by Jo Beverley
Gledys blinked, realizing that her view had expanded. Now she could see many fighters, but also others behind them. People in ordinary dress, some of them screaming and yelling, but with excitement.
Spectators!
This wasn’t a battle. This must be what they called a tournament, where knights played at war. Heaven only knew why. People watched for amusement, including women, some of high rank. Gledys glimpsed richly colored gowns and cloaks. Flimsy veils fluttered in a breeze and the sun glinted off precious metals and jewels. Beyond the watchers stood a stone castle on a grassy mound, where colorful pennants danced against blue sky. There were people up there, too, watching.
Why was she forced to endure this from down here?
Another man came off his horse and she remembered her knight. Was he safe? Yes! He stood his ground, although still hard-pressed by his bigger opponent, both of them breathing heavily, even staggering as if they might collapse together in a metal heap.
Gledys fixed her eyes on him by her own intent now, praying that he be safe. As if summoned, he looked past his opponent, straight at her. His lips parted in astonishment.
He saw her?
Gledys tried to reach out, to speak to him, but she was still mute, still frozen in place. She saw the battle-ax swing and tried to scream a warning.
Perhaps he understood, for he turned, ducking. The weapon still caught his helmet, knocking it askew, and he stumbled to one side, down to one knee.
Gledys screamed again. Knew again it couldn’t be heard in her dreamworld.
He was already up, his attention glued onto his opponent as he forced the other man backward. He was younger, stronger, magnificent. He would win! But then his eyes flicked to her once again. . . .
“Don’t,” she tried to cry. “Don’t be distracted!”
The burly man could have killed him then, but exhaustion won and he collapsed to his knees, dropping the ax, wheezing for breath. Her knight sucked in air, too, hands braced on his knees, heaving with it. But then he straightened and turned, seeking her, seeing her. A smile lit his face and he took a step toward her.
Gledys smiled back in pure joy.
At last she would meet him.
At last!
***
“No!”
Gledys was so used to being mute, she almost shouted the word, but choked it to a mere grunt, fist stuffed into mouth. She was back in Rosewell Nunnery in the dark dormitory.
No, not back.
She’d been nowhere else.
Though so powerfully real, it had been another dream.
She blinked up into the darkness, teeth in her knuckles to suppress a wail at being snatched out of sleep at just that moment. He’d seen her. He’d been coming to her. They might—oh, heaven, oh, hell—they might have touched.
Gledys clutched her nightcap. It had been a dream, just like all the other ones. Her knight wasn’t real. His opponents weren’t real, and nor were the watching people or the castle. Still she grieved, as she always did when snatched out of that unreal land.
Grieved. That was the word for it. Grief as she was wrenched away, then aching grief as precious details melted from her mind like caught snowflakes melting in the palm of her hand.
Her knight. Fighting, as usual . . .
No, not as usual.
People watching. Women, even. A tournament.
A castle . . .
But even as she tried to pin such things in her mind, they slipped away, slipped away.
And were gone.
Keep reading for a special preview of Jo Beverley’s new novel
A SHOCKING DELIGHT
Available April 2014 from Signet
Lucy has looked forward to greater involvement in her father’s business empire and eventually being his heir, but he has announced that he’s to marry again in hope of getting a son. Her world turned upside down, she’s going to escape for a few weeks by taking up an invitation to move to Mayfair for the ton season. Her friend has pointed out that in order to fit in she should forget about her usual serious reading matter and take some novels, so she visits her favorite book shop.
Lucy went to the shelves of slim volumes with gilt lettering.
The door bell tinkled. She glanced to see who’d entered and her attention was caught. She realized why. The tall young man was dressed in country style. Leather breeches and top boots were not the norm around here.
He asked Winsom if he carried books about agriculture and was directed down one of the narrow passageways between the shelves. He walked there with a little more vigor than she was used to seeing in the neighborhood. He was also quite handsome. . . .
Lucy turned firmly away to concentrate on a different sort of folly. She’d long known that to marry would undermine her ambitions to become a merchant and was armored against good looks and even charm.
The Spectre Bride. Betty had enjoyed that one and shared the story. Lucy felt no desire to revisit the idiotic plot.
Midnight Nuptials.
Forbidden Affections.
Were all novels about love and marriage?
The Animated Skeleton. That sounded amusing, but her eye was caught by the title Self Control. That was the one about Laura Montreville, canoes and Canada. Anything further from self control was hard to imagine.
She moved on, but then turned back. She could remember quite a bit of the story, which meant she might be able to get away with only pretending to read it. She took the two volumes and looked for another novel.
Love and Horror. Now there was a combination that promised good sense. Was it about the horrible fates that lurked behind love? Even though her parents had been happy together, she’d long been aware that her mother had been demented by love to act as she had, and that it could easily have led to horror.
She took down the slim volume, flipped past a preface and came to the opening.
