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Beck watched as the footman helped Mrs. Newsome and Gwendolyn into the coach to join Lady Orpington. Gwendolyn didn’t look
at him, not even to nod hello.
That was what he had wanted, he reminded himself. He’d told her to keep her distance, and she was. He’d even chosen to see
his own way to Colemore instead of riding with the ladies.
Yes, this was what he wanted... except he discovered he didn’t like it. He’d had a taste of Gwendolyn’s bright, inquisitive mind, and he found he wanted more.
He’d spent the last week thinking about their conversation and replaying it in his mind.
The coach started forward. Beck’s intention was to ride ahead. Instead, he rode beside it. He could claim to be a guard, but
they didn’t need one. Not with this many footmen, and not in Kent.
No, he rode beside the coach because Gwen dolyn was there... and also because he couldn’t make himself charge forward. The reason for that was complicated.
Beck had known of Colemore since his school days. The Faircote headmaster was aware of his connection to the marquess. After
all, the school payments had come from him. The headmaster had once mentioned the estate. Here was a connection to his unseen
father, and Beck had become determined to learn all he could about it.
That had not been a difficult task. Colemore had an almost mythical status among the English. It was said to be the finest
property in all Britain. Perhaps even the world.
These pronouncements had fed Beck’s young imagination. He’d tried to picture what his father’s home looked like. He’d found
a book titled A Tour of Colemore and Its Gardens , a collection of essays written about the estate in the early 1700s by the rector of St. Albion’s church. Beck had even seen
drawings of the church, knew it was of Norman origins and within four miles of Colemore.
However, now that the moment was at hand when he would see this great estate for himself, Beck felt conflicted.
What was it Gwendolyn had suggested? That she understood having a desire for family ?
He had given deep thought to that statement. Families were a mystery to him. Perhaps that was one of the reasons he found Gwendolyn and her sisters’ very strong bonds a curiosity. He couldn’t imagine them abandoning each other. Or one of them abandoning their child.
In the dream, he felt as if he had to reach the woman to save her. He always woke before he knew why she was frightened. And
he wondered if that fear was what had held her from him.
Now he was about to meet the father who had kept him at a distance. Gwendolyn had suggested meeting the marquess was Beck’s
sole reason for going to Colemore. Her suggestion troubled him... because it might be true.
Beck decided he was being ridiculous. All of this thinking—about the dream, his father, Gwendolyn—was making him morose. He
kicked his horse forward and yet fell back to ride alongside the coach again.
The vehicle began to slow. They turned down a country lane. Beck had no choice but to move forward or else ride in the coach’s
dust. They traveled for a mile and then came another turn. A stone post marked the road. Carved into it was the word Colemore .
They had arrived.
A sense of apprehension settled on his shoulders. He didn’t understand it. He was arriving at Colemore disguised by another
name. No one here knew him or had even laid eyes on him as far as he knew.
The bay took an anxious step as if picking up on Beck’s uncertainty. He sat deeper in his seat and told himself there was
nothing to fear. He was a man of war. Whatever lay ahead, he could manage it.
And he would protect the women in the coach. He’d even watch out for that ridiculous dog.
All was safe.
He kicked the gelding forward.
The road was as rutted as the country lane and meandered through a surprisingly heavy forest. Lady Orpington had leaned out
of the coach window to shout to Beck that it was going to be at least an hour more of travel.
“Are we on Colemore property?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. Middlebury owns this all the way to the river,” she answered, and then sat back in her seat as overhanging branches
threatened to whop her in the face. Beck ducked them and pushed his horse to pick a way along the road using the woods.
He heard Gwendolyn say in that crisp manner of hers, “I’ve heard talk of the magnificence of this estate. It seems more like
an untamed wood.”
“Parts of it is,” Lady Orpington answered. “But just wait.”
The window shades were up, and from inside the coach, Gwendolyn looked over to Beck. Then she almost made him laugh when she
rolled her eyes heavenward. He understood. The rich were eccentric.
They went around a bend, and the road smoothed out into a well-graded drive, one wide enough to accommodate two coaches. It
was better than any post road.
Fifteen minutes later, they came upon a manicured lawn. Green grass stretched out around them to its forest border.
