by Allison Lane
“Be reasonable, Father.” She shrugged. “I am no antidote, ‘tis true. But I can never claim the sort of beauty that compensates for a missing dowry. Nor can I remain content watching you and Mama struggle when I could contribute to the family well-being.”
He had accepted the inevitable without further argument, though she knew he suffered over his inability to properly provide for his children. She and Mama had united in opposition when he wanted to ask his brother for help. Uncle Arthur was barely scraping sustenance out of his estate and was in no position to support others.
Stifling the vision of a life of leisure she could never obtain, she continued to enumerate the benefits of this post.
Cornwall was lovely – she again ignored the voice bemoaning that the house was quite isolated. A little common sense and discipline would turn her charges into models of decorum. And where else could she impart her knowledge to a young man? She refused to entertain fears that she would have no support from that doting mother on questions of discipline, and would receive only the barest of necessities in the way of room and board. That horrid voice whispered that none but the worst nipfarthing would expect her to teach both son and daughters. Nor would she dwell on the loneliness she would undoubtedly suffer after a lifetime spent in a roisterous, loving enclave like the vicarage. And she refused to question why she would be the fourth to hold the position this year alone. An involuntary shudder raced down her spine, which she immediately attributed to the cold and damp.
A loud belch spewed brandy fumes in her face, effectively masking the farm couple’s stench and directing her thoughts toward her immediate problem. Again she tried to push the drunk from her numbed shoulder. His hat rolled onto the floor, disclosing that the moisture seeping through her cloak was wine. His hair was soaked with it. What could possibly make this journey worse?
Hardly had she formulated the question when the coach lurched sharply over a series of ruts, bucking like a boat on a storm-tossed sea. The drunkard lunged across her, threw open the window, and barely shoved his head out before casting up his accounts. His stomach heaved against her hips. Swallowing her own reaction, she tried to hold the sweating, shaking body away as he continued his endless retching. Finally, one hand dug into her arm and he dragged himself back inside.
“S-sorry,” he whispered shakily, then collapsed onto her lap, his dark curls now dripping from the pelting rain.
“Serves you right for drinking so much,” she snapped angrily but he had passed out. She exchanged an exasperated glance with the spinster, who sniffed loudly and turned to glare out her own window.
Lacking the strength to move him, she closed the window, resigned to the most uncomfortable night of her life. Please, Lord, don’t let this journey be a portent of my new life, she prayed silently.
* * * *
An especially bad bump jarred Caroline awake. Amazingly, she had dozed off. The drunkard still sprawled across her lap, her hand unaccountably holding him in place. Judging from the numbness in her legs, several hours must have elapsed. Even the spinster was asleep.
She shivered. Water had seeped through both cloak and dress, chilling her as the temperature approached freezing. Damp gloves offered little protection for her fingers. Half-boots did nothing to warm her toes. A glance at the window showed rain falling harder than ever.
Surely even mail coaches slowed in such weather… But the driver was loudly urging his horses faster. The wheels skidded sideways, sending her heart into her throat. Another lurch dug the farmer’s elbow into his wife and she gasped.
“Harry!” she screamed, shaking him violently. “Wake up! Something’s mighty wrong.”
Snorts and wheezes were his only response.
Was some young sprig tooling the mail coach? Caroline sobbed in terror while the fat lady continued her exhortations of Harry. Though common on the stage, such irregularities were supposed to never happen on the King’s mail. But their increasingly reckless pace convinced her that they were victim to just such a prank. No professional driver would handle the ribbons with this reckless abandon.
They swung wildly around a curve, the drunk’s weight crushing her into the corner, his pressure making it difficult to breathe. The spinster’s piercing screech woke Harry and the clerk.
“Stop, I say!” shouted Harry, pounding on the panel separating them from the driver’s box.
“We’ll all die!” sobbed his wife, burying her head in his shoulder.
