy the journey as much as I did.

Also, I hope you enjoy this opportunity to catch up with the twins and their brides from The Gamekeeper’s Lady and More Than a Mistress, because they are some of my favourite people. If you would like to know more about me or my books you will find me at my website: annlethbridge.com. I love to hear from readers.

More Than a Lover

Ann Lethbridge

www.millsandboon.co.uk

In her youth, award-winning author ANN LETHBRIDGE re-imagined the Regency romances she read—and now she loves writing her own. Now living in Canada, Ann visits Britain every year, where family members understand—or so they say—her need to poke around every antiquity within a hundred miles. Learn more about Ann or contact her at annlethbridge.com. She loves hearing from readers.

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I would like to dedicate this book to all the wonderful editors at Harlequin Mills & Boon who have helped me write more than twenty-five stories to date, and in this particular case to Nicola Caws, who let me write the story my way and then helped me to make it better. Thank you.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

March 30th, 1820

Bladen Read, erstwhile captain of the Twenty-Fifth Hussars, stretched his legs beneath the scarred trestle table in the corner of the commons of the Sleeping Tiger. Nearby, a miserable fire struggled against the wind whistling down the chimney while the smell of smoke battled with the stink of old beer and unwashed men oozing from the ancient panelling. He might have stayed somewhere better these past five days, but it would have been a waste of limited coin he preferred to spend on decent stabling for his horses and a room for his groom. After all, it wasn’t their fault he’d been forced to tender his resignation from his regiment.

That was his fault, fair and square, for not blindly following orders. And not for the first time. It was why he’d never advanced beyond captain and never would now.

Hopefully, his letter to his good friend Charlie, the Marquess of Tonbridge, would result in an offer of employment or he’d be going cap in hand to his father. The thought made his stomach curdle.

He nodded at the elderly tapman to bring him another ale to wash down the half-cooked eggs, burned bacon and day-old bread that served for breakfast in this establishment. Not that his rations while fighting for king and country on the Iberian Peninsula had been any better, but they also hadn’t been that much worse.

He opened The Times and placed it beside his plate. The tapman wandered over with a fresh tankard. He slapped it down on the table, the foam running down the sides and pooling in a ring around its base. His lip curled as he pointed a grimy finger at the headline—the words were stark: ‘Hunt. Guilty of Sedition’.

‘Sedition?’ the old man growled. ‘It was a massacre. There was women there. Families. It’s the damned soldiers what ought to be up on a charge.’

‘You are right.’ Blade knew, because he’d been at St Peter’s Field. Hunt had been invited to Manchester to speak to a populace suffering from the loss of work or low wages and high prices for bread. He advocated change. What the powers that be had not expected were the vast numbers who would come to hear the man speak.

People had come from miles away, the women in their Sunday best, many of them wearing white, holding their children by the hand and carrying the banners they’d stitched. They’d come to hear Hunt, a radical who was famous for his opinions and wearing a white top hat. Scared to the point of panic, the government had sent the army to break up the gathering because they had learned of the careful organisation behind the event. Curse their eyes. The crowd had been peaceful, not starting a revolution as the government claimed. Hunt had barely begun addressing the crowd from a wagon bed when the militia had charged.

The potman snorted derisively. ‘You were there, then, were ye, Captain? Got a few licks in?’

Not this soldier. He had tried to turn the militia aside. As a result, he’d been deemed unfit to serve his king. His years of service had counted for nothing. Not that in hindsight he would have done anything different. Waking and asleep, he heard the screams of women and children and the shouts of men, as the soldiers, his soldiers, charged into the crowd, laying about them with sabres as if they were on the battlefield at Waterloo. Eighteen citizens dead and over seven hundred injured, some by the sword, others trampled by horses. Just thinking about it made him feel ill.

No wonder the press had labelled it Peterloo. Britain’s greatest shame and a tarnish on the victory over the French at Waterloo a mere four years before.

The potman spat into the fire. ‘The people won’t stand for it. You wait and see. They might have put Hunt in prison, but it won’t be the end of it.’

Blade’s blood ran cold. ‘I’d keep that sort of talk to yourself, man, if you know what’s good for you.’

The government had spies and agents provocateurs roaming the countryside looking for a way to justify their actions of last August and the laws they had changed to reduce the risk of revolution. The Six Acts, they were called. The radicals called it an infringement of their rights.

He swallowed his rage. At the government. At the army. At his stubborn dull-witted colonel. And most of all at himself for remaining in the service beyond the end of the war. He had wanted to fight an enemy, not British citizens.

The man gave him a narrow-eyed stare as if remembering to whom he was talking. ‘Will there be anything else, Captain?’

‘Mr and, no, thank you. Nothing else.’

‘That’ll be fourpence.’

The waiter plucked the coins Blade tossed him out of the air and sauntered back to the bar. Blade finished the ale and pushed the food aside. He had no stomach for it this morning.

Time to check on his horses. With studied movements born of hours of practice, he carefully folded the newspaper and tucked it under his left arm. It never failed to irritate how the simplest things required the utmost concentration. He donned his hat and walked out into the sharp wind of a typically grey Yorkshire spring morning.

He strolled through the winding lanes, heading for the livery.

As he turned onto the main street, the walk of a woman ahead of him caught his eye. A brisk, businesslike walk that did nothing to disguise the lush sensuality of her figure, even though it was wrapped in a warm woollen cloak. In his salad days, before Waterloo, he might have offered to carry her basket. Women, young and old, loved the dash of an officer in uniform.

Well, he was no longer entitled to wear a uniform. He’d retired. Hah!

The woman stopped at a milliner’s window, revealing her profile.

Caro Falkner. Pleasure rippled through him. Desire was certainly a part of it, a hot lick deep in his gut, but there was also a lightness, a simple gladness at the sight of her. Not that the gladness would be reciprocated. She had made it quite clear she wanted no remembrances of the past. Of youthful folly, before the carnage of war had taken his hand and killed her soldier husband.

He’d met her in a small village not far from Worthing, where his regiment had been stationed, but had been far too tongue-tied at her beauty to utter a word. How he had hoped, with the desperation of the very young, to ask her to stand up with him when he and his fellow officers had been invited to the village assembly. Naturally, she’d only had eyes for the older and far more charming Carothers. She’d been a delight to watch, though, as she danced and flirted her way through his more experienced companions.

These days the woman was far too prim and proper for her own good. And that made her a challenge to a man who had enjoyed the intimate company of several willing widows over the years. A challenge he had no intention of taking up because, for some reason, his very presence in a room made her uncomfortable. At Charlie and Merry’s wedding, good friends of them both, she’d been far from friendly. Tales of his rakish ways passed on by Tonbridge, no doubt. And as the daughter of a vicar, she would likely be shocked by his antecedents. Horrified. Not even a smart new uniform would make up for such a background with a respectable woman.

He forced himself to pretend not to see her, as she had made it so obvious she would prefer. Never had he even hinted to Charlie of their past meeting. He could still see her, though, in his mind’s eye, the sparkle in her eyes as she spun with her partners through the steps of every country dance that night. He’d been fascinated.

Not that he was about to force these memories upon a woman who shied away at the sight of him.

Besides, these days he preferred the kind of woman who enjoyed a bit of danger along with her dalliance. Widows or members of the demi-monde who were not looking for any sort of permanent relationship and were honest about it. Oh, his adoptive mother had forced him into a semblance of civility, given him polish and manners, and a degree of charm to go with it, but the ladies of the ton had no trouble sensing the ruffian who lurked within. Naturally, decent ladies avoided him like the plague. As did Mrs Falkner.

He stepped clear of her at the same moment she turned away from the window. Their gazes clashed. Her eyes widened in recognition. The flicker of anxiety in her eyes sent a chill down his spine, though she quickly schooled her expression into one of reserved politeness. Was it merely the response of a sensible respectable woman when faced with a man who could ruin her reputation if she wasn’t careful? Or something else? Her reaction wasn’t a shock; he was used to respectable women distancing themselves. It was his hurt that she would do so that momentarily stole his breath.

He buried the pointless feeling of rejection and flashed her his most seductive smile. The devilment of anger taking possession of reason. He was, after all, a good friend of her employer. He lifted his hat and bowed. ‘Mrs Falkner, what an unexpected pleasure.’ The purr of seduction in his voice caused her to stiffen.

‘Captain Read?’ There was something about her soft and low voice that affected him in a very visceral way.

Blast it, he really should have pretended he had not seen her. He did not need desire for a woman he could not have to make his day any worse. ‘Just plain Mr these days, ma’am. I hope you are well?’

Pink stained her cheekbones with a becoming blush. He remembered that about her, the way she coloured. But that was all that remained of her from before. Her ready smile and happy laughter were nowhere to be seen. Respectable widows did not smile at rogues. ‘I am well,’ she said, lifting her chin. ‘Thank you.’ She hesitated a fraction. ‘And you?’

Her politeness surprised him. He didn’t imagine she cared how he was for one single moment.