The change was so abrupt that Beck made a sound of surprise, and Lady Orpington chuckled. “More to your liking, eh? The marquess has some queer notions about privacy. He feels that having an overgrown entrance will keep the common folk at bay. I’ll warn you, he is odd. And his little forest ruse doesn’t fool anyone. Everyone knows that a mile down the way is the true beginning of the estate.”
“He must have a battalion of gardeners,” Beck said.
“Two battalions,” Lady Orpington answered. “The man is as wealthy as Croesus.”
“Is he as vain?” Beck asked. Hubris had been what had destroyed Croesus.
“I shall let you answer that for yourself, Nicholas,” she replied.
Gwendolyn sat forward. “Look,” she said with delight and pointed to a sculpture out on the lawn. A graceful bronze stag was
frozen in flight as it leaped into the air. Its hooves shone with gold. “That is lovely.”
“Look close,” Lady Orpington said. “Do you see the dogs?”
Beck trotted ahead so he could see over the coach team. He studied the lawn and the distant line of trees.
Gwendolyn was doing the same, because she called out, “I see them. There, off to the left as if approaching the deer.”
He saw them then, a pack of bronze hounds running as if they could capture their quarry. Several had tongues hanging out,
and their ears were flying. Their paws barely touched the ground. They were more of a marvel than the stag.
“The fourth Marquess of Middlebury had them made, the brother of this one. He appreci ated art, as did his father, the third marquess,” Lady Orpington explained. “They say the third was inordinately proud of his deer. Then one day, he came riding out, and there was the dog pack. His son, the fourth,” she said helpfully so that they could follow her story, “had them made to tease his father. I’ve heard it said that the fourth had a playful sense of humor, and it must be true. Every time I see those dogs chasing the deer, I smile. Those who knew the fourth admired him greatly. He was very successful at promoting the Whig agenda. So unlike his brother, who doesn’t step a foot into Parliament or anywhere beyond Colemore.”
Beck had fallen into line beside them, interested in the gossip about this family he did not know. Now that he was on their
land, their presence, their personalities, took on a stronger meaning.
“Was the older brother much older?” Gwendolyn asked.
“No, just a few years.”
“Then this marquess is the fifth, correct?” Gwendolyn asked.
“Do not forget the fourth, and his marchioness had a son. He hadn’t been born more than a month when his father died. He was
the fifth marquess. The current one is the sixth.” She lifted Magpie to clutch against her as if needing the solace of her
pet. Magpie growled a response. She lowered the dog to her lap.
Gwendolyn remembered. “The mother and the son died, correct? How did it happen?”
“I can’t remember the details. Franny does not like to talk about it.” Lady Orpington ran a gloved hand along Magpie’s thick fur. “She and Middlebury used to be quite social before the tragedies. Afterward they were in mourning for several years. And then they started their house party,” she finished on a brighter note.
Beck wondered if grief could be a reason his father kept his distance from London. Could grief have caused him to disavow
Beck instead of shame, as he’d believed?
“The family’s tragedies are all quite sobering,” Lady Orpington said. She slipped her fingers under Magpie’s onyx-covered
collar and gave her a scratch. “None of us knows how many hours we have on this earth. I never expected Charles to die, and
yet he did.” Tears filled her eyes. Gwendolyn leaned forward to touch her hand, her features softening.
Beck frowned. Much more of this and he’d have a coach of weepy women. Well, save for Mrs. Newsome. She was dry-eyed.
And then Lady Orpington brightened. “Although matters did work out well for Franny,” she said. “She’d married a second son,
but now her husband is the sixth marquess. Her rank is well above mine and almost everyone else we knew back in those days.
She also has two sons, and so the inheritance in her line is ensured.”
Gwendolyn spoke up. “Lord Ellisfield. He is the heir.”
“Have you met him?” Mrs. Newsome asked. Beck wanted to know the answer, too.
“No, I have not,” Gwendolyn answered. “However, my sister claims, as she does for several gentlemen, that he is the most eligible bachelor in London.”
“Just like his late uncle,” Lady Orpington agreed.
“Although he didn’t make an appearance over the Season at any of the affairs my sisters and I attended,” Gwendolyn said. “At
least, I was never introduced to him.”
“And you may not meet him here. He often doesn’t attend.” Lady Orpington scratched Magpie’s ear while the dog opened his mouth
for a yawn and then a sneeze. “Oh goodness,” her ladyship said in a squealy voice as if the dog had done something brilliant.
