Waking Up With a Viscount

by Tess Byrnes

  A gleam came into Sir Harry’s rather dull eyes, but before he could answer the door opened. Carolyn looked up with relief. Instead of Priscilla, however, her maid Jane entered, wringing her hands, and accompanied by the housekeeper, Mrs. Bates.

  “I’m sorry to intrude, Ma’am, but Jane has something to say,” the housekeeper informed her.

  “Yes, Jane,” Carolyn snapped. “Go on, girl. Does this have something to do with Priscilla’s uncivil delay in receiving her guest?” She smiled ingratiatingly at Sir Harry. “I’m sure it was something unavoidable, dear sir.”

  “Oh Ma’am,” Jane averred. She looked like she would have fled the room if Mrs. Bates hadn’t been blocking her escape.

  “What is it?” Carolyn stood up and advanced menacingly towards Priscilla’s quaking accomplice. “Where is your mistress?”

  “Gone,” Jane replied dramatically, starting to enjoy herself. “She’s gone, Ma’am.”

  “Nonsense,” Carolyn scoffed. She turned to Sir Harry. “This is some sort of stupid misunderstanding. I’m sure we will find she’s mistaken the appointment and is off somewhere with her nose in a book”

  “Oh no, Ma’am,” Jane assured her, noting with satisfaction the look of unease creeping into Carolyn’s cold eyes. “She’s gone. Left this morning, and without a trace.” She turned her best wide-eyed, innocent gaze on Carolyn, who was trying to look unconcerned for Sir Harry’s benefit. Realizing that she had failed to convince her, Jane persevered, following the script that Priscilla had given her to say. “Her bed hasn’t been slept in, and she said she won’t be back, Ma’am. She said she’d rather die than marry Sir Greenwood.” Sir Harry gave an outraged snort, and Jane glanced at him appraisingly. His red chins were wobbling in outrage, and his eyes looked to be at risk of popping out of his head. “Begging your pardon, sir. She said she’d rather be a cook, or a chamber maid.” Jane warmed to her theme. “She said she’d rather…”

  “Yes, Jane, we understand your point,” Carolyn cut in sharply. “That will be all.”

  Sir Harry hauled himself to his feet. “Upon my word Carolyn, this is a damned insult.” His already ruddy face was alarmingly purple.

  “Oh no, Sir Harry,” Carolyn hurried to him and laid a hand on his arm. “I’m sure Jane is mistaken, and we will find that Priscilla has gone riding, having forgotten her obligations at home.”

  “Oh no, Ma’am,” the helpful Jane continued. “She’s gone alright. She packed her bags sometime in the night. She took her bandboxes and clothes, and...”

  Before she could elaborate on what else Priscilla might have packed, Carolyn spun around and addressed Mrs. Bates. “Get her out of here,” she hissed.

  “I’ll be getting out of here myself,” Sir Harry roared. “I came here at your invitation, Carolyn. I won’t say I haven’t had my eye on that gel for a few years, but her father turned me down last year and I had put it from my mind.” His voice shook with anger. “If it gets about that she bolted rather than marry me I’ll be a laughing stock,”

  “It’s no such thing, Sir Harry,” Carolyn assured him. “She’s merely shy. I know she is content with the match.”

  Sir Harry’s rapid breathing slowed slightly. An image of the lovely young girl he desired for his wife swam before his eyes, and he paused. “Is that the truth?” He looked unconvinced but hopeful.

  “Absolutely,” Carolyn attempted a smile. “She is such an innocent, dear sir, and she needs some time to realize her good fortune. Go home now and let me talk some sense into the girl. I mean, let me help her accustom herself to the thought of marriage. You know how completely unspoiled she is, dear sir. She just needs some time.” She led Sir Harry towards the door. “I’ll come by and visit you early next week, and I’ll bring Priscilla with me.”

  “Very well,” Sir Harry sighed, and allowed himself to be escorted to his carriage. “I will expect to hear from you.”

  Carolyn watched him heave himself up into his carriage and turned and slowly entered the hallway of the manor. A cold light entered her eyes. “Richard!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "Oh! Wait, Please!" Priscilla called out desperately, picking her skirts up and running quickly across the yard. A swirl of dust followed the departing coach as it disappeared around a curve in the road.