‘I, too, am well.’ He glanced around, looking for a maid or a footman. Seeing no one nearby, he frowned. ‘Are you unescorted?’

She stiffened. ‘I am quite capable of doing a little shopping without aid.’

From the icy blast of dislike coming his way, he knew she didn’t want to have anything to do with him, but he wasn’t enquiring for her sake; he was doing what his friend Charlie would expect of him. And, indeed, Charlie’s new wife, Merry. With the unrest among the population at the news in the papers this morning, even a guttersnipe like him knew better than to allow a decent female to walk the streets alone. He certainly would not allow his half-sisters to do so, though they, too, would likely baulk at his escort.

He grasped the handle of the heavy-looking basket over her arm. ‘Allow me, please.’ Not really a request, though at least he had enough manners to phrase it as one. Perhaps the countess, his stepmother, had done a better job than either of them had thought.

A moment of resistance held them frozen, but her expression said that while she did not want his escort, neither did she want to make a scene in public. She let go and stepped back. ‘It is very kind of you, Captain...I mean Mr Read, but I have quite finished my errands.’

‘Then I will accompany you back to your lodgings. I assume you are staying in York overnight?’

Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. Then the sensible woman sighed, knowing there was no use arguing with a determined man. ‘At the King George. I return to Skepton tomorrow.’

He transferred the basket to the crook of his right arm and, gritting his teeth, slightly winged his left elbow. Enough for her to be able to ignore it without embarrassment for either of them. She would not be the first to refuse his injured arm.

His heart gave an odd lurch when, without a moment’s hesitation, she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. The feel of her hand seared his skin through several layers of cloth, including her gloves. He could not remember the last time he’d felt this shaken. Foolish sentiment, no doubt. After all, a woman who went about gathering prostitutes off the streets of Skepton, as Charlie had related to him, was hardly likely to baulk at a missing hand.

Even so, it was with a sense of doom that he realised that even for such a small gesture from this woman, he would walk barefoot across hot coals.

Idiot.

* * *

Caro could not believe her bad luck. Or rather she could. If anything could go wrong where she was concerned, it would. She had hoped never to see Captain Read—no, Mr Read apparently, her employer’s friend—ever again, after the Tonbridges’ wedding was over and done. Indeed, she had hoped she would not. For Tommy’s sake. Of all the people she had met in her life, he was one of the few who might guess at her secret. At her shame.

She still did not know whether he recalled their meeting years ago. The uncertainty made her heart flutter wildly, as did the way he regarded her as if she was some sort of tasty treat.

‘Who accompanies you on this shopping trip of yours?’ he asked, his voice teasing, but also concerned, when he had no right to be concerned for her welfare.

If she kept her answers brief and to the point, hopefully he would take the hint and be on his way. ‘No one. Merry is in London with Tonbridge, who was called to attend his father’s sickbed.’ Caro tried to ignore the sense of abandonment that had plagued her since her friend’s marriage. The same feeling she had experienced when her father had turned her out of his house. Yet it was not the same thing at all. She and Merry remained friends and correspondents. She had heard nothing from her family since the day she had left.

While she did not look at Mr Read, she sensed his gaze on her face. Sharp. Assessing. ‘You travelled to York alone?’ he asked.

The note of disapproval in his voice added to her discomfort. Her father’s voice had held exactly that note when one had a smut on one’s nose or had misplaced one’s gloves and kept him waiting. Instinctively her chin came up, the way it had so often in her girlhood, generally leading to further admonishment. What was it about this man that affected her so, when she had worked so hard on perfecting a calm demeanour? ‘I drove here in the Tonbridge carriage with his lordship’s coachman.’

He made a scoffing sound in the back of his throat that he then tried to disguise as a cough. ‘Have you not read the newspapers, Mrs Falkner? The north is up in arms about this latest idiotic verdict—’ He grimaced.

Mouth agape, she stared up at his face, once more overwhelmed by the height and breadth of him. In her mind she kept seeing him as the gangly young ensign from nine years before with large ears and a hook of a nose, hanging at the fringes of his fellow officers. The skinny fellow on the cusp of manhood was gone, replaced by a hard-faced, hard-eyed man who had grown into his aristocratic features. He’d become handsome in the way of a battle-hardened warrior, a face of clean lines and sharp angles. ‘I read the newspapers,’ she said with hauteur. It was difficult to look down one’s nose at a man who was as tall as he, but if he got the message that she wanted nothing to do with him, it was worth the attempt. ‘None of that has anything to do with my trip to York for household supplies.’

His expression darkened. ‘A woman driving across Yorkshire’s moors in a lozenged carriage with no more than an elderly coachman to guard her is hardly safe. Don’t think your gender will protect you. No one was safe at St Peter’s Field. Men, women and children died, and those wielding the swords were related to half the nobility in Britain.’

She recoiled at the underlying bitterness in his voice. ‘You speak as if you have first-hand knowledge.’

His mouth tightened. ‘I was there.’

‘Is that why you resigned your commission?’

His jaw flickered. He turned his face away, looking off into the distance. ‘In part.’

Clearly he did not welcome further interrogation. Nor did she have any reason to engage him in conversation. Quite the opposite. ‘I am sure there can be no danger to me. Tonbridge made his disgust of last August’s events quite clear.’

They crossed the square in front of York Minster, its spires pushing into the clouds like medieval lances.

He stopped, forcing her to stop, too, and look at his grave expression. ‘Nevertheless I will escort you on your return journey as Tonbridge would expect.’

His autocratic manner sent anger spurting through her veins, despite that he was right. Tonbridge was exceedingly protective of his wife and, by association, her erstwhile companion. And it was not just the recent troubles that made him so. The establishment of the Haven for Women and Mothers with Children in Need had been highly unpopular with the wealthier of Skepton’s residents. Until Tonbridge had taken up their cause, both her life and Merry’s had been at risk.

‘It is most kind of you, Mr Read. However, rather than put you to such trouble, I will hire outriders for the journey back.’

His face hardened as if he had received some sort of insult. ‘If that is your preference, then please ensure you do.’

She had not intended an insult, but surely he had better things, more important things, to do than serve as her escort? She bit back the urge to apologise. If he was insulted, he would likely leave her in peace. The longer she spent in his company, the more likely he was to remember he had met her before. She’d seen the puzzlement in his eyes as he tried to figure out why she looked familiar on the occasion of their first meeting. She had no wish to remind him or to reminisce about old times. Or old acquaintances. She repressed a shudder. And she certainly did not want him anywhere near her son.

He started walking again. He had long legs and towered over her by a good eight inches, but he adjusted his stride to the length of her steps. It was the mark of a well-bred gentleman. Or a man intent on making a good impression.

‘How is Thomas?’ he asked, to her surprise and trepidation. ‘Is he with you?’

It was difficult not to be pleased at his recollection of her boy, when in truth she should have been terrified. Why would a man who was barely an acquaintance care about the whereabouts of her son? Was it merely commonplace conversation or a threat of exposure or simply a way of worming his way into her good graces? Whatever his motive, she did not dare show her worry, so she kept her voice calm. Her answer factual. ‘He is well, thank you.’

Tommy had been impressed by Captain Read in his uniform when they had met. The boy had talked of how his father would have been just such a soldier. Subsequently, she had done her best to keep Captain Read at a distance in case he recalled the past she had tried to keep hidden.

‘You should think of him if you will not think of yourself. He would suffer greatly if anything happened to you,’ he said.

Her blood chilled. ‘Are you trying to frighten me?’ It would not be the first time a man had tried using intimidation to get what he wanted. ‘It is not well done of you. I can manage to find my own way back to my hotel from here.’ She could see the dashed place.

There was frost in his voice when he replied, ‘What is it about my company you object to, Mrs Falkner? Have I done something you find offensive?’

Her words had hurt him. It was a vulnerability she would not have expected from a man who carried himself with such confidence, but he had asked and she was all for speaking the truth. ‘I am a respectable woman, Mr Read.’ A respect that had been hard-won in a town like Skepton, where the community closed ranks against outsiders. ‘It will not serve my reputation to be seen junketing around with a single gentleman, no matter how worthy he may be. Or how well connected.’ She had no wish to be the subject of gossip or idle speculation, for Thomas’s sake, as much as for her own.

The hard muscles beneath her hand tensed, though his face gave nothing of his thoughts away. He was like a coiled spring. A weapon ready to fire. Perhaps if she insulted him enough, he would walk off in a huff. Let her escape from his unsettling presence. The flutters of attraction she felt each time he looked at her with those amazingly piercing hazel eyes were scrambling her thoughts. Was it because Merry and Charlie had deliberately warned her about his reputation as a ladies’ man prior to their wedding? Could it be her tendency to wickedness leading her astray? After all these years? Certainly not. She would never become one of his conquests. Or let him expose her secrets. She dropped her hand from his arm.

