"It's a short distance from Bath to Chippenham. I'd say most would take the trip in their own carriages."
Fifi touched a fingertip to the fraying leather upholstery. "As would we if I still owned mine and yours didn't need repair."
"Your Aunt and Uncle Courtland will welcome us no matter how we arrive. They always do each year."
Mary's aged carriage had broken an axel and her groom had not had time to repair the vehicle before today's journey.
Fifi had to settle matters between them before they arrived at the party. "Without any delay, let me say this about Esme. Ahem. Well. Yes. To be fair, Esme is not so rabid to rise in society that she would wed a man she didn't care for. And Northington deserves to be loved."
Mary grinned. "Oh, my dear, you deserve it too."
"And you," Fifi added, happy that was said, and now cheerful to the core. She removed her glasses, tucked them in her reticule and rubbed the bridge of her nose.
"Ahh, well!" Mary waved away Fifi's belief. "I don't think there is anyone for me."
"You have much to share with a man. Besides, for this party, you promised me you would flirt."
The coach lurched to one side.
Fifi grabbed the leather pull.
"What's happen—?" Mary slid against Fifi.
The coach shivered and shook.
Fifi thrust out her leg and a pain like a knife sliced up her calf. Her foot...
Welles fell forward onto Mary. "Milady!"
Horses neighed and snorted.
The conveyance swayed one way, throwing them about, then it shuddered...and stilled.
Fifi tried to move...but she could not. Her foot was jammed.
The coach rocked.
Mary slammed against Fifi.
Welles landed on the floor, blinking at her mistress.
Outside, the horses raised a ruckus.
The coachman and his footmen shouted at each other.
Welles pushed backward, but the coach wobbled and the maid fell to her knees once more. She clamored to one side to try to right herself. "I'll get help, milady."
Fifi jiggled the handle of the door to try to open it. "Stuck."
Mary's bonnet had slid over her left ear and she looked tipsy. Tearing at the ribbons, she tore the thing off and tried to push away from Fifi. "We could say that the famous Flying-Post Coaches from Bath to London, don't fly at all."
Welles fell upon the coach door and rammed her shoulder against it. The coach jostled at her thrust, but did not move. The coach tottered at a precarious angle.
"Stop, Welles," Mary ordered. "Don't risk your safety."
"Milady," said Welles, "we must get out. I'll try the door again."
"I won't have you hurt, Welles. Let the men get us out."
More shouts met their ears.
Fifi pressed her face to the thin squabs. Pain consumed her every breath.
"Look!" Welles pointed. "Another coach."
"Thank heavens." Mary peered out. "More help, the better. Fifi, if you could not dig your nails into my—" She shot a glance at her. "What's wrong?"
"My foot," Fifi managed.
"What's wrong with it?"
"Hurts." Tears burned. But she would not cry.
"Don't move, Fee. Stay still, both of you. We're out of here in a thrice. You'll see. I...oh my."
Fifi heard shouts of men, neighing objection of horses.
"Is that help?" Fifi asked of Mary who couldn't take her eyes from the scene outside their carriage.
Mary waved a hand at her in consolation. "He'll get us out," she said.
Fifi prayed she was right. She couldn't see what the problem was. Her spectacles were off, of all damn times! But she certainly knew her foot was stuck between crushed floor boards and a crumpled seat.
Outside, men argued.
"What happened here?"
"Milord! Oh, milord! My reins broke."
"What?"
"Not my fault, milord. Please, tell 'em."
"Are you mad?" one man yelled to the other. "Secure your horses!"
"The reins of the leaders broke!"
"Calm them all then, leaders and wheelers. Charlton! Grab this. Let's get the ladies out of here."
There was much cursing and ordering about among all the men. Fifi breathed deeply and waited...and waited for relief.
A man appeared in the window.
Mary clapped her hands, happy to see help.
"Lawton-Bridges falling down!" Mary greeted the gentleman who appeared at the window.
"Birdie!" he replied grinning in the window, happy about this meeting. "God's nightshirt! Don't rock this carriage, my girl!"