  “Stop!”

  But of course it was of no use, and Priscilla came to a slow halt at the edge of the busy yard, out of breath, watching the dust settling in the road.

  She turned slowly, then the realization dawned that not only had she missed the coach, but her trunk and two bandboxes were still strapped securely to the roof of it. She spun around again, raising one hand instinctively as if to catch the driver's attention, but to no avail. Trying to stifle a rising feeling of despair, and thankfully unaware of the stares of two ostlers who had glimpsed her shapely ankles as she chased after the coach, Priscilla clutched her reticule, relieved that she had at least brought it off the coach with her. She returned slowly to where the Innkeeper's wife stood, tut-tutting at the door of the Inn.

  She looked at Priscilla, and saw the determined effort she was making to hold back the tears of frustration. The round woman bit her tongue on the reproof she had been prepared to utter about young ladies of quality running about exposing their ankles to whomever wanted to look at them.

  "There, there, dearie," she said bracingly instead. "No use crying over spilt milk, that's what my John always says."

  "But, my trunk and bandboxes!” Priscilla exclaimed. “They contain everything I own.”

  "Well, we don't usually allow single females with no baggage to stay in our Inn, that's the truth. There are other places that take in that sort. But as this was in some part my fault for delaying you, you can stay the night here." She spoke as one conferring a favor, and Priscilla did indeed feel grateful. She knew the awkwardness of her position, yet was still determined not to turn back. She shook off her growing despair, and smiled gratefully at the large woman.

  "Thank you,” she said sincerely. “When will the next coach be here?"

  "You can travel on the milk run, tomorrow morning. But it’ll be very early, mind. It stops up at the Saracen's Head and before it comes here. It runs a bit slower than the coach. Or you can wait until the late afternoon for the next mail coach. Come along and I'll show you a room. And please to call me Mrs. Higgins, dear."

  She allotted Priscilla a comfortable chamber at the back of the building, removed from the noises of the posting house yard. The room had a low, beamed ceiling, walls covered with dark wood paneling and flowered chintz hangings at the windows. It was simple but clean, and Priscilla thanked Mrs. Higgins sincerely.

  “I’ll bring you up a bowl of broth and some lemonade a little later on,” the stout woman said kindly. “You’ll not want to sit in our tap-room and we do not have a private parlor.”

  “Thank you so much,” Priscilla replied gratefully, and closed the door as her hostess returned to her kitchen.

  Priscilla sat at the window for a few minutes looking out over the fields behind the Inn. The sun was still shining brightly, making the late October afternoon quite mild.

  "Well," she reasoned to herself. "It’s a bit of a setback, but it can’t be avoided, and I am several days earlier than Mrs. Hartfield expected, anyway.” She looked hopefully around the little room, but was unable to locate any books. She looked at the small clock on the desk and realized that it was only four hours past noon, and she had a long afternoon and evening ahead of her. She was hesitant to wander back about the Inn in case she met someone who might recognize her. Deciding finally to take a walk to while away the time before dinner, Priscilla sat at the small dressing table, rearranged her slightly tumbled locks, buttoned the pelisse of her traveling dress, and the trod gracefully out of the room and down the back steps of the Inn. She found herself in a garden in which a few last roses still bloomed, and noticed a little lane leading away from the building. Heading out in this direction, Priscilla gave some consideration t
o the position in which she now found herself.

  She was fortunate, she knew, that Mrs. Higgins had allowed her to stay at The Dancing Maiden. It was highly irregular for a female to stay alone at a Posting House, and beyond irregular to do so without even a bandbox to lend her respectability. Priscilla blessed the chance that caused her to mistake her stop, if such she was destined to do, at the Inn of such an understanding landlady.

  Priscilla still carried her reticule with her. A very little of this quarter's pin-money still remained in it, but she was comforted by the thought of the few guineas now wrapped in a handkerchief in her little bag.

  "At least I can pay for my chamber at the Inn and still be beforehand with the world when I arrive at Hartfield Manor," she reassured herself. She had no idea of how she would be paid by Mrs. Hartfield. The sum agreed upon was sixty pounds a year. But whether this would be paid quarterly or yearly, Priscilla had no very clear notion. Still, the small amount of warmth from the sun and gentle exercise were having their effect, and as she strolled, Priscilla felt her natural optimism returning.