He did not take the hint. With grim determination, he walked her all the way to the hotel entrance and handed off her basket to the footman waiting at the door with an easy grace that belied his missing left hand. After five years, he must be used to it, she supposed, but still, something inside her ached at the sight of the sleeve pinned at the wrist.

Not that his injury made him any less of a man. Indeed, he had the sort of lethal masculinity that warned the unwary to be careful unless they disturb a sleeping beast. And warned a woman to guard her heart.

‘What time did you intend to set out for Skepton tomorrow?’ he asked in a surprisingly mild tone given the heat of anger in his gaze. Or perhaps it wasn’t anger at all, but something far more risky. Chills ran across her skin. Pleasant little prickles.

She ignored her body’s reaction. ‘I asked Mr Garge to have the coach at the door at eight. The haberdasher has promised to deliver the rest of my supplies later this afternoon. I will be home by mid-afternoon.’

He doffed his hat and bowed. ‘Then I wish the rest of your day is pleasant and bid you good day.’ He marched off, his bearing very much that of a soldier.

Dashing and handsome, in or out of uniform. Her skin warmed. Her body tingled in unmentionable places she thought she had firmly under control. The man was without doubt one of the most attractive she’d ever met. The kind of man...

Blast. How could she entertain such thoughts when she knew the danger of the smallest indiscretion? She had spent years creating an aura of respectability. Fought hard to maintain it, too. She wasn’t about to throw her life away for the sake of a handsome man. Especially not one of the ilk of Mr Read, who, while not legitimate, had an earl for a father. For Tommy’s sake, she could not afford to be noticed by anyone with connections to the beau monde. Not if she wanted to keep her son by her side.

If Mr Read should ever put two and two together she might well lose her son.

* * *

Charlie’s timing was abysmal. The next morning, sitting in the snug at the Sleeping Tiger, Blade stared at the letter that had, according to his groom, Ned, arrived in the first post. It was exactly what he had hoped for and the worst possible news. If he had known about this yesterday, before he’d met Mrs Falkner, it might not now feel so damnably uncomfortable. Mrs Falkner was not going to be pleased.

Understatement of the year.

She might, he mused, even think he was lying to get his own way in the matter of her requiring an escort.

Too bad. Charlie had offered him a position, albeit temporary, and he intended to do all he could to prove his friend’s trust justified. He needed this job. If he was successful, he might even be able to hold up his head and meet his father’s gimlet gaze after the Peterloo debacle.

Serving in the army had offered him the chance to leave his unfortunate beginnings behind and he’d mucked it up. No doubt the earl would already have received word of his failure. This offer he’d received from Charlie was a chance to start again without the need to ask his father for assistance. Something he hated. He certainly wasn’t going to let Mrs Falkner’s dislike keep him from honest employment.

He glanced at the dingy face of the case clock in the corner. ‘Damn.’ It was gone nine, well after the time she said she’d depart. Still, ladies were often late. Or at least his sisters often were. As were his previous inamoratas. Lost hair ribbons and misplaced gloves generally delayed a lady’s departure by more than an hour or two.

Unfortunately, Mrs Falkner did not strike him as a lady subject to missing articles. She was far too efficient or Charlie would not have left her in charge of the charitable establishment Merry and Mrs Falkner had founded. A home for fallen women and their children they called the Haven.

He downed a cup of scalding hot coffee and called for his shot. He’d have to hurry if he was going to catch Mrs Falkner before she left her hotel. The innkeeper ambled over with his bill. ‘Thought we was to have t’pleasure of your company a few more days, Mr Read.’

‘Change of plans.’ Blade skimmed a glance down the bill and found it accurate.

‘You’ll be careful on the road,’ the landlord said. ‘I hear there are rabble-rousers going around the countryside stirring up sentiments as ought not to be stirred.’

‘Do you know any specifics?’ he asked casually as he got to his feet.

‘Not me, sir. I hear things. Mutters and so forth. No specifics.’

Hardly helpful. ‘Have your man come up for my valise in ten minutes.’ Ten minutes he could hardly afford, but it would take him that long to pack without help from Ned. ‘Have a note taken round to Shaw’s Livery for me, would you please?’

Ned would have his horse ready by the time he arrived.

Chapter Two

Blade hunched deeper into his greatcoat. Naturally, it would rain all day. And naturally he’d missed Mrs Falkner at the King George.

Fortunately, his batman-cum-groom had taken the change in plan in stride. An excellent fellow, Ned. He’d been with Blade since the day he set foot in Lisbon and had proved a loyal and worthy comrade-in-arms. Blade was determined to keep the man employed, since work for soldiers returning from war was scarce, there being so many of them. Hopefully, Charlie would agree with the extra expense. If not, he would have to pay him from his own salary.

‘House steward’ was what Charlie had called the position he’d offered. Not something Blade would have thought of doing in his wildest dreams. He’d never thought of any career but the army from the time he could handle a wooden sword. And with the army reduced to a fraction of its former size, there wasn’t a hope in hell of selling his commission quickly. If at all. He could just see the earl looking down his nose in his autocratic way and pretending he understood perfectly, while not understanding at all. Likely wishing him in Jericho, too. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Not that Blade cared.

The odds had been against him from the start. Even his mother hadn’t wanted him. He’d been in the way from the day of his birth and likely before. Nothing but a bloody nuisance. His mother’s words still had the power to carve a slice out of his heart.

He’d tried his best not to be in the way at his father’s house when he’d gone there at the age of ten. Tried to do nothing that would make him or his lady wife regret offering him a place in their home. He hadn’t stood a chance. What man wanted his mistake thrust under his nose on a daily basis?

Thank God and Charlie, he didn’t have to return to his father like the beggar he’d always been.

He hunched deeper into the folds of his scarf, but it didn’t prevent a trickle of rainwater finding its way down the back of his neck. And that didn’t take his mind off the water splashing up from his horse’s hooves and soaking his breeches. Pretty soon his backside would be soaking wet, too.

While the dry and warm Mrs Falkner, when he caught up to her, would not be the slightest bit pleased with him or his news.

The woman certainly offered a challenge to a man known for his charm when it came to lonely widows. A reputation he’d worked hard to acquire. Pleasurably hard. Those words in conjunction with thoughts of Caro Falkner had him shifting uncomfortably in the saddle. Was it her obvious disapproval that had him thinking of seduction each time he saw her or the beauty she tried so hard to hide behind her severe demeanour and dress? Or was it the mystery behind her facade of unbending respectability? The picture she painted of the vicar’s perfect daughter, when he remembered her so very differently. Was she hiding something that might prove dangerous to his friend and his friend’s wife?

An intriguing question.

He rounded a bend to a scene of utter disaster. A carriage tilted crazily on the verge. A shattered wheel some distance off. A team—Tonbridge’s team, for goodness’ sake—trembling and shifting in the harness, ready to bolt. His heart rose in his throat.

He galloped the intervening hundred yards and leaped down. His gut clenched at the sight of the coachman sprawled face up in the ditch. Blade had seen enough death to recognise a broken neck. Why had he not caught them up sooner? Had the woman’s distaste for him made him deliberately hang back? Idiot.

‘Mrs Falkner?’ His shout was met by a resounding silence. Heart in his mouth, he approached the carriage door swinging free on its hinges and peered inside. The sight of her pale face, her closed eyes and the way she lay on the floor in a heap brought bile to his throat. He leaped aboard. She groaned softly and her eyelids fluttered.

Alive, then. Relief flooded through him.

He rubbed her cold hands. ‘Mrs Falkner?’ he repeated. ‘Come on, let’s get you out of here.’ It would be cold in the wind and rain, but he could feel the carriage shifting as the horses moved restlessly. At any moment the animals might take it into their foolish heads to run.

‘Mrs Falkner,’ he said again, more demanding this time. Louder.

She opened her eyes and put a hand to her head. For a moment she stared at him blankly, then frowned. ‘Mr Read? Where is Josiah? Mr Garge?’

He thought about lying, but she was going to see how matters lay the moment he got her out of the carriage. ‘Dead, I am afraid. Broken neck. Here, let me help you up. Put your arm over my shoulder and hang on.’ With only one hand, he had to get her to help herself. Fortunately, her eyes cleared and, with his aid, she pushed to her feet. He helped her to the ground, where she swayed slightly, then found her feet and her balance.

Out in the grey light of the morning, his blood chilled as he saw the red lump on her forehead, already turning blue, and the blood streaked across her chin. ‘You are hurt.’

She stared at him blankly, then glanced down at her hand where more blood welled. ‘A scratch, I think.’

He guided her to a boulder and sat her facing away from the coachman. ‘I must see to the horses and then we will see what we can do about that injury.’ He’d seen men die from less on the battlefields of Europe.

A quick check of the horses confirmed his impression that while nervous, they were unharmed. He found a length of rope beneath the coachman’s box and used it to hobble the leaders. There was no way for him to repair the coach. They needed help.

