Diana Sensational Spinster's Society (The Spinster’s Society) (A Regency Romance Book)

by Charlotte Stone

In the rocking, swaying compartment of the Royal Mail coach, however, Marilee's dreams were different. She was on board a ship, the deck scrubbed clean and the sky a beautiful pristine blue. She knew that the scent of salt air was the scent of freedom, and she would never dream of that corridor in the desecrated house again. To her surprise, a white owl came winging through the sky to perch on the rail next to her hand. It was an unlikely bird to be seeing at open sea, and Marilee noted that even in her dream.

  "Why, what are you doing here?"

  "Looking after you, of course, It is best you wake up now, I believe."

  The owl spoke with the voice of a man, and Marilee was so startled by that fact that she did jolt out of her restless sleep, blinking around her in confusion. For a moment, she didn't understand why she wasn't in her bedroom in London, and then she realized the curate was sitting unnervingly close to her.

  "You can go back to sleep, dear. I am simply watching out for the both of us this evening."

  She started to tell him tartly that he could watch out for them, if he was so inclined, from his own seat, but then to her shock, his heavy hand dropped on her knee. It was winter, and he was pawing more at her plain wool skirt and her thin petticoat than he was at anything vulnerable, but feeling the unwanted touch made something inside her feel sick.

  "Get your hand off me."

  To her complete and utter fury, he paused for a moment, and then he chuckled again.

  "Oh, my dear, that is not what you truly want."

  Marilee had spent the last year or so being told that what she really wanted was, of course, to please her stepfather and to do as he said, and this was just a pale echo from a pasty-looking man who did not have a tenth of her stepfather's command or authority over her.

  "Sir, I will not tell you again. Get your hand off me."

  He didn't even bother to respond to that, and Marilee took a deep and careful breath. Let him think she was simply going still and complacent out of shock. Instead, she was gathering her nerve and reaching into the small bag squeezed between her hip and the door of the coach.

  Of course, a woman could not travel with a pistol or a dagger. Surely, such things would be too much for their delicate nerves. Marilee had heard such things her whole life, and when it came time to prepare herself to flee, she decided to heed them for once. The last thing she wanted to do was to draw notice to herself as she fled for Hull, to do anything that would mark her as unusual or strange.

  However, there was nothing wrong at all with packing up a pair of knitting needles—sharp-tipped and carved out of hardwood. Marilee had never knit long enough to gain any proficiency with the needles, but as it turned out, she did not need proficiency for what she had planned.

  She’d had enough of the curate fondling her, she’d had enough with men who thought they knew her needs and wants better than she, and she channeled all her rage at the curate, her stepfather, and her situation into what she did next.

  Marilee drew the twinned needles back, gripping them like a knife in her fist, and with gritted teeth, she drove them down toward the curate's thigh. She had a brief moment to wonder whether her flimsy weapon would even stab through the man's trousers, and then she felt them briefly enter his flesh before he drew back in alarm.

  "You bitch, you stabbed me!" His scream seemed to make the coach judder, and outside, in some other world, Marilee heard the coachman calming the horses.

  When Marilee spoke, her words were terse. "Shut up. You have made things bad enough, haven't you? I am not afraid to stab you again if you dare lay another hand on me, but if you will go back to your bench and stay there, I will say nothing more about it."

  A conflicted look crossed his face, lit up by the strong moonlight, and Marilee felt a wave of disgust wash over her. How many girls had there been before who were less fast with their knitting needles, less wakeful, less able to defend themselves? She would rather have slit his throat than let him return to his bench, but she had to get to Hull.

  The matter became moot, however, when the curate's face went purple with rage. Instead of retreating to his bench, he lunged at her, his hands reaching for her throat.

  "Damned bitch, I'll teach you to wound your better!"

  As she stabbed at him again with the needles, a near-hysterical laugh welled up in her mind.

  If he would only wait three months, I would be the Countess of Carrington, and he would be in no way my better!

  Of course, it wasn't a disagreement they were having about pedigree that day. He looked as if he had been maddened by the pain of being stabbed with her knitting needles, and as she thrust herself back and away from him, the shouting outside increased and the coach took a dangerous sway.

  "Get off me! Don't touch me!"

  The curate, turned into some kind of frenzied monster with the pain, didn't heed her. Instead, in the enclosed space of the coach, he lunged at her, throwing his bulk after her like ballast and never heeding how the coach swayed.

  "Stop it! Just stop it!"

  The words were barely out of her mouth before the coach hit the stopping point and then went over. Marilee heard the scream of the horses, the shouts of the driver and his guard, an agonized howl of fear and fury from the curate, and somehow, over it all, her own high shriek of fright.