"Happy to—Whoa!" Mary braced herself as the carriage wobbled up and down.
Fifi clamped a hand to her mouth. She was going to be ill. Very ill. In front of them all.
Then the coach went still.
"Birdie," warned the man who knew Mary. "Do not move. They free the horses."
The door fell open.
Welles scrambled out.
Mary followed.
Fifi stifled a groan. A large man, an angry one who smelled of clean pine and citrus engulfed her in his essence as he tore apart the ruined innards of the carriage. He murmured comforting words to her as he sought to free her.
"Please get me out of here," she murmured, the pain flames on her ankle. "Please."
"I will, I will. Be still, my lady," said another man with a voice like far-off thunder. "I need to remove the last of this seat and then..."
He yanked and pulled, the wood groaning at his power.
She sat, her eyes closed, gulping, fighting nausea. At once she felt the weight lift from her foot. "Oh, thank you."
"Take my handkerchief." He pressed it to her hand, then drew her into his arms as if she were spun sugar.
He led her to stand but the second she touched her foot to the earth, she yelped. "I can't. My foot."
"Very well," he said and swept her up into his embrace. One arm under her thighs, the other around her back, he slid her against him and carried her from the wreckage. Her knight in armor, her Goliath could lift her as easily as he did a pincushion.
Grateful as well as impressed, she snuggled against his chest and surrendered to the act of a man who treated a woman with tenderness. Curious about such kindness to her, she caught glimpses of him. Once, twice. Daring more and fearing he'd call her rude, she squinted at the gloss of his thick brown hair and the cut of his dashing square jaw. He didn't seem to notice her perusal but took four long strides to the carriage. The conveyance was spectacular, a traveling carriage of black lacquer polished to a fare-thee-well. A blue escutcheon of some noble symbol had been painted on the door, but she couldn't make out its detail. In truth, she cared not if the coach belonged to him or his friend. She could only wish for a respite from the agony of her injury—and the knowledge of her rescuer's name.
He placed her inside upon plush leather squabs and plunked down opposite her. "There, there. Sprained your ankle. I know the signs. You'll be fine. I'll see to it."
She sank to the comfort of the cushions and narrowed her eyes on him to no avail. Without her glasses, she could discern only the wealth of his sable hair, the perfection of his generous mouth and the remarkable glitter of his eyes. She leaned forward and...
Nooo.
She shot backward, a hand to her throat. This could not be...
But he was.
He most certainly was...dear me...Northington!
Chapter 3
Did he not recognize her? Why did he not smile? Greet her?
Oh, where was her reticule?
Fie! She needed her glasses!
She heard his footmen scrambling here and there, climbing around the wreckage of their traveling coach. Oh, it was such a bother to be unable to see properly without her glasses! Worse, with them and have men look at her as if she were an ugly-eyed monster.
Mary fidgeted, arranging herself. She, too, had been heroically rescued and, from what
Fifi detected, her friend was reveling in the attention of her own Sir Galahad as much as Fifi had. From the way Mary and the man greeted each other, they had once known each other well.
The two gentlemen joked with each other, making light of the harrowing situation. But one of them had introduced both to the ladies. Fifi had heard them but, in such pain, she couldn't recall any names. Still...this was Northington. Looked like him. Acted like him, too. There were few men with such bearing. A colossus in charge of everyone. That was Northington.
This was Northington. True?
"My reticule?" she asked the young lad who acted as tiger. He blinked twice, stared at her a second, then snapped his fingers and ran off to do her bidding.
She grimaced as the coach bounced. Welles, Mary's maid shifted about, trying to find a comfortable spot. The man who'd greeted Mary in such familiar fashion grinned at her friend.
"I know what I'm doing," Northington told Fifi as he took the opposite seat and proceeded to push up Fifi's skirts.
"Stop!" She grabbed his wrist. ”You can't do that! It's shocking!"
"I'll tell you what's really shocking." He pointed at her foot. "You want to walk on this, Lady Fiona? Ever again?"
What an ogre! ”Of course!"