He went to his own horse and pulled down his saddle pack before going back to Mrs Falkner. Her colour was already better. A good sign. He put a finger beneath her chin to lift up her face so he could see to tend her forehead. Her eyes widened in shock. ‘You have a bump,’ he said by way of explanation for his forward behaviour. ‘Do you have a headache?’

She shook her head. ‘It only hurts if I touch it.’

Another good sign. He pulled out a bottle of witch hazel and dabbed at the bruise and then at the cut on her hand.

‘Did you say Garge is...?’

No sense beating around the bush. ‘Dead. Yes.’

‘How can that be?’

‘He must have struck his head on a boulder when he came off the box.’

‘But...he opened the door. Looked in on me. I heard him. I felt so dizzy, I told him I had to rest a minute. He left before I could open my eyes. But he was there. After the accident.’

Not possible. She likely imagined it. ‘I am so sorry, Mrs Falkner, but Mr Garge’s neck was broken by the fall. It would have been instant.’

She stared at him, then turned her face away, clearly confused. And why would she not be after such a bang to the noggin. ‘Is there nothing we can do for him?’

‘No.’ He kept his voice matter-of-fact. He did not want her going into a fit of hysterics after she’d been so stoic. She would not like him to see her in such a state any more than he would like to watch her fall apart.

She started to rise, swayed and put a hand to her head. Her face blanched.

He gently pushed her down. ‘Sit.’ He pressed her head to her knees with his forearm at the back of her neck, a beautiful vulnerable nape that begged a man’s touch. He forced himself to look away and gaze off into the distance until her breathing evened out.

She took a deep shuddering breath. ‘I am better now. Thank you.’

He released her immediately. He did not want her thinking he had anything untoward on his mind, because it would be easy to fall into such a trap with a woman as lovely as this one. ‘He wouldn’t have felt a thing,’ he said. It was what they always told themselves in the aftermath of battle, though, given his own experience, he doubted it was ever true. ‘There was nothing anyone could have done.’

She buried her face in her hands. ‘What on earth am I to tell his wife?’

He grimaced. It was something he had always hated, but at least he’d only been required to write a letter. He’d never had to face anyone’s widow with the bad news, though he’d met plenty of them since returning to England. Made a point of it. And they were grateful, most of them, when they should have taken him to task for not caring for their men better than he had.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. The coach bounced so hard it must have hit a rut in the road and then I was thrown against the door. I don’t remember much after that.’

With a coachman as competent as Tonbridge’s driving a team as steady as this one, it was hard to imagine Garge running foul of a rut. ‘Did you see anything unusual?’

She frowned. ‘What sort of thing?’

Clearly his conversation with the innkeeper had his senses on high alert. ‘I wondered if something might have distracted Garge. Made him make a mistake?’

She frowned. ‘I heard a crack. The whip. I assumed he was trying to make up some time after the slow going in the valley.’

Ice ran through his veins. A shot? He bit back a curse, not wanting to scare her. He needed to look at the carriage. And the coachman. He rose and stared around him. ‘Well, there is no moving the carriage with that broken wheel. We must find you some shelter.’ He’d also have to notify the local authority about the death. ‘Our best course is to hope someone travels along this road, sooner rather than later.’ Once he knew she was safe, he’d come back before the local coroner arrived and see if his suspicions were borne out by evidence.

She touched a hand to her temple. ‘Yes. Of course. That is best.’ She looked hopefully up and down the road.

He couldn’t believe her calmness. Most women in her place would be fainting all over the place and calling for their hartshorn. Not his sisters, though, he realised, suddenly missing them like the blazes, when he’d done his best to ignore them for years. She was like the women who had followed the drum with their husbands. One of the kind made of sterner stuff. The kind a man could admire as well as lust after. Curse his wayward thoughts.

‘Sit here and don’t move while I see to the horses.’

She stiffened and he realised he’d phrased it as an order. ‘If you don’t mind?’

Her posture relaxed. She nodded, trickles of rain coursing down her face.

‘I don’t suppose you have an umbrella in the coach?’

She shook her head, her eyes sad.

Blast, he needed to get her out of the rain before she caught some sort of ague. As soon as he was sure the horses would not make a dash for it, he would sit her back in the carriage.

And then he heard the sound of wheels on the road and the clop of hooves. For a change it seemed luck was on his side.

Rescue was at hand.

* * *

Sitting by the hearth in a tiny parlour of the small inn at a crossroads some two miles from the accident, Caro could not seem to get warm no matter how close she sat to the blazing logs. They had been lucky the carter had agreed to bring her to the closest inn while Mr Read stayed with the horses. The Crossed Keys, situated high on the moorland, was the only hostelry for miles. The carter had then gone off with the innkeeper to fetch the local constable.

In her mind’s eye, she kept seeing poor Mr Garge, lying on his back on the rock-strewn ground. Kept thinking of his wife. She had no doubt that Tonbridge would offer the woman some sort of aid, but that wasn’t the point. They were a devoted couple and now the woman would be alone. Caro knew the pain of losing everyone you loved. Even blessed as she was with Thomas, it had taken years before the agony of that loss had eased to a dull ache she rarely noticed.

The innkeeper’s wife, Mrs Lane, bustled in with a tray. ‘Here you go, ma’am. This will warm you from the inside out. I’ve taken the liberty of adding a tot of brandy. Put some heart into you, you look that pale.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Lane, but I do not drink strong spirits.’

‘It’s medicinal,’ the woman said and folded her arms across her ample bosom. ‘Ye’ll drink it like a good lass. One swallow. I’d do no less for one of me own.’

A will of iron shone in the other woman’s eyes, but there was kindness there, too. How kind would she be if she knew the truth of Caro’s past? But that was neither here nor there in this situation. She picked up the goblet and sniffed. The pungent fumes hit the back of her throat and made her eyes water. ‘I don’t think—’

‘The trick is to drink it down quick, lass. The longer you dally, the worse it will get.’

Like the rest of the unpleasant things in life. Heaving a sigh, Caro closed her eyes, tipped the glass and swallowed. Her throat seized at the burn. She choked and coughed and gasped while Mrs Lane banged her on the back—until she caught her breath and was able to ward her off.

‘I’m fine,’ she managed.

‘Aye, well, you will be. Now drink your tea and we’ll await for the menfolk to return. Meanwhile I’ve a supper to cook.’ She marched out.

Her husband, who was also the local undertaker, had sent his potboy for the local coroner. The Lanes were indeed practical folk.

Caro poured her tea and sipped to take the taste of the brandy away. She had to admit she did feel better. And warmer. A whole lot warmer. A welcome numbness stole over her. She leaned back against the plump cushion.

* * *

A sound jerked her fully awake. She opened her eyes to find Mr Read staring down at her with an odd look on his face.

She sat up, her cheeks flushing hot. ‘Oh,’ she gasped. ‘I must have fallen asleep. I beg your pardon.’ She glanced at the clock. Goodness. She had slept for more than an hour. The landlady had taken her tray away and she hadn’t heard a thing. ‘Is everything all right?’

Such a stupid question from the look on his face. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to break free of the fog of sleep.

He grimaced. ‘I hate to do this, but the coroner is requesting a word. About the accident.’

The last word had an odd emphasis, but when she looked at his face, there was nothing to see but a kindly concern. ‘Yes. Of course. If it is required.’

‘I’ll fetch him.’ He made a small gesture with his hand and let it fall. ‘You might want to take a peek in the mirror. Your cap...’ His words trailed off, but there was heat in his eyes she did not understand. He turned away smartly. ‘I’ll fetch him up.’

The moment he closed the door, she leaped to her feet and stared at her reflection in the mirror above the mantel. Heavens, her cap was askew and tendrils of hair were hanging in strings around her face. Mr Read must think her a slattern to be drinking and sleeping in such a state. Cheeks pink with embarrassment, her stomach dipping in shame, she quickly tidied herself barely moments before she heard the tread of heavy steps on the stairs followed by a sharp knock.

‘Come.’

Mr Read ushered in a heavyset gentleman who appeared to be in his sixties with wind-roughened cheeks and a beak of a nose above a grizzled beard.

‘Mrs Falkner, may I introduce Sir Reginald Walcombe. Sir Reginald, this is the lady of whom I spoke.’

Sir Reginald bowed, with a creaking of corset. ‘Ma’am.’

‘Please, gentlemen, be seated,’ she said.

Sir Reginald sat, pulled out an enormous white linen handkerchief and mopped his brow. ‘Stairs, ma’am,’ he wheezed apologetically.

Behind him, amusement twinkled in Mr Read’s eyes for such a brief moment she almost might have imagined it. Almost. But it was such a warming and comforting thing, she knew she had not. Indeed, she had a tiny bit of trouble repressing a smile. ‘May I call for the tea tray, Sir Reginald?’

‘No, thank’ee kindly. I had a shot of Lane’s best down below.’

For some reason, Mr Read remained standing. His expression was blank, but he seemed to be watching her intently.

‘Now, ma’am, I know thee’s had a shock, but tell me, if you will, in your own words, what happened.’