  The coach hit the ground with a devastating crunch, the chassis shattering and bowing where it didn't break. It was too much to take in, and just as she saw wood splintering toward her face, Marilee thankfully blacked out.

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  CHAPTER TWO

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  Samuel Winthrop, the Earl of Huntingdon, wasn't sure what had brought him out to the moors that evening. He wasn't surprised to be awake. He'd kept irregular hours for years, wandering his own country estate like some kind of damned ghost. No, the surprise was deciding to leave the house entirely rather than spending his wakeful night reading in the library or wandering the garden.

  Without waking the grooms, Sam made his way silently to the stable, walking down the rows or drowsy horses until he found one who was more awake than not. Briseis was a fine-boned gray mare, dappled like the shadows of the moon, and with a willing spirit Sam was sure he had never encountered before.

  "Hello, my girl. Do you care to see the moonlit world?"

  There were always risks when it came to riding at night. An unseen hole or rise could snap a horse's leg like a twig, and in this area, there were even cliffs that could throw horse and rider alike over an unseen precipice.

  Sam had been riding the moors of Yorkshire for years, however, and he knew his own part of it like the back of his hand. Besides, the moon had risen, and with the moonlight and the starlight gleaming perfectly in the sky, the moor was as bright as day. He guided Briseis out of the training yard and out over the moor, and he smiled at the way she tossed her head, stamping her hooves.

  "Do you need to run, my beauty? Very well."

  He supposed the people of London would be startled to hear him speak so sweetly and gently to a horse when it seemed he could never find a kind word for the people he met at the galas and soirees. He could tell them that Briseis was a female who was sweet-natured and honest, hard-working and loyal. It was more than could be said for the women he had dealt with in the ton, at least.

  Sam smiled a little as he guided Briseis up to a fast trot. As an earl, Society made plenty of allowances for him, but perhaps telling a lady that his horse was her moral superior and smelled better than she did was pushing it too far.

  His breath steamed the air. In London, the season would be just getting started. For the first time in a long time, he felt a pang to see the lights and the bustle and the people, to walk among his peers again. Then he brushed the thought aside, forcing himself to remember a sting of heartbreak and humiliation that carved a path down through his heart.


  London has nothing for you. If you are inclined to forget that, your first call should be upon Lady Campion, the Marquess of Dinnesmore's wife.

  The thought was astringent, like lemon juice, and it had the desired effect. At the very least, it made him put away the foolishness of returning to the scene of his greatest folly.

  Make no mistake, I will have to go back at some point. It will not be soon, however, and I will have a far better reason for it than a vague wistfulness.

  Sam stared up at the moon, whose face was as calm as a pool of water. No, there was nothing he needed in London when he could ride at night and see the moonlight turn everything to fine silver.

  He was just getting ready to turn back to Huntingdon when he heard a shrill scream. For a moment, he thought it was only the cry of a fox, but when it came again, he stiffened. It was the scream of horses in pain, and without a second thought, Sam touched his heel to Briseis’ side.

  "Come on, sweeting, just a little farther before I let you sleep for the night."

  Briseis turned to with a will, and they were fleeting over the moor, heading toward that horrible sound. It only took Sam a few moments to realize that they were heading for the road, and he grimly considered the options. Bandits were rare in this part of the country, preferring to ply their murderous trade closer to London, but there was the occasional incident. He was glad he had his pistol underneath his jacket if need be, but he sincerely hoped it wasn't needed.

  The sight that greeted Sam upon cresting the rise was not bandits, but it was almost as bad. A toppled mail coach lay upon the side of the road. Of the four horses, three were fine, but the fourth was screaming fit to kill, pinned underneath the shaft.

  With Sam's help, the driver and the groom managed to pull the horse out from underneath the shaft. The horse stood free and, thankfully, on all four legs, but their work wasn't done yet.

  "There are still two people in the coach, sir."

  Sam understood. They'd had to remove the horse before attending to the humans, or else the horse might have made things worse. The coach's chassis was splintered, useless and undrivable. Sam pulled the shattered part away, revealing two bodies inside. For a moment, he thought both had been killed by the impact, but the male, a dignified-looking older gentleman, suddenly started swearing.

  "It was her, terrible temptress, told me all sorts of scandalous things..."

  The guard reached around Sam to draw the man forward, none too gently.

  "That is what it is, but we know it was your screaming that threw the horses into a frenzy. You'll answer to the station master at the next stop."

  Sam listened to this with half an ear, more intent on pulling the unconscious woman from the wreckage. He held his breath until he could feel her heartbeat and then he pulled her out entirely, picking her up in his arms.

  "She lives. She breathes. She needs to be checked over for wounds, but she seems sound. Will you gentlemen come to my home? It is only forty minutes distant."