The storm was beating tempestuously and the lightning glaring around the playhouse . . .
She smiled, imagining animated lightning angrily glaring at the audience. But then it seemed Mr. Thomas Bailey was only just entering the playhouse. He took his seat, where he fell to sighing and weeping at the play, grieving for a lost wife.
That was too real a horror for Lucy. She was about to close the book when a line caught her attention. She read the words again. He’d lost his beloved two hundred years ago? How could that be . . . ?
Blast it! She’d read the entire first chapter, gobbled it down without thought.
She shoved the dangerous book back on the shelf, but then took it off again. She might have to truly read novels now and then so she might as well have ones that went down easily. She added the two volumes of The Animated Skeleton for good measure.
Five volumes was more than enough and the clock was ticking away the minutes, but she couldn’t resist turning to the section containing books on trade. She could at least look at the shelf where Winsom kept the new books.
The country gentleman was there, but further down, so no need for alarm.
No need for alarm in any case.
Clearly even a brief exposure to novels deranged the mind.
Observations on the Use of Machinery in the Manufactories of Great Britain. She knew all the arguments against machinery, but progress could not be halted.
A Treatise on the Abuses of the Coal Trade tempted simply because she knew little about it, but it formed no part of her father’s businesses.
An Introduction to Trade and Business. She certainly didn’t need that.
On the top shelf she read, The Evils of the Free Trade.
There had recently been parliamentary debates about how smuggled goods harmed legal trade by undercutting prices. The so-called Free Trade was also damaging agriculture because men who could make money through crime didn’t want to work the land. She couldn’t take such a book to Mayfair, but she could buy it for later. Also, her father might be interested in it.
She went on tip-toe to reach it.
“
Allow me, ma’am.”
She froze. He was almost touching her as he reached easily for the book.
He looked at the title. “You’re interested in smuggling, ma’am?”
Lucy wanted to tartly ask why not, but she murmured, “For my father,” as she took the book. She was going to have to act a part for weeks, so she might as well start now.
“If there are any other volumes on the higher shelves I could assist you with. . . .”
He had a pleasant voice, and was only attempting to be kind. She didn’t like being rude, so as she said, “No, thank you,” she glanced up and gave him a slight smile.
She was caught by blue-gray eyes, all the brighter for being surrounded by skin that confirmed him to be a stranger in her world. No City man was exposed to the elements enough to tan like that.
Handsome as she’d thought.
Square jaw.
Fine lips . . .
A warm smile. An interested smile.
She quickly moved away, pretending to look for another book as her heart slowed its pace. She didn’t know why she’d been so overset by a smile.
Calm again, she turned to go to Winsom’s desk, make her purchases and leave, but realized she’d made a mistake. She’d moved away from the front of the shop so the country gentleman now stood in her way. He wasn’t doing it deliberately, for he was once more looking over the shelves, but the passageway was narrow and he was large. She’d have to push by him to get out.
Leave, she silently urged him, aware of time passing, but he took down another book and opened it.
Winsom’s clock chimed the half hour.
Lucy walked away from him to go around the shelves, but then came to a halt. This was one of the cul-de-sac sections that ended only with a window.
Oh, what was the matter with her? Was a brief reading of a novel enough to turn her into an overwrought idiot? She’d be running away to a French convent, next, or taking ship for Canada.
She adjusted the six books in her arm and walked forward.
Alerted, he glanced round, and then pressed back against the shelves to give her more room. She nodded and passed, squeezing away from him as much as she could, pulling in her elbows.
One volume slid free to slam to the wooden floor with a sound like a pistol shot. She stared at it, mind empty of what to say or do.
He bent and picked it up. “Love and Horror,” he read from the spine. “Lighter reading than smuggling, but an odd combination of words.”
She snatched it. “Or a natural match? As in Romeo and Juliet?”
“Or Othello,” he agreed. “I grant you your point, though it’s a pity to see love used as a vehicle for tragedy.”
“Or a pity that love addles its victims. All would have been well if Juliet had made a sensible choice and Othello had been less persuadable.”
“You don’t believe in overpowering passions?”
“Definitely not.”
“Yet there are all too many cases of jealous men murdering women.”
“That’s different,” Lucy said, annoyed by his good point. “Consider Romeo and Juliet. I don’t know of a single occasion of young lovers dying together through a misunderstanding.”
His lips twitched. “There, I grant you your point.”
Twitching lips should not have such a powerful effect.
The clock chimed the three quarters. “Your pardon, sir, but I must be on my way.”
She turned toward the front, but he said, “May I help with your load?”
One was slipping again so she saw no way to protest as he added hers to the two he’d selected. His hands were a great deal bigger than hers.
“This is an excellent shop behind its shabby appearance,” he said as she led the way to the front.
“It is.”
“It’s a regular haunt of yours?”