She relayed the same information to him as she had told to Mr Read, whose gaze became more intense.

When she got to the part about Garge looking in on her, Sir Reginald frowned. ‘You saw him, ma’am?’

‘No. It took me a moment or two to come to my senses, but the door was open, as Mr Read will confirm.’

‘It was,’ Mr Read said.

Sir Reginald’s bushy brows drew down in a way that would frighten small children and miscreants. ‘He spoke then? Said something to ʼee?’

‘No. The door opened. Nothing else.’

‘Ah, probably the latch gave way. Coach is badly damaged.’ He shook his head. ‘Bad business all around.’ With a laboured grunt, Sir Reginald pushed to his feet with hands braced on the chair arms. ‘A terrible accident, then. And not the first time on that bend. I’ll bid you good day, ma’am.’

‘I will see you out, sir,’ Mr Read said. ‘I will return in a moment, Mrs Falkner.’

Something in the way he looked at her gave her pause. Was there something he wasn’t saying?

Heart beating fast, she awaited his return.

* * *

A good fifteen minutes passed and still no sign of him. She got up and looked out of the window. There was no sign of any conveyance, but the windows of the rooms below cast their light out into the courtyard.

Finally, a light knock sounded at the door. She hadn’t heard anyone mounting the stairs. ‘Who is it?’

‘Read,’ came the low rumble of his voice.

‘Come in.’

He entered with a frown on his face.

‘Is something wrong?’

‘I took the liberty of asking for dinner to be served in here and booking you room for the night. I had your valise and purchases taken upstairs.’

Her stomach pitched. ‘I cannot be away all night. Tommy will worry.’ He was a clever little boy. It had not taken him long to realise that most children had two parents as well as extended families. He knew his father had died and had become terrified she would die, too, leaving him completely alone.

Mr Read’s expression darkened as if her anxiety was his fault, but he gave her no chance to explain. ‘We have no choice,’ he bit out tersely. ‘It is too late to set out tonight. Sir Reginald has promised to send over his carriage for our use in the morning, but he needed it to return home. Lane’s cart is required for funeral purposes.’ His voice was harshly matter-of-fact.

They were stranded. She took a deep breath. ‘I see. Well then, there really is no alternative.’

‘Mrs Lane will show you up to your chamber to freshen up. Dinner is to be served in here in an hour.’ He hesitated and went on in a voice devoid of all expression. ‘If you don’t care for company this evening, I am more than happy to take my meal in the kitchen.’

Despite the flatness of his tone, and an apparent lack of concern about her decision one way or the other, she sensed an underlying tension. As if he expected her to consign him to dine with the servants. He must think her rude indeed. ‘After today’s events I would be grateful for your company, Mr Read. And I wish to hear more of Sir Reginald’s opinion with regard to the accident.’

His expression lightened, very slightly. He bowed. ‘It will be my pleasure. I will let Mrs Lane know you are ready to go up.’

His pleasure. Now, why had that word sent shivers skating down her back?

* * *

Waiting in the parlour for her return, Blade cursed himself for his weakness, for wanting to spend time in her company. He should not have even thought of having dinner with her, let alone suggesting it in a manner that made it impossible for her to say no. So typical of him, Charlie would say. He’d spent too many years on the strut honing his seductive skills to leave them at the door when in decent company. Too bad. He made no pretence of being more than the guttersnipe he’d been born, the reason why some of the more daring ladies liked him in their beds. A taste of excitement and danger. A bit of rough, one had called him to his face.

Not this one, though. This one was a respectable lady who would not have given him the time of day if he wasn’t Charlie’s friend. And nor should she.

He still didn’t know what to make of her assertion that Garge, or someone, had opened the door, and it was that someone who was worrying him. Who had opened the carriage door and looked in? Why would anyone do that and not render assistance?

Old Sir Reginald had seen it as female megrims, but that was too out of character for Mrs Falkner. Could someone have come across the accident, thought to rob the carriage and been deterred by the sound of him coming along the road? Or could it be something more sinister, such as someone hoping to cause Tonbridge harm? Someone who had been surprised by the presence of a woman in his carriage and taken off. Or was it simply a case of the door latch letting go as the carriage twisted and settled on its broken axle as Sir Reginald thought? Blade might have thought so, too, if not for the one unaccounted-for boot print in the mud beside the carriage door.

Nevertheless, whichever it was, Mrs Falkner had been lucky she wasn’t more seriously hurt.

Fortunately, like Sir Reginald, she seemed to have no suspicion that it might be anything other than an accident. And since he did not want her frightened out of her wits any more than she had been already, he planned to leave it that way. He still couldn’t quite believe she hadn’t simply taken to her bed after such a scare.

His unruly mind wandered back to the scene of her drowsing in the chair when he had come to warn her of Sir Reginald’s imminent arrival. Asleep, her face relaxed, she had looked younger, prettier, more like the girl he had been smitten with that long-ago spring. A memory she clearly did not want to acknowledge any more than he did. She was the daughter of a vicar and he was the bastard son of a prostitute who’d kicked him out at the age of ten. ‘I don’t need you hanging around. You are just another mouth for me to feed.’ The pain of those words stabbed him behind the breastbone. Less sharp than when spoken, but still there. While he hadn’t thought so at the time, he’d been fortunate his father had agreed to recognise him as his son or he’d likely have died on the streets of London. Or been hanged for a criminal.

He heard her soft tread on the stairs outside the parlour and opened the door.

She looked startled. ‘How did you know it was me?’

‘By your step.’ He led her to the chair by the hearth. The table was set, but the food had not yet appeared.

He stood at ease, wrist crossed over his forearm behind him. A trick he’d perfected to make the missing hand less noticeable.

‘Please, Mr Read,’ she said sharply. ‘Be seated, before I get a crick in my neck.’

He was tempted to resist what was clearly an order. That had always been his trouble. Rebelling at stupid orders. She suffered from a similar affliction, he recalled, and he wanted to smile.

Her expression carved in stone, her hands folded in her lap, she waited for him to do as she bid.

He picked up the poker, raked around in the fire for a moment or two as a sop to his pride, before he sat in the chair recently occupied by Sir Reginald. ‘Why do you pretend we did not meet before?’

Hell, why had that been blurted out of his mouth? Why the devil did it matter?

Her lush lips parted. Her eyes widened in shock before her gaze lowered to her clasped fingers. ‘You gave no sign of remembering me either,’ she said in a low voice.

At seventeen, and a newly minted ensign, he’d thought her akin to an angel. He’d been far too tongue-tied seeing how pretty she was, how very different from the women he’d known when living with his mother, or those in his adoptive parents’ house, to do more than stutter a greeting.

She was also the reason for his first reprimand. He’d gone for Carothers’s throat when he’d called her a round-heeled wench in the officers’ mess the morning after the local assembly, where they’d been invited to make up the numbers of gentlemen. For that, he’d received a tongue-lashing from his commanding officer and a black mark on his record. Only his father’s name had kept him from being thrown out of the regiment.

‘It was a long time ago,’ he said. Too long ago for it to be of any relevance.

‘Yes.’ She raised her gaze to meet his, clearly glad to put the recollection behind her. ‘Much has occurred since then.’

‘Indeed.’ She had been married and widowed. He had been as good as discharged from the career he loved.

‘I assume Sir Reginald has finished his investigations?’ she asked, clearly anxious to change an awkward subject.

He gave a brief nod. ‘Apparently it is not the first fatality to occur on that particular corner.’

‘I hope he did not blame Josiah Garge. I am sure he did his best.’

‘No. No blame.’

‘His wife will take some comfort from that, and I know Lord Tonbridge will make a generous settlement. Still, it is a very sad day for the Garge family. What are the next steps?’

‘The jury will be called by the coroner tomorrow. They will meet below.’

‘Will I need to appear?’ She sounded surprisingly anxious. Was there something she knew that she had not told him? Something she wanted to hide? He wanted to question her further, but she looked so pale, so tired, he decided to leave it. For now.

‘I believe not. My word and that of the constable will be enough. Once a verdict is reached we can leave for Skepton. Lane will bring the remains there for the appropriate rites and services.’

She nodded slowly. ‘Thank you. I appreciate your help and support in this matter.’

If he’d been truly helpful, instead of standing on his dignity, he would have insisted on escorting her and none of this would have happened. He frowned at her. ‘You said you were going to hire outriders.’

She made a face. ‘There were none available at such short notice.’

He had no way of knowing whether or not that was the truth, but it was water under the bridge. One thing he did know—as soon as he got to Skepton, he would write to Tonbridge and see if he had any thoughts on whether someone might have accosted his carriage and, if so, who.

Then he’d do a bit of investigating of his own. In the meantime, he would enjoy a meal with a pretty woman who, it seemed, was prepared to admit she recalled him.

Chapter Three

Despite his assurances that all was well in hand, Caro sensed an underlying concern in Mr Read’s manner as he gestured to a side table. ‘May I offer you a glass of sherry?’