  Pleasance seemed a million miles away and the spectre of Sir Harry Greenwood's coarsened image was receding rapidly from her mind. She ambled along, her mind lost in thought, pausing occasionally to pick a wildflower, or to inhale the heady fragrance of a full blown late summer rose. It wasn’t until a chill breeze wafted down the flower scented lane, causing her to shiver and rub her arms briskly that Priscilla was called back from her thoughts. She realized that the sun was beginning to be hidden behind the graceful poplars that now lined the side of the lane, and the hour rapidly becoming advanced.

  "Mrs. Higgins will think I have lost my way," she thought, a little conscience stricken. She turned to begin retracing her steps when she was startled by the whinny of a horse quite close at hand. Guiltily thinking that she shouldn't be wandering alone on these lanes, and uncomfortably aware that the orderly poplars along the lane most likely denoted that she had strayed onto someone's estate, Priscilla turned to leave quietly, when a low moan broke the silence.

  "Who is there?" she asked in what she hoped was a quelling tone. There was no reply, except for the sound of a horse restlessly stamping its hooves nearby. Priscilla, suppressing a somewhat cowardly urge to turn tail and continue her way back to the Inn, followed the sound around a bend in the lane. She was separated from the source of the sounds by a tall hedge, and was obliged to brush through it, grateful for a lack of thorns as she did so. She emerged on the other side to see a magnificent black stallion standing in the dusty lane, tossing his head up and down, mane flying, the long ribbons of his reigns tangled in a trailing bush. Beside the horse, lying unconscious, was the very still form of a startlingly handsome man.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Priscilla picked up her skirts and hurried over to the motionless figure, dropping down swiftly beside him. Instinctively, her hand sought his chest and she was reassured by the strong steady beat she found there. She moved her hands quickly but firmly down the length of his arms and legs, a slight flush coloring her face as she felt the muscular legs encased in the buckskin breeches. She sighed with relief when she detected no fractures. Priscilla looked at the man's face, noting an ugly bruise beginning to mar the chin of what she couldn't help thinking was the most handsome face she had ever seen. Dark unruly curls had been ruthlessly combed into a windswept style, now with one thick lock falling over his forehead. Thick, dark eyelashes rested on his finely shaped cheekbones, which angled down to a firm chin. Priscilla found herself thanking the chance that had caused the man to come down on his chin in his fall, and not on the straight nose that was so perfect in profile.

  Thrusting away these thoughts, Priscilla placed her hand on the man's shoulder and shook him gently, calling in a soft, urgent voice, "Sir, can you hear me?" Winning no response, she shook his shoulder with more strength. His face was alarmingly pale, and Priscilla's concern was rapidly growing.

  "Oh, wake up, Sir, please, answer me!" This time she was rewarded by a soft groan. The man raised a hand to his head. His eyes opened briefly, squinting against the pain in his head, and Priscilla rose hastily to her feet.

  "Damn and blast," he uttered thickly. He seemed unaware that he was not alone, and Priscilla watched him for a few moments as he struggled to sit up, one hand shielding his eyes.

  "Sir, I fear you have had a rather bad fall from your horse," she informed him in a calming voice. "Do you think you can rise with a little help?"

  Ignoring her proffered hand, he pulled himself slowly to his feet, and then staggered. Reaching for the nearest support, his hand came to rest heavily upon Priscilla’s shoulder, as he steadied himself. Gaining his balance, he released her to stand shakily. He raked a hand through his unruly hair. "My horse, damn the brute. Where is he? I hope to God he hasn't broken his shins."

  "Nearby, Sir. He doesn't appear to have sustained any hurt," Priscilla reassured him.

  "Stop calling me ‘Sir’!" he demanded irritably, one hand still holding his head as he attempted to maintain his somewhat shaky balance. Priscilla darted forward and put an arm around him as he dropped suddenly and unsteadily down on one knee with a groan.

  "Sir, uh, I mean, do you think you should be trying to stand? You seem quite shaken. I'm sure you have received a concussion, at the very least."

  "Fetch my horse," was the sharp order she received by way of reply, and although she was beginning to be annoyed by this series of peremptory orders, she left him on one knee in the road, and went to untangle the reigns of the magnificent black stallion, leading him over to the gentleman.