Beck liked dogs. He wasn’t certain he liked Magpie. The dog had tried to chew on his boot when he’d visited with Lady Orpington
the other day, and she’d used the same squealy voice to chastise him. It hadn’t deterred Magpie’s behavior. Instead, Beck
had waited until her ladyship was looking away and given the dog a good shake of his boot. Magpie had retreated.
Lady Orpington smiled out the window up at Beck. “We are coming to the crook in the drive. It won’t be long now—oh, wait,
what ?” She was looking beyond him.
Immediately Beck turned in that direction to see what had upset her. A group of riders had burst from the woods and were riding
at a tear directly for the coach. They showed no signs of reining in even as they closed in on Lady Orpington’s team. Instead
they seemed to charge harder.
The coach horses immediately sensed a threat.
They tried to turn to confront the other horses. When they couldn’t, when the driver stood to hold them, one began bucking in his traces.
Beck expected the riders to come to a halt. They didn’t. When he realized what was about to happen, he jumped from his saddle,
dropping his reins, and ran to the lead horses just as an oncoming rider sent his horse, a powerful chestnut, up in the air
to jump over the team.
The other riders had pulled up. They now cheered as the chestnut seemed to fly through the air, man and beast as one.
Of course, the action sent Lady Orpington’s team into a panic.
Beck had grabbed the lead horses’ cheek straps and, using the weight of his body and the command of his presence, pulled their
heads down to prevent them from shying or bolting.
The jumper landed heavily on the other side of the road. His friends began shouting and clapping.
And Beck vowed that once he had this team under control, he would pull the heads off of every fool who had thought this was
a great idea.
Lady Orpington’s team wanted to bolt. They didn’t because Beck and the driver wouldn’t let them. One stamped on Beck’s foot,
but he kept his hold.
And then it was quiet.
“Good horses,” Beck said in a low voice as the footman in the driver’s box leaped down to help him. Together, along with the
driver, they managed to settle the team.
Gwendolyn opened the coach door and hopped out. She ran to the back of the vehicle. Concerned for the women, Beck gave over the handling of the team to the servants and went after her.
She was bent over a footman who had fallen off the coach. The moaning man held his arm. She looked up at Beck. “I think it
is broken.”
“You are right,” he agreed, his disgust now complete. There was no broken skin, but the man was in too much pain for there
to not be a break. He helped him up.
Lady Orpington leaned out of the coach window. “Have Evers come here,” she said, referring to the footman. “You shall ride
with us until we can find help.”
“Thank you, my lady,” the servant said, and Gwendolyn helped him to the door.
“Now I can set the step for you,” she told him. She turned to fetch the small stool from its place on the coach.
“No cause, Miss Lanscarr. I can step in.” And he did even though Magpie growled her disdain.
Beck shifted his focus to the riders. They had joined their champion on the other side of the road. Beck began walking toward
the chestnut’s rider, who had lost his hat during the jump. He was a blond-headed man with laughing blue eyes. He apparently
had thought that this was all just good fun. He began riding toward Beck, a huge smile on his face.
His friends, a group of three men, followed. They were in good humor, and Beck realized why once he was close enough to catch
the whiff of brandy fumes all around them. So it didn’t bother him to reach up for the blond rider and jerk him off his horse
with one hand.
The rider tumbled to the dirt.
“ That is Ellisfield ,” one of the trio shouted in outrage.
Beck didn’t care if it was the King of England. “Beg my pardon,” he responded and grabbed Ellisfield by his jacket to yank
the befuddled man up to his feet.
Behind him, Lady Orpington leaned out of the open coach door. “ Nicholas. That is the son of our host. Stop it.”
Beck did not acknowledge her words. His plan was to put his fist in Ellisfield’s face. See if the man would like to jump after
that.
The trio of riders just stared dumbfounded without lifting a finger to stop Beck.
And yet someone tugged on the arm he had pulled back. It was Gwendolyn. “I think you have made your point, Mr. Curran.”
He frowned. “I’m only beginning.”
“I see that,” she said, looking up at him. “But you are very direct, and perhaps we should let the matter stand since everyone
is somewhat all right?”
The wisdom of her calm words broke the tension inside him. Sanity returned.