She shook her head. ‘Thank you, no.’

His gaze cut longingly to the tray of drinks.

‘Please, do not let my abstinence prevent you from partaking.’

He strode to the table and poured himself a brandy. He tossed it off and poured another. Dutch courage? Was she really so formidable to a man who had faced the guns at Waterloo?

An awkward silence ensued, fortunately broken by the entry of Mrs Lane with supper dishes. The young woman with her, a dark-haired lass of about sixteen, eyed Mr Read with obvious interest. Caro narrowed her eyes at the girl, who blushed and giggled before she left the room with a dip of a curtsy.

Mrs Lane, elbows akimbo, gazed from one to the other of them. ‘You’ll pardon me, sir, if I has this to say no matter what Sir Reginald thinks of the accident?’

Mr Read tensed, but his lips formed an encouraging smile. ‘I would be glad to hear your opinion, Mrs Lane.’

‘I’ve known Josiah Garge for years. Back and forth he’s gone along this road until he knowed it like the back of his hand. He’s no Johnny Raw to be taking that corner too fast. Something happened.’

The piercing gaze Mr Read had fixed on the woman’s face became more intense. ‘What sort of something?’

Mrs Lane deflated, her hands falling to her sides. She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. But taking a man’s good name, talk of drink, fair makes my blood to boil.’

Caro’s own indignation rose. ‘Is that what Sir Reginald is saying? I have no reason to believe that Josiah Garge was anything but sober. Mr Read, surely—’

‘Sir Reginald made no more than a passing comment,’ he said. ‘One of several possibilities.’ His lips flattened. ‘But you are right, Mrs Lane. It is easy for a man’s reputation to be blackened by a careless word. I will ensure that no such aspersions on his character will be cast without evidence.’

‘His wife will thank you for it, sir,’ the landlady said.

‘And you may be assured that Lord Tonbridge will see to it that she is properly cared for,’ Caro added.

‘As he should, or he would hear from me,’ Mrs Lane said brusquely. ‘Dinner is served.’ She nodded for emphasis and left, leaving the door wide open.

‘A fierce woman, our Mrs Lane,’ Mr Read said. ‘Clearly not one to be cowed by the heir to a dukedom. Shall we eat? I told Mrs Lane we could manage to serve ourselves since most of her staff is off on other errands on our behalf. I hope that finds favour with you?’

She certainly didn’t want the saucy servant girl waiting on them. And as long as the door remained open... ‘Certainly.’

He led her to the table and seated her, managing to slide her chair in with one hand as easily as a man with two. He sat opposite her. ‘If you would serve the side dishes, while I serve the beef?’

The beef had been sliced in the kitchen. He used the large fork provided and placed two slices on her plate. She served him the potatoes, green beans and peas. After spooning gravy on her plate, she passed him the boat.

‘Wine?’ he asked.

‘Thank you.’

He poured a rich red burgundy into their glasses. After a short muttered saying of grace, he lifted his goblet in a toast. ‘To those gone but not forgotten.’

The sorrow in his deep voice was not lost on her. This toast meant something more than Josiah Garge. Although there were some people in her life she would prefer to forget, the coachman was not among them. She raised her glass. ‘Not forgotten.’ She sipped and put the glass down. She usually preferred water.

They addressed their dinner. Or at least she did. She had not expected to feel so hungry, but it had been a long time since breakfast. Something made her look up.

He was watching her, his eyes hooded, his expression something she could not quite read. Was she eating too fast? Did he think that if she was a proper lady she would not be hungry, but should pick at her food? ‘Is something wrong?’

He seemed to pull himself back into the present. ‘Nothing.’ He picked up his fork and neatly folded a slice of meat into a small parcel before lifting it to his mouth. It was barely noticeable that he had the use of only one hand since he accomplished it with such grace.

‘How long do you plan to stay in Skepton?’ she asked, more to fill the silence than anything else. There seemed to be a great many silences in Mr Read’s company. Perhaps that was what made him so attractive to the ladies. To her. His air of impenetrable darkness.

She mentally shook her head at her foolish thoughts.

He took a sip of his wine. ‘Good question.’ The pause signified something important. ‘After I met you in York yesterday, I received a letter from Lord Tonbridge. He has offered me a position in his employ.’

The way he phrased it, the way he looked at her... Her heart fluttered oddly. ‘A position in Skepton?’

‘Yes. As house steward at the Haven.’

Her vision tunnelled to a small point. ‘The Haven? My Haven?’ The place where she thought she and Tommy were finally safe?

He gave a slight grimace. ‘I understand that Lady Tonbridge—’

‘Yes, of course. She is our patron. Without her, there would be no refuge. But I thought she trusted— We had an agreement...’ She forced herself to stop. ‘This is Lord Tonbridge’s doing.’ She pressed her lips together. What could she say? Her friend was married. Her husband’s word was law. And now he would put this man in charge of a house she had managed perfectly well these past many months. Any other man might not be so bad, but what if he recognised Tommy, the way he had recognised her? Fortunately, the lad took more after her than his male parent, who had been almost as dark as she was fair. Only his jaw and his eyes came from his father. The thought of anyone realising she had never been married left her feeling ill. Not for her sake, but for how badly it would reflect on Tommy. On his future prospects. It really was too bad. She did not want to leave a place she had come to think of as her home. Her place in the world.

Like a mask his face revealed none of his thoughts. ‘I am sorry if my appointment distresses you, Mrs Falkner. I can assure you, I am not charged with interference in the running of the charity. I am to see to the maintenance and security of the property along with that of the mill until Tonbridge is able to leave his father’s bedside and return to his duties.’

‘Security?’ She stared at him. ‘Tonbridge thinks we are in some sort of danger?’

‘Tonbridge, like any good soldier, is ensuring his defences cannot be breached. There are rogues everywhere, Mrs Falkner. Thieves as well as malcontents. As I said, the appointment is temporary.’

Temporary. She grasped at the word like a straw. But temporary might be a very long time given the apparent severity of the duke’s illness. If at all. If Tonbridge’s father should die, he would become duke, which would mean he and Merry might never return to Skepton for anything but a brief visit. Oh, why of all men would Tonbridge have chosen this one to stand in his stead?

The answer was obvious. They were friends. Comrades-in-arms. And he was available. ‘Then I must congratulate you. No doubt your army experience will stand you in good stead. Things like this—’ She stopped herself. She had been about to say ‘death’, and it would have been such a foolish thing to have said to a man who had spent years of his life in the service of his king and a country at war. If only the sight of the coachman lying there would stop circling through her mind’s eye, she might be able to stop thinking about the fragility of life.

‘One never gets used to it,’ he said softly.

A lump rose in her throat at the pain in his voice and the sympathy.

‘Tonbridge told me about the loss of your husband at Badajoz,’ he continued. ‘I am so very sorry.’

She swallowed her guilt. ‘Thank you.’

‘Your son is a fine little man. You are doing a good job with him. I have no doubt his father would be proud.’

Her heart caught in her throat at the words. His father had refused to have anything to do with either of them. ‘He is a good boy most of the time. Tonbridge advised me to send him away to school where he can be with other boys his age, but I cannot bring myself to do it.’ She was terrified someone might see his likeness to his father, though she hadn’t dared say so to Tonbridge.

‘Boys need their mothers as much as they need a father,’ he said. The bitterness in his tone surprised her.

Glad to turn the conversation away from Tommy, she pursued the question he had raised in her mind. ‘You lost your mother while you were young?’

He frowned. Darkness filled his eyes. ‘Lost?’ He took a long pull at his wine. ‘Not in the way you mean. But I have not seen her for years.’ The words were spoken flatly and discouraged further enquiry.

* * *

How the devil had he let the conversation drift to the subject of his mother? He never spoke about the woman who had dumped him when she had found him inconvenient. The woman who had landed him on a father who hadn’t really wanted him either.

He eyed the bottle of wine. Thoughts of his mother always fired his anger, and while wine would take the edge off, after an accident that might not be an accident, a dull mind was the last thing he needed. ‘May I serve you some of this—’ he inspected the steaming dessert ‘—treacle pudding?’

Mrs Falkner offered him a hesitant smile that struck him deeper than it should have. It made her look pretty and desirable, more like the girl he remembered. Some remnant of his lonely boy’s heart remembered the pang of painful and hopeless longing. He shoved the feeling aside and held the knife ready.

‘A small slice, if you will,’ she said, smiling.

He carefully cut into the sponge and delivered a wedge to one of the small plates provided along with a generous dollop of treacle. The smell evoked memories of childhood dinners alone with his mother. Suppers with his half-siblings in the nursery. Why the devil was he becoming so maudlin? He put down the knife and handed the plate across the table.

Admiration lit her eyes. ‘You do that so well with...’ She coloured. ‘Forgive me. I should not pass comment.’

He chuckled. ‘Believe me, it took hours and hours of practice. Thanks to my father’s determination, I would not shame him with my lack of manners. And thank you for noticing. Most people look away, uncomfortable at the sight of my difficulties.’