“Imbecile! Stop, or I’ll report you at the next posting inn!” he continued loudly, to no avail. He opened the window to repeat his demands, now punctuated by obscenities, but accomplished nothing beyond admitting freezing rain and wind into the coach.
The drunk groaned, his hand pawing at Caroline’s bosom before he again passed out.
“Wouldn’t do no good if ye did report the bloody bastard. Who’d believe ye? He must be mad,” muttered the clerk, his face gray with fear, both hands exerting a death grip on the strap.
“Watch your language, young man,” demanded the spinster. “There is a lady present.”
Another sharp bump slammed Caroline’s head into the roof, but failed to dislodge the beast in her lap.
“Harry, do something!” begged the wife, clutching his arm as the coach again skidded sideways.
“What the bloody ‘ell is you doin’?” shouted the mail’s guard from his perch up behind with the post. Scrabbling sounds moved along the roof and all eyes raised to follow his progress.
“Pray God the guard can slow us,” Caroline gasped, meeting the terror-stricken eyes of the farmer’s wife as another sickening lurch nearly landed them in the ditch. One of her hands dug into the drunk’s shoulder.
“This is the most despicable journey I have ever suffered. Such low company should never be allowed to board,” snapped the spinster, casting a look of such scorn at Caroline that she gasped in shock. “And now this!” Back ramrod straight, she glared at the other passengers. Only her death grip on the strap detracted from her haughty disdain.
Opening her mouth to protest, Caroline screamed in terror as the coach leaned sharply around another corner, poised agonizingly on two wheels, then rolled down an embankment. A horse squealed with pain.
She watched in horror as her fellow passengers tumbled slowly in her direction. Then her head exploded in a cloud of sparks and the world went black.
Chapter 2
The Honourable Thomas Mannering awoke to a full cavalry brigade rampaging through his skull. His stomach churned in protest at the least movement, and his mouth had apparently been used as a nesting site by a flock of untidy birds. Altogether, a normal morning.
What was not normal was the lumpy mattress. Squeezing his eyelids tight, he burrowed into the pillow, avoiding the light he knew from vast experience would only worsen his condition. Where was he? What activities had he indulged in this time.
He groaned as memory returned. Of course – the unwanted journey; the mental battle between images of Alicia and Josephine; and that moment when he could go no further…
Desperately needing a drink, he had left the mail, reserving the last seat on the next coach. But the drink or two needed to restore his courage had stretched to several bottles. His last memory was of a buxom barmaid brushing suggestively against his arm.
He shifted, suddenly aware that he was not alone. One arm was draped over a deliciously soft body, his fingers cupping a generous breast. This triggered another memory – nuzzling his face against that same breast as he drifted to sleep.
Had he taken the barmaid to bed? It would hardly surprise him, nor was she an antidote like some he had lately encountered. In recent months he had cut a wide and indiscriminate swath through the muslin company, even accepting the questionable services of street prostitutes in his quest for nepenthe. It was a wonder he remained healthy. But another of his increasingly common black-outs left no memories of this particular liaison.
Shielding his eyes, he cautiously cracked one lid open,
then heaved a sigh of relief. The light was too dim to hurt. He carefully turned his head to inspect the girl. Was she clean enough to risk another romp?
Pain knifed his neck.
Pain was something new, but he had no time to assess its cause. Astonishment sent him reeling to the chamber pot without a moment to spare. Following an unpleasant interval, he grasped his swirling head and hesitantly approached the bed.
His eyes had not lied. The woman was both a stranger and seriously injured. Her head was swathed in bandages, as was the arm that lay atop the coverlet.
“Damnation!” he muttered angrily, looking for some clue as to where he was. The sloped roof and peeling walls hinted at the top floor of an unfashionable inn. Nothing unusual about that… The tiny apartment was furnished as if for servants, containing a narrow bed, a single rickety chair, and an equally decrepit table. At least a fire burned in the mean grate, though doing little to suppress the January chill. Two valises rested atop a small trunk. Thankfully opening his own, he extracted a traveling flask and took a long pull to settle his stomach and clear the cobwebs from his aching head.