"Then I will see your ankle."
When they’d met, he’d been a perfect gentleman. Not this unfeeling boor! Ripe with anger, she inched up her skirts—and glared at him.
He shook his head, unimpressed. "More."
Ohhhh. She set her teeth. Why was he so arrogant? Northington had appeared stiff, cool, unapproachable to others the night they'd met, but to her, he'd been sweet and kind. Where was that man now?
"Come now." He untied his cravat and slipped it from around his neck. "Your boot and stocking, too."
She had once liked him, but now? Not so much! ”No.”
"Fifi," Mary pleaded with her.
The man was not deterred. "Three choices, my lady. One, you remove your boot and stocking now. Two, I cut them off you myself. Three, we wait, in which case, you will never get them off because your ankle will be too swollen. What then is your decision?"
"Are you such an ogre to everyone?" Fifi snapped.
"Only to ladies who refuse proper treatment. Now. Shall I unlace your boot or do you wish to be crippled for the rest of your life?"
"Oh, you are the devil!" Fifi bent over and unlaced her boot. Then she thrust her foot at him.
He grinned—maliciously, too, from what she could tell—but then he carefully secured her foot to his lap. "Good. Will you roll down your stocking please?"
"Turn away."
With a bark, he faced the window.
The tiger re-appeared and lobbed her reticule onto the floorboards. Too far away to reach it, she sat back and resigned herself to her fate at this man's hands.
But when he turned back, he smiled at her and this time, he gave her more sympathy than anger. The change went a long way to making her more amenable to him. So did the next thing he did. From toes to arch and ankle, he stroked the whole of her injured foot, his touch an angel's caress. His tenderness had her sighing into the squabs. She closed her eyes, ragged from her pain.
He wrapped his downy warm cravat around her ankle and pulled tight.
She shot forward. "Be careful, sir!"
He chuckled, rueful. "I won't kill you!"
"Do show it then! I am injured, sir." Oh, why bother? She sank backward, a hand to her eyes.
"My apologies, Lady Fiona. I am more used to tending my men in the battlefield than I am a lady in pain. Soldiers can be rough, surly creatures. I assure you I can be gentle."
His men? On a battlefield? Gossips declared that Northington had gone off frequently to the Continent during the war.
The night she and he had met, he’d told her he was in the army.
Sounding solicitous, he continued to wrap her foot. His ministrations did comfort her and the tautness of the makeshift bandage eased some of her suffering.
"There," he said at long last, two large hands firm around her afflicted foot. "We'll get you comfortable now."
"Thank you, I am already," she told him and shut her eyes, glad for the respite from their sparring.
He rustled and rattled about. Then clasped her hands and wrapped them around a cool flask. "Drink this," he said in that bass voice that could disturb and soothe at the same time.
She opened her eyes. He had the very devil in his. "I shouldn't."
"Do anyway." His firm lips quirked in a smile. “I won't tell a soul."
"Brandy?" She could hope, couldn't she?
"Irish whiskey."
She didn't wait for another invitation. The first sip was delicious hot heaven gliding down her throat and through her limbs. Sherry was pallid. Wine, invigorating. Brandy could have a dark edge. But this was what she needed. "Thank you."
He passed his flask to his friend, then pointed a finger at the hollow of her throat. "Unbutton your pelisse. No need to be formal. Drink more. You've had a shock."
He could be so kind. That she valued. Many men she'd known were more interested in dominating females.
She caught bits of Mary's and her friend's conversation and looked at her companion in a new light. Had she understood that they were to be together for the next few days?
She turned to him. ”You're both going to Lord and Lady Courtland's party?"
"We are. Bridges, here, was my guest at home and I thought to bring him with me to this. The Marquess of Northington is a distant relative of mine, and he marries the Courtlands' daughter, Esme in three days. I've an invitation from Lord Courtland and Northington to attend. Something about a May Day Frolic they've celebrated for many years."
She couldn't keep her jaw from dropping. This was not Northington. She swayed nearer to him to improve her vision. But that was to little avail. He and Northington were related and that's why they looked alike. Oh, my. She put a hand to her chest. What a fool she'd been.