‘You are not the slightest bit awkward.’ She sounded almost indignant. ‘I have seen men with two hands be far less graceful.’

Her outrage on his behalf sent a strange sensation arrowing through him. Painful, yet sweet. ‘Graceful is not something usually sought by the male of our species.’

‘I do not mean the foppish affectation of a dandy,’ she said, her face serious. ‘But a manly elegance that cannot help but please the female eye.’ Her colour deepened.

Surprised and ridiculously pleased, he smiled. ‘Thank you. I mostly feel horribly clumsy. You instil me with confidence.’ Heaven help him, it was the truth. A wave of warmth rushed through him, and to hide it he served himself a far larger portion of pudding than he had intended. Almost miraculously, for the first time in a long time, the sweet treat did not taste of ashes and death.

Clearly he was about to make an idiot of himself, hoping for something that wasn’t there, when he’d given up hoping for anything.

Mrs Lane bustled in. She eyed the table with a satisfied nod. ‘Will there be anything else for you, sir...ma’am? Shall I bring the tea tray, Mrs Falkner?’

‘No, thank you,’ Mrs Falkner said, looking becomingly prim and proper. ‘It has been a long day. It is time I retired.’

Time to take her prim and proper self away from temptation, no doubt. Because if he wasn’t mistaken, she was beginning to thaw to him. The very idea made his blood heat.

‘Brandy or port for you, sir?’ the landlady asked.

Brandy was not nearly as tempting as Caro Falkner. ‘I, too, am ready for my bed.’ Or her bed, judging by the embers of desire ready to leap to life at the first sign of encouragement.

Mrs Lane frowned. ‘It doesn’t seem right, sir, a fine gentleman like you bedding down in the stables with our Freddy when I have a perfectly good room on the third floor you can use.’

Mrs Falkner looked startled.

Blast the landlady. Did he have to explain the proprieties and put Mrs Falkner to the blush? She hadn’t wanted his presence on the road. She certainly wouldn’t want him beneath the same roof without a chaperone. ‘I can assure you I have slept in far worse places. Besides...’ he said as he saw Mrs Falkner about to protest, because her stiff manners hid a warm heart. ‘I wish to be on hand to keep an eye on his lordship’s horses.’ Mr Lane had walked them behind the cart he’d used to fetch Garge’s remains.

‘I understand your caution, sir,’ the landlady said, clearly worried by the idea that harm might come to the ducal beasts. ‘As soon as you and Mrs Falkner are finished here, then, I’ll send t’lass to clear away the dishes.’

‘I am finished,’ Mrs Falkner said.

She began to rise. He pushed back his chair, helped her to her feet and walked her to the door. ‘I wish you a good night, ma’am.’ He bowed.

He watched as she mounted the first few stairs and something inside him wished he was going up there with her. That somehow he could have the life the lack of a piece of paper had denied him. Husband. Father. Provider. But if he could not have that, he would at least play the role of protector. On Charlie’s behalf, of course, not his own. Guard duty in the rain. It would be like old times.

How pathetic was he, thinking of such discomfort with longing? On the other hand, a few hours in the cold might well help cool his ardour.

* * *

Caro put down her book with a sigh, tiredness making the words waver on the page as if they were under water. She rubbed at her sore eyes and squinted at the clock on the mantel. Two in the morning. Exhaustion dragged her towards sleep, but every time she so much as thought about closing her eyes, the memory of poor Josiah Garge floated to the forefront of her vision and she started planning the words she would say to his wife, which brought her wide awake again.

Perhaps a glass of milk would help her sleep as it had in the past when her mind would not settle?

At home, she would not have hesitated to slip down the stairs to the kitchen. But in an inn? Albeit a small one.

If she continued to lie here wide awake, she would be drained tomorrow and she had too much to do to be taking to her bed when she got home. Not to mention that Tommy would be disappointed if all she wanted to do was sleep when she arrived home.

She slipped out of bed, put on her dressing gown, tying the belt tight and making sure her cap was securely fastened. If she did run into the landlady, she was no less decently covered than she was during daylight hours. At least she would not run into Mr Read, since he was sleeping in the stable. She found the man’s presence disturbing to her peace of mind. Not only was he far too attractive, he made her want to give in to her weakness and lean on his strength.

Men like him might seem to offer strength and support, but in their wake they left only heartache. A bitter thought, but true nonetheless. Look at the women at the Haven who had been similarly abandoned.

Her chamber door, when she pulled it open, protested with a loud creak. She held her breath, listening for sounds of movement downstairs. All was quiet. She picked up her candle and tiptoed down to the ground-floor kitchen across the hall from the taproom. Hopefully, Mrs Lane would not object to the raiding of her pantry.

She hesitated. Perhaps she really should return to her room and ring the bell for the maid. It just seemed so unfair to rouse the poor girl in the middle of the night. From her own months of working as a chambermaid, she knew only too well what it felt like to be roused from the depths of slumber by some patron with a petty request they could easily see to themselves.

Cautiously, she approached the closed kitchen door and opened it. Fortunately, this one did not make a sound. Candle held before her so she would not trip, she looked around for the door to the pantry. Pots and pans hanging from a ceiling rack reflected back the flickering flame in little points. The dark-red glow of a banked fire cast shadows over a settle beside it. Part of that shadow shifted.

She stifled a gasp.

‘Mrs Falkner?’ A deep male voice. The shadow loomed upward, blocking the light from the hearth.

Heart thudding, she raised her candle higher to reveal the dark planes of a harsh face and the white linen of a man in his shirtsleeves. ‘Mr Read. What are you doing in here? I thought...’

His expression changed from surprise to careful blankness. ‘I beg your pardon. I merely availed myself of our landlady’s offer of a warm spot by the fire to dry my coats and—’ he raised his hand, which held a goblet ‘—a snifter of brandy before I retire.’

A snifter he’d earlier refused. It was then that she saw his coat hung to dry upon a clothes horse. ‘You have been out in the rain?’

‘I took a walk. I assume you cannot sleep either?’

‘I thought to warm up some milk.’

He gestured with his glass. ‘This might serve you better.’

She made a face. ‘Horrid stuff. Mrs Lane forced me to drink some earlier.’

No doubt thinking her disgruntlement amusing, he flashed a swift smile. A rather naughty-boy smile that made her breath catch in her throat. ‘Come now, it did help, did it not?’ He winked.

An answering smile curved her own lips before she could catch it. ‘How ungentlemanly of you to remind me of finding me asleep in my chair,’ she scolded lightly.

His expression stiffened as if she had said something wrong.

It was all right for him to tease, but not the other way around? How typically male.

‘Would you like some brandy or not?’ he asked gruffly.

‘I suppose it might help,’ she admitted.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘Sit, while I fetch another glass.’

He was gone only a moment and returned bearing a lit branch of candles, giving the kitchen a nice warm glow and chasing away most of the shadows.

He placed a chair for her on the opposite side of the hearth, handed her a glass. He sat and, taking up his drink, raised a brow.

She took a sip of the fiery liquid and forced herself not to cough, though there was nothing she could do about the watering of her eyes. She shuddered and swiped the tears away with the back of her hand. ‘I’ll never get used to it.’

He gave a low ironic chuckle. ‘The more you drink the easier it becomes.’

She tried again, but the smell of it set her off coughing. ‘I honestly don’t think I can.’

‘Then I will warm you some milk.’

‘I can do it.’

‘Please,’ he said softly. ‘Let someone care for you for once. Tonbridge tells me how hard you work for what he calls your ladies, as well as your son.’

The gentleness in his tone surprised her as did the thought that he and his friend had made her a topic of their conversation. Was it possible he had told Lord Tonbridge about their previous meeting? Her blood ran cold at the thought. She’d thought she was safe here in the north of England. Must she move again? Leave everything behind once more? Her heart clenched at the thought of so drastic an action.

But it was Tommy she must think of, not herself. If only she could believe she wasn’t being utterly selfish. That what she was doing really was in his interest. For his future.

Even if he eventually hated her for it?

She raised a hand in defeat. ‘Thank you, you are very kind.’

It was then that she noticed his muddy boots and the damp patches on his pantaloons below the knees. She spoke without thinking, the way she would have spoken to Tommy. ‘Are you mad? You should change out of your wet clothes before you risk contracting lung fever.’

Chapter Four

Blade felt his jaw drop as a vision formed in his mind of them both naked. Together. He couldn’t contain his grin. ‘It is not every day a lovely woman asks me to remove my clothes,’ he said, lightly, teasingly. The way he might have done with one of his flirts.

She gasped and looked away.

He squeezed his eyes shut briefly. He should never have spoken so crudely to such a gently bred female. What the devil was wrong with him? It should not have even crossed his mind. He wasn’t some randy schoolboy without control over his lust. Nor was she the sort of woman who would ever be interested in a dalliance for mutual pleasure.