His eyes returned to the woman in the bed. Who was she? How had she gotten into his room? And why was he in a room? he wondered with shock. He was supposed to be on the mail, headed for Devon to pay his addresses to Miss Huntsley.
A presentiment of doom was building. He could almost see the sword of Damocles poised above his head. “Who the devil are you?” he demanded, prodding her shoulder.
No response.
His gaze sharpened. The visible hand was smooth with artistically long fingers, certainly not that of a servant. Her complexion was clear, but even in sleep he could not reconcile her features with a barmaid. Nor did she fit the mold of a prostitute. Her bag and trunk were worn but of good quality. Paradoxically, the cloak hanging on a peg beside the door was muddy, torn, and smelled strongly of brandy.
He prodded her again. What was she doing in his room? In his bed? How had she been injured and who had bandaged her? Why had he no recollection of any of this? Usually by now he at least managed a hazy outline of his evening.
“Bloody hell! What is going on here?”
His head pounded. He prodded harder, frantic when he could raise no response.
Her left hand rested atop the coverlet. She wore no rings. That precluded a widow or a wife. Terror welled in his throat as he shook her. Still no response. Acute pain knifed through his neck and for the first time, he examined himself.
“My God!”
A bandage wrapped one leg, which was surprisingly sore. Scrapes covered both hands. He peered into a cracked looking glass and gasped in shock. One eye was swollen, and a long graze extended from forehead to cheek. Pain again stabbed from his neck to his right shoulder. Twisting before the glass, he discovered an ugly bruise. The agony was too great to remain in this contorted position for long, but he could not reconcile his injuries with a fight.
“An accident?” he wondered. “Bloody hell!”
But why was he sharing a bed with an unknown and apparently unmarried female? How long had they been here? That elusive snippet returned to tantalize him.
He shuddered. What had occurred in the dark reaches of the night? He loosed an exhaustive and highly imaginative stream of invective, until a groan cut him off in mid-curse.
“Anne?” whispered a voice. “My head aches so. Could you bring me some water?”
He collapsed in despair as the Damoclesian sword fell. Though weak and barely conscious, she was obviously well-bred. What had he done?
“Anne? Are you here?” whispered the voice again.
Thomas rose and poured water into a cracked cup, holding it to her lips. Remembering that he was nearly naked, he slipped beneath the coverlet, taking care not to touch her. Then he waited for her to open her eyes, waited for her to tell him why they were together, and prayed that somehow his deductions were wrong.
* * * *
Caroline swallowed a sip of water from the cup Anne held to her lips. No, not Anne, she acknowledged as memory returned. Her head ached abominably. She reached a shaking hand to the bandage, which had slipped down over her eyes.
There had been an accident. She remembered now. The coach had gone faster and faster until it had finally overturned. She had been on the bottom and must have been knocked senseless. Where was she?
In bed.
Someone was with her, someone who had just settled onto the edge. Was she so badly injured that a nurse had been left to attend her? But how could she hope to pay for such an extravagance? She had only a few shillings, assuming her reticule had not disappeared.
Shakily she pushed the bandage up until she could see. The room was dimly lit, but not with wavering candlelight. A window covered with sparse ivy admitted minimal light from an overcast day. With difficulty she turned to see who rested on the bed.
“You!” she gasped, clamping one hand over her mouth in horror. She lunged away in a reckless attempt to escape, discovered she wore only her shift, grabbed the coverlet, and retreated to the chair under the window.
Thomas jumped as though shot, remembered his own state of undress, and donned the sheet. He backed into the far corner and stared warily at the lady huddled in the coverlet. Wide, terrified eyes stared back.
Her reaction was not encouraging. What had he done?
“What are you doing in my room?” she demanded icily. “Haven’t you caused me enough trouble?”
“I have no idea,” he admitted with a grimace. “I could ask the same of you. What are you doing in my room?”
