Page 2 of Lady Elizabeth’s Winter Stranger

Well-bred young women were granted many privileges.

The chance to bask in their own company wasn’t one of them.

In London, well-bred young women never left their homes without an escort either.

A relative or a female friend or a chaperone or a servant.

Her reputation would suffer, if she took to wandering the streets of London unaccompanied.

Right now, she was furious enough not to give a fig for her reputation. She just had to get out of this house and find somewhere where she could breathe. Because if she stayed inside, she’d start screaming, and she wasn’t sure she’d stop.

Elizabeth was still dressed for travel. She hadn’t even been upstairs yet.

She’d come through the front door and found the mail set out on the hall table.

A pile of invitations for her, as befitted one of London’s fashionable belles, even at this quiet time of year.

A couple of letters from friends who were celebrating Christmas in the country.

And her father’s unwelcome ultimatum. She’d brought the pile of correspondence straight into the library where Jones, her coachman, was lighting the fire.

Because Elizabeth was home so much earlier than planned, the house hadn’t been ready for immediate occupation.

She didn’t mind. Under her London polish, she was a practical creature. Fending for herself for a few hours wouldn’t be too onerous. What she did mind was her father disposing of her like a book overdue at the circulating library.

The house came with a large garden, but right now, something about walking within her family’s domain only stoked her temper.

She strode across to collect her bonnet and gloves.

With shaking hands, she jammed the hat on her head and tugged on her gloves.

She slipped her house key into her reticule and for the first time in London, she set foot outside all alone.

Elizabeth paused on the top step of the short flight leading down to the icy pavement. She sucked in what felt like the first free air that she’d enjoyed since opening her father’s letter.

Lorimer Square was as empty as the house, although churned-up snow on the road showed that the few residents who hadn’t left Town had ridden to church in their carriages early this morning.

Pristine white covered the garden in the middle of the square.

With the cold, nobody was hanging around outside to admire the greenery.

And if she didn’t move, she was likely to become as frozen as the trees and bushes that she stared at without really seeing them.

Her mind was on the horrors of Great-Aunt Agatha’s drafty, leaky castle on the clifftop facing a gray, stormy Pentland Firth.

Great-Aunt Agatha who never had a caller under eighty, and not many of those either.

Elizabeth would just die, if she was exiled to that gusty, dreary outpost.

Rancid nausea heaved once more in her stomach, and those pesky tears threatened again.

To outrun the danger of crumpling into a sobbing heap, Elizabeth descended the steps and started to tramp around the square.

Her dark green half boots crunched across the dry snow, and chilled air filled her lungs.

There was a faint aroma of coal smoke, but with so many people away, the air was fresher than usual.

Most of the houses had taken their door knockers down to signal that the residents were away. The square, always full of activity, was rather eerie, covered in snow and without any signs of life. She didn’t see so much as a stray cat. Which given the cold was lucky for the cats.

Elizabeth felt rather like a stray cat herself. Cast out in the wilderness to make her own way.

Even in the depths of her tantrum, she couldn’t contain a snort of contempt for that idea. If she was a stray cat, she was an expensively dressed one. Like most of her clothes, the ensemble that she wore had cost a fortune and the cut was right up to the minute.

Elizabeth loved clothes. During her London seasons, she’d become something of a style leader.

She’d been very pleased with how the color of her traveling ensemble contrasted with her blond hair and dark blue eyes.

But that was part of the problem. She’d dressed to be noticed when, right now, that was the last thing she wanted.

Her urge to smile ebbed, as she pictured all those extravagant garments going to waste in Caithness.

No, she couldn’t go to Scotland to squander her youth and spirit tending to Great-Aunt Agatha and her pack of panting, slavering, piddling pugs, almost as smelly as their mistress. But that meant marrying Stanton Morley-Bridges. Which meant signing up for a lifetime of misery.

Could she make herself so unpleasant tonight that her unwelcome suitor decided he’d rather have teeth pulled than marry her? Except her father would interpret that as breaking faith, and he’d send her to Caithness anyway.

Whatever she did, she couldn’t stand out here in Lorimer Square until she turned into a block of ice. Every cell in her body rebeled at the thought of waiting meekly in the house for her parents to return, as each second ticked closer to her meeting with the man her father wanted her to marry.

But if she intended to roam, she needed to wear something that hid her rank.

The green outfit announced far too loudly that she was from a rich family and she shouldn’t be out and about on her own.

She let herself back into the house and ventured down into the kitchens.

The benches were crowded with various showpieces that would be served at the dinner tonight.

On the coat stand near the door, she found what she wanted.

The voluminous cape belonged to the housekeeper, Mrs. Dawkins. It was warm and practical and made from a serviceable gray wool that would arouse no curiosity. Even better, it had a generous hood that would conceal her face.

The horrible choices awaiting Elizabeth had her stewing so hard that she was out the front door and down the steps again and on the short street leading out of the square without realizing it. Before she understood the risk she took, she was halfway to Piccadilly.

She stopped in confusion. She couldn’t march down one of the capital’s major thoroughfares without an escort. Even in her snit, she remained aware of that.

But the prospect of slinking back to the house made her gorge rise.

She wanted space. She wanted growing things around her. In built-up London, Hyde Park was the nearest that she was going to get to that. Green Park was closer, but it was too open and too close to home for her to escape notice.

It was dangerous for unaccompanied women to wander around Town.

She might be in the better part of London, but Seven Dials wasn’t a million miles away.

On the other hand, she was yet to see a soul and she could make her way to Hyde Park via backstreets.

She’d have to cross Picadilly at some stage, but her cloak should ensure that she remained inconspicuous.

It was Christmas Day. Surely any footpads would be with their families, the way honest men were. In frigid weather like this, a footpad would have to be desperate indeed to lie in wait for a potential victim.

On a normal day, she’d never chance gallivanting around Town on her own. But Christmas wasn’t a normal day. With sudden purpose, she tugged the hood further forward and turned onto a side street that took her in the direction that she wanted to go.