by Syrie James
“I had something to eat on the train,” Madeleine admitted.
“Well, then?” He quirked an eyebrow. His eyes, she noticed, were an arresting shade of hazel. As he looked at her, it seemed as though he was working hard to take the measure of her, as if she were a problem that needed to be solved. Despite herself, she felt a ripple of sudden interest run the entire length of her body from her head to her toes.
Don’t let him charm you, Madeleine.
She’d spent the past two months at endless balls and parties, subjected to the calculating scrutiny of every fortune-hunting bachelor in London. She’d learned to grin and bear it, and, after meeting Lord Oakley, to actually enjoy it. But Lord Saunders’s gaze made her feel self-conscious somehow. And . . . rattled.
A low rumble of thunder rent the air, recalling her attention to her predicament. Raindrops began to patter against the pavement. It was quite apparent that no one was coming for her. It seemed she had little alternative but to accept his offer.
Madeleine swallowed a sigh. “Thank you. I’d very much appreciate a ride to Polperran House.”
“Excellent.”
Lord Saunders directed two porters to load Madeleine’s luggage onto the back of the carriage. As the men struggled under the weight of her trunk, Saunders asked her, “What have you got in here? Bricks?”
“Books.”
He eyed her with amusement as the coachman secured the trunks and covered them with a tarpaulin. “Did you bring an entire library?”
“Not quite.” She’d only packed two dozen or so of her favorite novels in with her clothes. All the other books she’d brought from New York, she’d been obliged to leave at Brown’s Hotel. In truth, she felt a bit bereft without them. But, she reminded herself, this was a short trip. She’d be back in London in a few weeks.
“May I assist with your satchel?” Saunders gestured toward the tapestry bag Madeleine carried.
Instinctively, she clasped the carryall to her chest, feeling the weight of the precious cargo within. “No, thank you.”
He smiled agreeably, then offered his gloved hand to help her board. She took it. His grip was strong and firm, and once again, she felt a sizzle of sparks dance up her arm. Drat the man for being so charming.
She climbed inside, withdrawing her hand and settling on the forward-facing upholstered seat. Saunders took the seat opposite. As the carriage pulled out of the station, rain began pouring down in earnest. Saunders removed his top hat and set it down beside him. Madeleine dared a glance at him across the carriage.
She had to admit, he was very good-looking. His nose wasn’t perfect, but its slight bend gave it character. His cheekbones were, well, high. His curly hair looked soft and was a lovely shade of dark caramel brown. His three-piece suit was perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders, trim waist, and long legs. It was too much, really. No wonder the debutantes had called him “swoon-worthy.”
Madeleine had no intention of swooning before any man, however. Especially this one. No matter what the other ladies had said about him, as they tittered and gossiped behind their fans.
“It is a shame that he makes such infrequent appearances during the Season, and is so skittish about settling down,” one of her acquaintances had intoned breathlessly at a dinner party. “He is still young, just a year shy of thirty, and he will one day inherit the title of Marquess of Trevelyan. The way he flirts! Why, he almost married an American heiress a few years ago! Thank goodness that did not come to pass.”
Madeleine knew all about that scandalous affair. It was the reason she disliked him.
“So,” Saunders quipped, breaking into her reverie as his eyes lifted to hers, “have you run away from town as your sister did?”
His voice held a teasing lilt to it. Madeleine realized she’d been caught staring and in embarrassment looked away, the question setting her on the defensive. “No! I haven’t run away. I have merely taken . . . a small break.”
“In the middle of the Season? How unusual. What prompted your departure? Other than a sudden impulse to visit your sister?”
“What prompted yours?” she challenged.
His smile fled. After a pause, he replied: “My father is unwell.”
“Oh!” Madeleine had only met Lord Trevelyan briefly, the summer before, but had the impression that he was well-liked and respected in the community. “I’m so sorry.”
“He has been ill on and off for years, but never this seriously. It is why my parents remained in the country this Season. The physician and my mother are very concerned.”
“I’m very sorry,” Madeleine said again. “I do hope he recovers fully and quickly.”