  "If you think you can hold him steady I believe I can mount him,” he said, optimistically as it turned out. He grasped the reigns, lifted one booted foot into the stirrup, and then balanced there a little precariously, trying to summon the strength to hoist himself into the saddle. After several attempts he leaned his head against the stallion's strong neck, admitting defeat. "Damn and blast."

  "Excuse me," Priscilla broke in practically. "There is an Inn several miles down this road. If you wait here, I shall go and get someone to help you."

  "No!" he rapped out sharply, then winced against the pain in his head. After a moment he continued in a more temperate voice. "It's much quicker to keep going ahead. Do you think you could give me a boost up?" His voice was an equal blend of annoyance, cold civility and exhaustion.

  Priscilla eyed him uncertainly. His build was slim but he was quite tall, and, as she knew from her brief examination, muscular. He loomed over her, still leaning against his stallion for support, and she doubted very much her ability to boost him, as he put it, into the saddle. But she came forward gamely.

  "I'll try," she said in a determined voice. She took his booted leg her hands and pushed with all her strength as he sprang up, managing to land crossways in the saddle before passing out.

  "Oh lord," Priscilla exclaimed aloud in dismay, steadying him in his somewhat precarious position, and looking around wildly for help. Seeing none, she took the stallion’s reins and moving forward gingerly, so as not to dislodge the horse's burden, set off down the lane, heading away from the Inn in the hope of coming across the gentleman's house. The magnificent horse followed her quietly, much to her relief. The evening light was fast fading, and the chill was beginning to seep through Priscilla’s traveling coat. She was not naturally timid, nonetheless as the sky darkened every shadow appeared menacing, and every noise sent her pulse racing uncomfortably. Pausing every few minutes to check that the man was still breathing, Priscilla briskly rubbed her arms as she walked, and tried in vain to think what she would do if she could not locate help. It seemed like hours had gone by, and the sky was certainly darkening rapidly. The temperature was also dropping quickly, and the prospect of dying from exposure along with an unconscious stranger was not an attractive one.

  “Oh please let me find his house while I can still see where we are going,” she prayed silently. “Let him be alright.” As the little group
rounded a bend in the lane, Priscilla saw the dim shape of a cottage not far ahead.

  A surge of hope raised her flagging spirits at the thought of a stout farmer who might render them some aid, and with renewed energy she urged the stallion along.

  The approach to the cottage was a tangle of overgrown shrubs, and when Priscilla approached the structure, she had to admit that it did indeed appear to be disused. Tethering the stallion to a branch near the door, Priscilla neared the door and knocked loudly.

  "Hello," she called out. “Is anyone here?" Again, no reply. She pushed the door open on its rusty hinges and looked in. The roughhewn furniture was dusty, but the cottage appeared to have been recently occupied. Rough wooden shelves on one wall contained jars of preserves and a cheese cased in wax. A few sticks of kindling and a pile of firewood were stacked by the settle, and a tarnished copper kettle hung from a cast iron hook. There was a wooden bed frame, crossed by ropes which supported a thin, striped mattress and several coarse blankets.

  Tired and very anxious for the safety of the man she had rescued in the lane, Priscilla looked around at the blackening sky and made a sudden decision. Without really thinking through the implications of such a move, Priscilla stepped into the cottage and pulled the wooden bed as close to the door as she could. Going back outside, she led the stallion up to the doorstep and bade him hold in front of the door. Pulling the inanimate form from the saddle as gently as she could, Priscilla braced herself to receive his weight. The unconscious man slid from the saddle to the ground, rousing enough to bear some of his weight, and somehow Priscilla managed to get him across the threshold and onto the narrow bed inside the door. As he slipped down onto it a cloud of dust rose from the mattress, which Priscilla suspected was filled with cornhusks. She lifted his legs onto the lumpy mattress, and straightened his form as best as she could. She stood looking down at him. His face was alarmingly pale, but she noted with relief his deep even breathing. her hand went to his brow, and detected no fever, and it lingered there, smoothing the dark arching brows. She brushed his tangled locks back, enjoying how soft his hair felt under her hand. A sudden noise from the stallion startled her, and she hastily withdrew her hand.