  The driver shook his head. "The station is not far from here, sir. We must stay on our route as best we can, even if we shall have to send men back for the bulk of our cargo. Besides, it will allow us to get this one to the station master. We are right sick of his attitude, and by the way he yells, he has no wound to speak of."

  Sam, who had disliked the man on first sight, nodded. "Who is this woman?"

  Another shrug. "She signed the passengers' manifest as a Mrs. Crenshaw, but a woman traveling alone this far? If she's Mrs. Crenshaw, then I'm a blind weasel."

  Sam grinned at the man's calm speech. "All right. Thank you for that information. I'll be along home and get the erstwhile Mrs. Crenshaw to a doctor as soon as possible."

  He was relieved that the woman he'd rescued was breathing easily. That meant there was no need to wake up the village doctor at least. Instead, Sam merely propped her up in front of him on Briseis’ back, setting course for home at an easy walk.

  Briseis snorted a little at the extra weight, but Sam reached down to pat her neck gently.

  "No troubles, now, girl. We have a guest to get home."

  Even by the light of the moon, Sam could tell that the woman who slumped in his arms was lovely. Her features were delicate, and her heart-shaped face recalled the sweetness of Renaissance angels. Her hair looked inky in the darkness, and idly, Sam wondered what her eyes looked like.

  He shook the guesses out of his mind, more than slightly chagrined with himself.

  Dear God, has it really been so long since you enjoyed the company of a London woman? She's lovely, but that's no call to go on leering at her.

  Sam's thoughts darkened a little as he remembered the few words he'd heard from the man in the coach with her. He couldn't imagine a woman, no matter how fallen, welcoming a man like that, especially when he was trumpeting on about her wiles the way he had been.

  I have been all too long without company. Being in the country for these long years has made me soft.

  Sam knew better than anyone how treacherous a beautiful face could be, how dangerous it was to trust someone who had been raised all her life to manipulate the good feelings and libidos of the men around her. The girl in his arms, unconscious or not, was likely just as proficient as she had been, and on top of it, she was traveling under an assumed name. There was a mystery there that Sam decided he did not need to be solved.

  I'll look after her and then send her on her way. No one could fault that level of care.

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  Sam sent for the doctor at first light, and the doctor confirmed what Sam had suspected. The woman sleeping in Sam's guest room was merely exhausted and overcome by the stress of the coach's accident. She had no obvious sign of an addled head, and she was breathing and sleeping easily.

  "She'll wake up sooner or later, and after that, I wager you can get her story from her."

  Sam nodded, and then scowled at the doctor. "I don't suppose I need to tell you that her presence here is a secret. I don't care for a victim of an accident to return home only to find her reputation in tatters because of who happened to pick her up.”

  The doctor nodded, and Sam realized with a kind of grim amusement that the doctor was a little afraid of him. It was something common with the people of the village, even among some of his own servants.

  "Of course. Discretion will be our watchword. If she sees double or complains about being sick to the stomach, call me at once. Otherwise, she should be allowed to recover as she sees fit."

  Sam nodded and paid the doctor double his normal fee before seeing him out. Dawn was coming soon, and Sam knew that if he wanted to avoid sleeping from dawn to dusk, he should return to his own bed sooner rather than later. Instead, he found himself back in the guest room where he'd laid his mysterious guest.

  By the lamplight, she was even more beautiful than he'd thought on their ride to Huntingdon, even with her raven hair in disarray. Her mouth was soft in sleep and there was something terribly touchable about her soft skin.

  Sam gave in to the urge to run a fingertip delicately over her cheekbone, and then pulled back, even that slight touch leaving him guilty.

  No, not guilty. Hungry for more and uncomfortable with it.

  She's just a slip of a girl who's gotten herself into some kind of trouble. There's nothing more to be concerned about.

  When Sam would have pulled back and gone to his room to sleep, however, his hand trailed over hers above the blankets. To his surprise, her small fingers wrapped around his, and he froze. He could break her grasp on him easily enough. Her touch wasn't much more substantial than a moth's wings fluttering by, easy to ignore.

  However…

  He didn't want to.

  Sam didn't like to think about how long it had been since he had last been touched like this, gently, tentatively, sweetly. In its own way, it was as compelling as iron, as powerful as a thick chain.

  "All right, beautiful."

  Without letting go of her hand, Sam pulled a chair close t
o the bed and sat down. Sitting in the chair, leaned over the bed wouldn't be terribly uncomfortable, he reckoned. It was a small price to pay to keep on touching her.

  What a strange thing you are. As the sun came up, he watched with a nearly worshipful interest until sleep refused to be denied, and he finally shut his eyes.

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  3

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  CHAPTER THREE

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