“Are you still foxed?” Her nose led her eyes to the uncovered chamberpot and she sighed in resignation.
Thomas rubbed his sore shoulder. “Let us start at the beginning,” he began slowly. “The last thing I remember is sitting in the taproom at the Laughing Dog. To the best of my knowledge, I have never seen you before. Who are you?”
“You must have been even more foxed than I thought,” Caroline murmured in disgust.
She raked him with an objective stare. Not much older than herself, he looked as though he would clean up rather nicely. Well-cut black hair curled riotously around his face. Despite the bruises, the two-days’ stubble of dark beard, and his generally dissipated appearance, he had an aristocratic face of the more handsome variety, highlighted by a wide, sensual mouth and brilliant green eyes under indecently long lashes.
But his expression declared him a spoiled society buck accustomed to getting his own way and ready to ride roughshod over anyone who crossed him. Did he really have no memory of recent events? How odd.
Her face snapped back into a frown. “I am Miss Caroline Cummings, third daughter of the Sheldridge Corners vicar. I am on my way to Cornwall to take up a post as governess. We met – if you can call it that – as I was boarding the mail coach. You knocked me down, draped yourself all over me, emptied your stomach, and then passed out in my lap. Being unable to shift you, I had to endure your weight until my legs lost all sensation. Then the driver abandoned his wits and tumbled us down an embankment. As if that were not enough, you have now invaded my room. Please leave this instant!” She delivered this recital with barely suppressed indignation that raised her voice until each word pounded into his head with the force of a blacksmith’s hammer.
“This situation is worse than you know, Miss Cummings,” ground out Thomas, staring despairingly at the dowdy miss in front of the window. Her only redeeming virtue was height. He usually towered over women.
But the few wisps of hair sticking out from under her bandage seemed dull brown, as were her eyes. The rest of her features were plain, with freckles dotting her nose. Nevertheless, he would have to make the best of things. A vicar’s daughter. Devil take it, she was gentry. If this imbroglio became known, it could ruin Eleanor’s Season. He took a deep breath.
“I am the Honourable Thomas Edward Alfred Mannering. I admit to being on the go last evening – at least I assume it was last evening – and have no reco
llection of boarding the mail. I can only apologize and hope that my illness did not disturb you too greatly.”
“Well,” she conceded, “you did make it to the window – over my poor body.”
He groaned at the picture her words painted.
“Again,” she returned to her original complaint, “what are you doing in my room?”
“I could ask you the same question. I fear that someone placed us here together,” he explained. “I awakened to find myself sharing a bed with you.”
She reddened, then her face paled. “What–”
He shrugged helplessly. “I have no idea,” he admitted, “but I was three sheets to the wind rather than senseless, so anything could have happened.”
She was visibly shaking.
“We will have to marry, you know,” he added resignedly. “Neither your reputation nor my honor as a gentleman would survive otherwise.” Which was the worse sin? Ignoring honor’s demand. Or disgracing his family by wedding beneath him. Unfortunately, honor delivered the more impassioned plea. But how could he survive being shackled to vicarage prudity? Oh, God, Alicia! How could fate have turned so badly against us?
Caroline stared as if he had gone mad. Surely this is a dream. Soon I will awaken, safe in the room I share with Anne. We will laugh at such a fanciful nightmare and finish packing my trunk for Cornwall.
But Mr. Mannering was still there, partially wrapped in a dingy and slipping sheet, and try as she might, she could not wake up. Must she really spend her life with this perpetually foxed stranger who blithely admitted that, when in his cups, he would of course ravish any female foolish enough to cross his path? He belonged in Bedlam.
“But who would ever know?” she protested desperately.
“These things have a way of getting out,” he said. “There is no telling how many people are aware we spent the night together. Think it over. I will try to discover where we are and what has happened. Mayhap I can learn how we find ourselves in this fix. Not that it will improve our situation any.”