“Thank you.”
Saunders sat in worried silence as the carriage rumbled along, rain beating against the windows. Madeleine felt bad that she’d deflected his question with one of her own. Hoping to fix her mistake and lighten the mood, she said, “You asked my purpose in coming to Cornwall.”
He replaced his frown with a look of genuine interest. “I did.”
“I’ve come because I’ve had an offer of marriage.”
“Congratulations! Who is the lucky gentleman?”
“The Marquess of Oakley, eldest son of the Duke of Courtenay.”
“Ah! I know him well.”
“Do you?”
“We roomed together for a year at Oxford. Philip is an excellent fellow.”
Madeleine hesitated. “Yes, he is.”
“You sound uncertain.”
“I don’t mean to. I’m honored by his proposal.” Lord Oakley was handsome, upright, intelligent, thoughtful. Everything Madeleine wanted in a husband. Her mother was thrilled with the match, and Madeleine knew that where titles were concerned, she couldn’t do better than the eldest son of a duke. “But it’s a big decision,” she added.
“Indeed it is.”
“He’s gone off on a tour of the Continent, so I have time to consider the matter. I didn’t want to accept until I’d discussed it with my sister.”
“I understand why. The Countess of Longford is a paragon among women. I should very much like to consult with her myself before making a decision, were I a woman.”
The comment made Madeleine’s hackles rise again. “Were you a woman?”
Her tone seemed to take him aback. “Er . . . Yes.”
Madeleine reminded herself to see the humor in the situation. He was, after all, a man. Most men viewed the world as though it were their exclusive dominion, convinced that women were a weaker, less worthy, less intelligent gender. “Are you saying that a man can only turn to another man for advice? That you would never seek a woman’s counsel on any matter?”
“I . . . did not say that.”
“Yet you implied it.”
“Forgive me, Miss Atherton. That was not my intention.”
“If you think about it carefully, you will see that what you said was condescension, thinly veiled.”
He nodded solemnly as he considered her remark. “Perhaps it was. Again, forgive me. I see that I shall have to mind my p’s and q’s with you.”
“P’s and q’s. That is such an interesting expression.”
“It is, isn’t it? Now that I said it, I realize I have no idea what it actually means.”
“It’s thought to be a schoolroom phrase,” Madeleine told him. “When pupils were taught to write the alphabet, they were reminded to place the letters in the proper order. P comes before Q.”
“That makes sense.”
“There are two other theories, though, that I recall.”
“Please enlighten me.”
“One is that it’s short for ‘mind your pleases and thank-yous”—the latter of which sounds a bit like the letter Q. My favorite insists that the phrase derives from English pubs of the seventeenth century, when bartenders were obliged to keep an eye on the pints and quarts their patrons consumed.”
Saunders chuckled. “How on earth did you come to know all that, Miss Atherton?”
&
nbsp; “I had a rather remarkable English professor in my second year at Vassar.”
He paused. “Ah, yes. Your sister mentioned that you just graduated from college. May I congratulate you on your accomplishment?”
“Thank you.”
He cocked his head slightly, regarding her with what appeared to be a mixture of esteem and curiosity. “I find you most unusual, Miss Atherton.”
“Do you? Why?”
“Your father is one of the wealthiest men in America. You have no need to work. Yet you chose to attend university.”
“Every member of the peerage goes to college,” she pointed out, “and you don’t engage in a profession.”
His brows furrowed at that and he seemed perturbed. After a moment, he commented, “Yes, but that’s different.”
“Why is it different? Why shouldn’t I educate myself? Because I’m a woman?”
An awkward laugh escaped him now and he seemed incapable of a reply.
Madeleine leaned forward in her seat, passion fueling her words. “Women are just as smart as men, my lord, and sometimes smarter. We are equally as capable. We can do anything men can do.”
He studied her. “Is that so? Anything?”
“Anything. Women are doctors and surgeons now—highly skilled ones. And we have women lawyers now in America.”
“So I have heard,” he admitted. “But you must admit, there are some limits as to what women can do.”
“Name one.”