He softened his tone, kept it devoid of expression. ‘It is kind of you to be concerned. As a soldier I am used to being a bit damp around the edges. My greatcoat kept most of me dry.’

She inclined her head as if in acceptance of his clumsy attempt to recoup, but there was pride in that movement, too, and a faint flush high on her cheekbones.

A faint suspicion crossed his mind. Had she, too, had a vision of him naked? Was that why she had averted her gaze? His body hardened. Blast. He really was losing his mind. He strode into the pantry, forcing himself to think of anything but the woman beside the hearth. The stone room was blessedly chilly. He focused on that cold and thoughts of icy rain trickling down his neck during the long hours of guard duty. Finally he got himself under control, found the milk jug, took a deep breath and returned to the warmth of the kitchen. He filled a small pan from the jug and placed it on the hearth to heat. He added the brandy from her glass. ‘It won’t taste quite so bad this way.’

‘I keep thinking of that poor man. Of facing his wife with the news.’

He’d offer to tell the widow for her, but he already knew she would not accept someone else shouldering her burdens no matter how unpleasant the duty. He liked that about her. Her inner strength. Her quiet pride.

And there was no comfort he could offer that would not sound false.

He sat beside her on the settle and placed his hand over hers, lightly. Her hand was small beneath his and, despite the warmth in the kitchen, icy cold. ‘You can only do your best.’

To his surprise and pleasure, she did not pull her hand free, though she could easily have done so.

A small sigh escaped her lips. ‘It is all anyone can do, I suppose.’

Not anyone. Those with good intentions. There were far too many of the other sort waiting to trap the unwary. He forced himself to rise, before he did something really stupid like putting his arm around her, pulling her close and kissing her soft, pretty lips. Crouching at the hearth, he pressed a palm to the side of the pan. It had warmed up nicely. He filled her glass and handed it to her. ‘Try it now.’

She took a sip and made a face. ‘Not quite as bad.’

‘Drink it quickly and—’

‘Get it over with.’

They both chuckled.

‘Mrs Lane gave me the same advice, but having experienced it once it seems worse than ever.’

‘Everything that does you good tastes bad,’ he said. For the first time in a long time he heard his mother’s voice in his head. Saying those very same words with a catch in her voice. He frowned at the memory. He could not place where it came from. The circumstances. Or even imagine why he would think of it now when he tried never to think of her at all. Shocked by the direction of his thoughts, he rose to his feet.

Oblivious to his reaction, she lifted her glass in a pretend toast and drank it down quickly. She shuddered from head to toe. He poured the last of the milk into her glass, sans brandy. ‘Perhaps this will help take the taste away.’

She drank it down quickly. A residue of the milk clung to her bottom lip. He wanted to lick it away. To taste her. She dabbed at it with the back of her hand, leaving him disappointed.

Bah, he was a fool. He turned away. Went to the window to look out, to get his thoughts into some sort of logical order. ‘I informed Lane that we plan to leave for Skepton at first light, if that is all right with you. It will take us a couple of hours given the state of the roads after all this rain.’

He heard the rustle of her clothes as she rose to her feet behind him. As he had intended, she had taken his words as a dismissal.

To his shock, her hand landed on his arm. His left arm. He swung around to face her and found her looking up at him, a smile on her lips and warmth in her eyes that only a fool would pretend not to understand. Gratitude. Kindness.

If she really knew him, she would not look on him so kindly.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘I think I will be able to sleep now. I will be up and ready to leave first thing.’

For a moment, he thought she might rise up on her toes and kiss his cheek, like a sister or a friend, but it was his mouth where her gaze lingered. Heat rushed through him. His blood headed south.

The distance between them was so very slight he could feel the graze of her breath against his throat, see into the warmth in the depths of her melting green-flecked soft brown eyes. Could such a kind gentle creature, such a respectable woman, really want a man like him? One who had been to hell and back.

He swallowed the dryness in his throat. Felt the pound of his blood in his veins. And inhaled the scent of brandy on her breath.

The brandy. She wasn’t used to it. Was likely unaware of its effects. The numbing of reason. In complete command of her senses, a respectable vicar’s daughter would have nothing to do with a man who was only two steps from the gutter.

He stepped back. ‘Then I will bid you goodnight.’ He gestured to the door.

And cursed himself for a quixotic fool when he saw the disappointment on her face.

* * *

The drive back to Skepton was uneventful, though it had bothered Caro greatly that Mr Read had insisted on riding in the rain, instead of joining her in the carriage. She had the feeling that her earlier coldness, her insistence upon the proprieties, had influenced his decision.

She sighed as they pulled up outside the house. Propriety had not been the first thing on her mind the previous evening. It was a good thing he had more of a conscience than most men. She had felt so warm and fuzzy after drinking the brandy she could have sworn she might have kissed him, had he not been too much of a gentleman. If he knew the truth about her, he might not have felt bound by such moralistic sensibilities. Apparently Carothers had said nothing to his friends about the liberties she had allowed in a haze of what she had thought was true love. It eased her mind to know that he had spoken the truth when he had said a gentleman did not kiss, or anything else, and tell, even if he had not kept any of his other promises.

Heat rushed to her cheeks. Shame. Embarrassment at her youthful foolishness.

A footman ran out to open the door and let down the steps. There was nothing she could do about the past. It was the future that mattered. All her focus must be on making sure she did nothing to ruin it for Thomas. She stepped down, pleased to discover that at last it had stopped raining.

Still on horseback, Mr Read was speaking to Lane’s driver. He glanced over as if sensing her gaze.

She made a gesture towards the house. ‘Will you come in for some refreshment?’

He walked his horse closer. ‘Thank you, no. I will have to see to the stabling of Sir Reggie’s cattle and arrange some accommodation for myself. Tonbridge said there were decent rooms above the stables.’ He paused. ‘Would you like me to accompany you to speak with Mrs Garge beforehand?’

Gratitude rushed through her. Some of the tightness left her chest. She ought to say no, but... ‘You might be able to answer her questions better than I.’ She was such a coward. ‘Having spoken with the coroner, I mean.’

He dismounted. ‘We should go right away.’

Before gossip ran rife throughout the house, as it would when she was seen returning in a strange coach.

He handed his horse off to a footman. ‘Walk him. I will not be more than half an hour.’

Side by side they walked past the kitchen towards the arch into the small courtyard at the side of the house, where a side door allowed entry to the stables and where Mrs Garge would be waiting as usual. Once the horses were settled and the carriage put away, it was usual for her and Josiah to walk to their own small cottage on the edge of town.

The closer they drew to the courtyard the more Caro’s stomach tightened.

Mrs Garge rose from the bench the moment they passed beneath the arch, her gaze darting from one face to the other, then past them to see who followed.

Her lined face seemed to collapse. ‘Somat’s happened.’

‘There was an accident,’ Caro said, her voice feeling like sandpaper against her throat. ‘Mr Garge was thrown from the box.’

‘Josiah? No. Is he all reet? Where is he?’ She made to push past them.

‘Mrs Garge,’ Mr Read said, his voice gentle but firm, ‘your husband was killed. Instantly.’ He stepped closer and held out his arms. ‘I am so very sorry.’

The woman stared at his face for a long moment. ‘No.’ Tears ran silently down her face. She collapsed against his chest and he held her while she sobbed. The look on his face startled Caro. Most men did not feel comfortable around a woman in tears and this one was sobbing uncontrollably. But his stoic expression held sympathy and sadness, not discomfort or impatience.

Caro put her arm around the woman’s shoulders and leaned close. ‘I am so sorry. There was nothing we could do for him.’

After a few minutes, Mrs Garge raised her head. ‘An accident, you say? What happened? Never in his life has my Josiah found a team that could take him unawares. Not even those dreadful wild creatures Lord Robert used to drive.’

Garge had been with the family since the twins, Charlie and Robert, had been small children.

‘We think something startled the horses,’ Mr Read said. ‘The wheel struck a rut and shattered. The jolt must have dislodged him from the box.’

Mrs Garge stared at him, eyes wide. ‘Dislodged him?’

‘There was a rock where he landed. He landed hard. I am sorry, Mrs Garge. It was instant.’

Stepping back, she gazed around wildly. ‘I have to go. Tell—’ She swallowed loudly. ‘Tell my family.’

She rushed past them and was gone.

Caro’s knees felt weak. ‘Oh, the poor woman.’

Mr Read took her arm and led her to the bench where Mrs Garge had been sitting. Caro sank onto the hard wood and leaned back against the plank wall. ‘I didn’t even think to tell her we would write to Tonbridge, to ask him to ensure she was cared for. I really meant to do that.’

He put a comforting arm around her shoulders.

‘Give her a bit of time,’ he murmured. ‘I will call round and tell her.’

The sensation of his strength at her side seemed to seep into her bones. She found herself wanting to lean against him. To confide. Terrified of her reaction, she rose to her feet. ‘Thank you, Mr Read.’

She hurried indoors.

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