He looked at Ellisfield. He still had his hand clamped around the lapel of the man’s riding jacket—but his lordship wasn’t
looking at Beck. No, he was staring at Gwendolyn as if he had never seen a more beautiful woman.
She wasn’t wearing a bonnet because she hadn’t bothered with niceties when she’d left the coach to help the footman. Her cheeks were flushed, while several dark strands of her thick hair had come loose from their pins and curled around her shoulders. As disheveled as she was, she looked delectable. Enough so that Ellisfield and his companions had gone speechless.
Now Beck truly did want to give the man a thrashing so he’d keep his eyes to himself. Except, as Lady Orpington had pointed
out, Middlebury might not appreciate Beck teaching his son manners. He released his hold. “I’m done,” he said to Gwendolyn.
“Thank you,” she said with a radiant smile that made him feel ridiculously pleased with himself, until he realized that Ellisfield
and his friends were all as enchanted as he was.
“Please return to the coach,” Beck said.
Gwendolyn looked at him, then at the others, and shook her head. “Very well.” He watched her retreat to the vehicle.
The trio of friends began to make angry noises at Beck, but Ellisfield held up a hand as if warning them to be quiet.
He turned to Beck, his expression remarkably sober, even though it was obvious he had been drinking a great deal. However,
he appeared to realize just how foolish he’d been. “Accept my apology?”
Beck wasn’t going to let this be easy. “For what? For being reckless and dangerously stupid? And it was Miss Lanscarr’s life, along with Lady Orpington’s and her companion’s, that you endangered. Not to mention breaking a footman’s arm. They are the ones due an apology.”
Too late, Beck realized exactly how poorly he was handling this.
But Ellisfield didn’t take offense. He was almost as tall as Beck and perhaps a few years older. He had the golden, blue-eyed,
masculine looks women seemed to admire. He gave a bark of laughter. “You are right.” He now trotted his handsome self after
Gwendolyn, who had not yet reached the coach. He caught up with her, moved in front of her, blocking her path. He bowed. “Please
accept my apology for being ‘reckless and dangerously stupid.’”
Beck suspected he’d quoted him as a jibe. However, before Gwendolyn could respond, Lady Orpington, who had climbed out of
the coach and walked over to them with Magpie in her arms, trilled happily, “My lord, this is my card partner, Miss Lanscarr.”
The dog growled at Ellisfield as he growled at everyone, but Beck felt it was fitting in this circumstance. He hoped Magpie
chewed on Ellisfield’s boot as well.
“My dear godmother,” Ellisfield replied, bowing respectfully. “Please forgive me. I’m bored and, perhaps, have been imbibing
too much.”
“Perhaps?” Lady Orpington queried. “The fumes are all around you. Come, I have a footman who has been injured by your sporting
fun. We need to find him help.”
“I will be happy to accompany you,” his lordship said. “And Miss Lanscarr, the pleasure is mine to meet you. I have heard of the Lanscarr sisters. They did not exaggerate when they acclaimed your beauty.”
Beck cringed at the flowery words that tripped off Ellisfield’s tongue. They sounded false to his ear and too ingratiating.
However, to his horror, Gwendolyn made a small curtsy, lowering her lashes down over her eyes so they brushed her cheeks.
“You are most flattering, my lord.”
Ellisfield was smitten.
Beck could feel it in the air. Gwendolyn had effortlessly conquered him.
He should have busted his lordship in the nose when he’d had a chance. That would have changed his looks.
“Come, let me accompany you to the house, Godmother, so that we can see to your man.” Ellisfield helped Lady Orpington and
Gwendolyn into the coach. He threw over his shoulder, “Come, lads.” His friends moved their horses forward as if they were
cavaliers accompanying the King of France. Ellisfield squeezed himself into the overpacked coach—right next to Gwendolyn.
Lady Orpington suddenly leaned out the window. “Ellisfield, I almost forgot. I want to introduce you to my nephew, Nicholas
Curran.”
From inside the coach, his lordship’s voice called out. “Pleasure is mine, Curran. See to my horse, will you? Ride him to
the house, and a stable lad will take care of him.” Lady Orpington trilled a laugh as if Ellisfield was clever and gallant...
in giving Beck orders. She ducked back inside the vehicle.