“Well, for example, a woman could not dig ditches.”
“Give me a shovel, and I will prove you wrong.”
His eyes twinkled. “Something tells me you would. All right, then. A woman could not be a police officer.”
“Why not?”
“She does not have the physical prowess the job requires.”
“I beg to differ. You’d be surprised how strong a woman can be, my lord, when the circumstances demand it.”
He took that in, seemingly considering it, but shook his head. “I do not see it. In the same vein, a woman could never serve in the military or go to war.”
“Untrue!” Madeleine protested. “Absolutely untrue.”
“How so?” He pointed a finger at her. “And pray do not use Joan of Arc as an example. She was an anomaly.”
“Joan of Arc was not an anomaly. Women have served in combat since the dawn of history!”
“Have they? Who?”
“Chinese General Fu Hao, for instance, a woman, led thousands of people into battle in the thirteenth century BCE, and defeated the Shang. In the eleventh century CE, Matilda of Tuscany, an accomplished archer, commanded armies to defend the pope and made kings kneel before her. In our American Civil War, hundreds of women concealed their gender so they could fight alongside their Union and Confederate counterparts. And that’s barely scratching the surface of the—”
“Truce! Truce!” Lord Saunders laughed again and raised his hands in defeat. “I stand corrected. This is clearly a subject which you have studied and I have not.”
“Given the opportunity, women can accomplish great things, Lord Saunders. And one day—I hope to see it in my lifetime—we will have that opportunity. When we have the vote, men like you will be obliged to accept us as your equals.” She paused, conscious that she’d put a somewhat negative emphasis on the words men like you, and worried that she’d gone a bit too far. After all, she was a guest in his carriage, and beyond expressing doubts about women’s physical capabilities, he hadn’t said anything too terribly chauvinistic.
He went quiet for a moment as he stared at her. “Miss Atherton, since the first time we met, I have had the sense that you do not like me very much.”
“Oh, my dislike for you began long before we met, Lord Saunders.” The words tumbled from Madeleine’s mouth before she had a chance to stop them. She stifled a gasp at their brazenness, instantly regretting them. “Forgive me, I should not have said that.”
“No, I appreciate honesty, Miss Atherton,” was his astonished reply. “But pray tell me, what did I ever do to give you offense, before we had even met?”
Historical Fiction by Syrie James
Don’t miss out on Syrie James’s critically acclaimed historical fiction books!
About the Author
SYRIE JAMES is the USA Today and Amazon bestselling author of thirteen novels of historical, contemporary, and young adult fiction and romance. Her books have hit many Best of the Year lists, been designated as Library Journal Editor’s Picks, and won numerous accolades and awards, including Best New Fiction by Regency World Magazine (the international bestseller The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen), Best Snowbound Romance by Bookbub (Nocturne), and the national Audiobook Audie Award for Romance (The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Bronte, also named a Great Group Read by the Women’s National Book Association).
Los Angeles Magazine dubbed Syrie the “queen of nineteenth century re-imaginings,” and her books have been published in twenty languages. A member of the Writer’s Guild of America, Syrie is also an established screenwriter and playwright who makes her home in Los Angeles. An admitted Anglophile, Syrie has addressed audiences across the U.S., Canada, and the British Isles. Learn more about Syrie and her books at www.syriejames.com.
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Also by Syrie James
Historical Romance
Duke Darcy’s Castle
Summer of Scandal
Runaway Heiress
Historical Fiction
Jane Austen’s First Love
The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen
The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë
Dracula, My Love
The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen
Contemporary Romance
Nocturne
Songbird
Propositions
Young Adult Romance
Forbidden
Embolden
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from Runaway Heiress copyright © 2018 by Syrie James.
Excerpt from Summer of Scandal copyright © 2018 by Syrie James.
duke darcy’s castle. Copyright © 2020 by Syrie James. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
Digital Edition FEBRUARY 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-284970-0
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-284971-7
Cover photographs © Michael Frost (couple); © Athip_Taechapongsathon/Shutterstock (estate); © Helen Hotson/ Shutterstock (foreground)
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