"What's amiss? Are you well?” He bent near, his cologne making her head spin, his eyes full of fear for her. “
Not going to faint, are you?”
She shook her head. "No. Just noticing your resemblance to Northington."
"You know him?"
"Not well," she admitted, her smile strained.
"Many mistake us for each other. Luckily, we have taken different paths. He, to his estates and a few rather nefarious duties during the war.” He chuckled. “While I was off to the army."
"You've been abroad then. For many years?"
"Eleven."
My, my. He didn't appear to be a man who had suffered unduly in his service. His skin was tanned by the sun, but she detected few lines of worry. If he had cares, his clear grey eyes bore no signs of distress. His posture was tall, his carriage sure. His arms, strong and comforting. "You must have joined at a young age."
"I did. My father was eager to see me contribute to the war effort. He'd served in the American colonies during the revolution against Britain and he wanted me to know the challenges of conflict."
"Unusual. Most fathers would wish their sons safe at home. Especially their heirs." She bit her lip, aware she was rash to imply his father had been less than ideally paternal.
"My older brother was alive when I joined the army. I was not expected to inherit. Even after I did, I could not leave my men, could I?" He asked it wistfully. "I had joined as they had and it was my duty to remain to lead them."
"And now?" She noted his lack of uniform. "Will you sell your commission?"
"I am. The wars are done. My regiment will be disbanded. I predict all my men will be sent home."
"Do you miss them?"
He held her hand, his fingers stroking hers in calm affection, melting her bones as he dissolved her dismay. "I do. One does not live with others for years, accounting for their food and tents, their horses, weapons and gunpowder without feeling the lack when all guns have fallen silent and the cannon grow cold."
"They
were your friends."
He regarded her with a fresh light in his remarkable grey eyes. "They were."
"And are you ready now to assume your role as your father's and your brother's successor?"
He inhaled. Placed her hand gently to her thigh. And sat back. "I am. I will have a time of it, I'm afraid."
She tipped her head in question.
"I know little of crop rotation or animal breeding. But I will learn. The land and the tenants of the earl of Charlton will have the best I can give them."
The smile that had dawned on her face at his ready acceptance of his role died.
Charlton?
He was the earl of Charlton?
He frowned. "Have I distressed you? You do look ill."
"No, not ill. In pain." And that was the truth. How was it possible that she should be rescued by such a charming—if persistent—creature? A man so handsome, so upright, so heroic only to learn his family was one of those her father had damned to hell and her mother had condemned so often? Charlton. On Papa's infamous 'List', Charlton was one of four families whose members Fifi was ordered to never receive in her parlor.
* * *
Lady Fiona Chastain was her name.
Charlton sighed with the pleasure of a quest come to an end. This was she of his dreams, she of that night so many years ago in a ballroom and a card room. She of his heart and his salvation.
He grinned at her.
"My reticule?" She reached for her bag that his tiger had retrieved. "Please. I need it."
He lifted it from beneath his arm and handed it over to her.
"Thank you." She rummaged through it and extracted spectacles. In a rush, she put them on and blinked repeatedly as if she'd never seen him before. From her dawning smile, he took it that she approved of what she saw. He certainly did.
She flushed at his notice, but could not seem to tear her gaze away. That was acceptable to him. He could bask in her regard all day and wish only she continue all through the night.
But that was ridiculous and he knew it. After all, he'd spent only hours in her company. Hours that had sustained him through days and months and years of strife and sadness. Beauty that she was, full of laughter and gaiety that night, she'd lured him with her quiet charm. The elegant arch of her brow and mouth, the glow in her innocent blue eyes had spoken to him of delight in him and an odd need of protection from the ugliness of the world. He'd remembered her at will when the nights were dark and deathly dangerous, as comforting in the flares of cannon fire as in the hellish din in an attack at dawn.
Lady Fiona's Tall, Dark Folly: Four Weddings and a Frolic, Book 1 Page 3