Beck watched the coach roll away in disbelief. His bay had been tied to the rear of the coach, and even he went happily along with Lord Ellisfield.
And he was stuck with the chestnut.
Raking his fingers through his hair, Beck wondered where the devil the hat he’d paid a small fortune for had disappeared.
He walked back to Ellisfield’s horse and took the reins. The animal was sweaty, its head low as if exhausted. Beck took the
reins. He found his hat beside the road. A horse had stepped on it.
He slapped the hat back into shape, put it on his head, and mounted the chestnut. After a few steps, he dismounted. The animal
was limping slightly as if it had come down wrong after taking that jump. With a heavy sigh, Beck began leading the horse
to the house. The chestnut bumped him with his nose as if in gratitude. “I’d be thankful not to have that arse on my back,
too,” Beck muttered in agreement.
The road took them up a knoll, and at the height of it, Beck came to a halt.
Colemore was spread out before him. His father’s home.
A palace would be smaller. However, it wasn’t the size of the manse that made him think of royalty. It was the whole scene—sunlight
bouncing off a pair of stone gates leading to a stately yellow brick home with sizeable wings off the main building. A row
of white columns framed the facade. The front drive was busy with guests, servants, and dogs. A bevy of footmen came running
to meet Lady Orpington’s coach. Beyond the house were gardens, trees, and a pond in the distance.
And this could have been his home, if he’d been born on the right side of the covers.
He stood, wondering if he should be feeling jealousy or anger. Or even a sense of homecoming. Would they not be understandable
emotions considering history and his station in life?
No. All he experienced was a rather detached interest, the sort of feeling any traveler would have upon reaching his destination.
The house was grand and admirable for what it was. However, Colemore didn’t call to him. There was no filial yearning deep
in his soul or sense that, at long last, he was where he was destined to be.
Instead, Beck watched as Lord Ellisfield helped first his godmother, then Mrs. Newsome, and finally Gwendolyn out of the coach.
The man hovered around her as he walked her toward the door, his step apace with hers. He placed a gloved hand on her elbow
as if claiming her. That sparked an emotion in Beck.
“Bastard,” he muttered.
The chestnut gave him another agreeing nudge.
Beck made his way down the knoll and through the stone gates of Colemore. A young stable lad ran up to him to claim the horse.
“His lordship said you were coming,” the boy said. Beck handed over the reins and began walking toward a massive wooden door
beneath the house’s center columns.
A woman stood in the doorway, greeting guests and directing servants. She was elegant, stately, and completely in her element. The sun that lit the planes of the house caught the fading strands of gold mixed in through the white of her hair, and yet there were few lines on her face. She had light blue eyes, much like Ellisfield’s. Beck knew just by her sense of command that this must be the Marchioness of Middlebury.
And his immediate reaction to her was intensely visceral, to the point he took a step back.
He did not like her. He didn’t know her, but he would not trust her.
Almost as if she sensed his presence, she slowly turned. Their gazes met, and her smile widened... but it did not meet
her eyes. There was no greeting for him in them. If anything, she had the calculating look of a French general deciding where
to set the bayonet line.
“Welcome to Colemore, Mr. Curran,” she said as if she’d been expecting him. Her tone was cultured. She enunciated carefully.
Then she waved someone forward who was apparently standing close to the doorway. The woman came at her hostess’s bidding.
“Please, sir,” Lady Middlebury said, “you remember Lady Rabron? She and her husband are new to our party this year as well,
and I believe she is an old friend?”
Beck swung his attention to the other guest and froze. Lady Rabron was Violet Danvers, the woman who had rejected his love
because he hadn’t been good enough for her family. He had not bothered to learn her married name or the title she had sold
herself for.
Violet was older now, but still lovely in that fawnlike way of hers. Her eyes widened in mutual recognition. She started to say something, but before she could, Lady Middlebury cut in, “Lady Rabron, this is Mr. Nicholas Curran, Lady Orpington’s long-lost nephew who has made a sudden appearance. Fortunate for her, isn’t it?”
She smiled as she spoke, and Beck was certain she knew exactly who he was. He had no idea how she had come by the information.
He’d been very careful.
However, for whatever reason, she was apparently not going to call him out.
At least, not yet.
He met Violet’s confused gaze, silently pleading with her to pretend, to not call him out.
There was a tense moment, and then Violet said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Curran.”