She came alert. Was he was a fortune hunter? Had he seen her leave her house and followed her here? He certainly looked in need of a fortune. His leather breeches were repaired in one place, his boots well-worn, and his hair in need of a barber.
“Very regular,” she said, enjoying the prospect of him lurking in Winsom’s to no purpose, for she wouldn’t return here for weeks.
He showed no reaction, but then, he was looking at the spines of all her books. “An Animated Skeleton goes oddly with a book on the evils of the free trade, but why do I suspect that both are for you?”
“I have no idea.”
“I wouldn’t have thought the free trade of interest to anyone in the City.”
“There, sir, you are wrong. Those wretches bring in foreign goods to compete with British-made ones, and they avoid taxes that honest traders must pay. In addition, I understand their practices are vile.”
“The Hawkhurst Gang,” he said with a sigh.
“Precisely! Vicious, evil men.”
“I agree, but a century ago.”
“You defend them?”
“The Hawkhursts? No, but I’m sure not every smuggler is evil and nor are all the people who benefit from the trade. Are you entirely sure that everything you eat, drink and use has paid full tax?”
“Yes, of course.”
“It can be hard to tell, except by price. Most people don’t look too closely at a bargain.”
Lucy remembered cheap silks and wondered about her mother’s tea and her father’s brandy. She suspected he’d not be overly scrupulous about its origins.
“If you’re not careful, sir, I’ll suspect you of being a free-trader.”
He smiled. It really was a very nice smile. “I’m merely a simple country gentleman, ma’am, struggling to make ends meet in hard times.”
They walked over to the desk where Winsom was waiting to take their selections. Lucy knew she should be glad to have done with the man and yet she felt a tiny pang of loss.
Perhaps it was because he’d talked with her as an equal, in as easy and direct way. She’d had too little of that recently. She was tempted to linger, but he glanced at the clock and she suspected he was in as much of a hurry as she was. Her urgency wasn’t acute. If the carriage had to wait ten minutes, so be it.
“Please, sir, pay for your purchases first. I’m thinking what else I might wish to buy.”
He thanked her and gave his books to Winsom.
As he’d read the spines of her books, she did the same with his. A New System of Drainage and An Introduction to Trade and Business. She couldn’t imagine a fortune hunter making those selections. Clearly he truly was a simple country gentleman trying to survive in hard times.
He paid Winsom and took his books, now neatly wrapped in brown paper tied with string.
He inclined his head. “I wish you good day, ma’am, and eternal freedom from the horrors of love.”
There was a hint of humor in that which could beguile. Lucy smiled as she dipped a curtsey and said, “Good day, sir,” with a true touch of regret.
It seemed as if he might say more, but he turned and took his leave.
She wished she knew what had brought such a man deep into the City.
She wished she knew his name.
She wished they might meet again. Winsom cleared his throat.
Lucy turned, blushing. “I’m sorry.”
Winsome seemed to be concealing amusement, but he asked, “For how long will you want the novels, Miss Potter?”
“For how long?”
“Miss Hanway generally takes any one for a fortnight.”
Oh, yes. The novels were part of Winsom’s lending library. “I’m removing tomorrow to my aunt’s house in Mayfair. I shall probably be gone for a month.”
“That presents no difficulty. I shall make the lending period that long.” He wrote the price for that, the cost of The Evils of the Free Trade and the pink journal then gave her the total. She took a pound note out of her reticule and received back change.
He probably often wondered why she didn’t buy on account and have her bill settled monthly by her father, but for a long
time now she’d not wanted her father to know what books she bought for fear he would disapprove. With hindsight that should have told her something. How easy it was to hide from an unwelcome truth—in her case, that her father had never really seen her as a possible heir.
As he wrapped the parcel, Winsom said, “I’ll miss your visits here, Miss Potter, but I predict mayhem amidst the gentlemen of the ton.” He tied the string and snipped off the ends. “You certainly had an effect on that gentleman.”
“Nonsense,” Lucy said, though inside her something purred.
That was truly alarming, and already she was late. She took her parcel and left the shop, wondering if he might be hovering.
He wasn’t, and she was aware of a twinge of regret. That meant she’d had a lucky escape. She hurried home and found the coach already waiting outside the house. She apologized to the coachman, and then to her father who opened the door, asking where she’d been and why she wasn’t dressed. She ran upstairs to change, trying to wipe the incident from her mind.
Lucy can try to wipe the incident from her mind, but she’ll soon encounter her disturbing gentleman again, and in very different circumstances. At a Mayfair ball, where he’s dressed in elegant style and revealed to be the latest ton sensation—the notorious and mysterious Earl of Wyvern.
Jo Beverley is widely regarded as one of the most talented romance writers today. She is a New York Times bestseller, a five-time winner of Romance Writers of America’s cherished RITA Award, and one of only a handful of members of the RWA Hall of Fame. She has also twice received the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award. She has two grown sons and lives with her husband in England.
