The Earl's Daughter

by Lyons, Cassie

  THE EARL'S DAUGHTER

  Cassie Lyons

  I

  When bedraggled Sylvie Stafford ripped her bonnet from her head, the wet garment persistently clung to one of her sodden brown ringlets. Grimacing, she wrested it from the snagged curl and tossed it onto the muddy road beside her. She had been standing in the rain for nearly an hour now, hopelessly searching the silent streets of Stamford for a friendly face or passing carriage. She needed to find a kind soul—someone, anyone—to rescue her from her hopeless situation.

  The biting wind made her face so cold and numb, she could no longer tell her tears apart from the raindrops. Sylvie could hardly blame herself for crying about the wretchedness of her current predicament. She had abandoned her family, and her father would most likely disown her once her absence was discovered. In Sylvie's mind, her escape was as necessary as it was life-altering. Her foolish flight of fancy was as reckless as it was brave.

  As the rain pounded Sylvie's forehead, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine herself elsewhere. She wanted nothing more than to be in his arms. He would keep her safe. He would give her the protection and love she so desperately needed. If only he was not so very far away!

  The rain finally subsided, but the damage was already done. Sylvie was completely and utterly soaked. Her soggy slippers squished against the cobbled stone beneath her feet. She hugged herself as she walked, though she had no destination in mind. A billow of white breath swirled from her mouth as she breathed, and she tightened her throat to stifle a sob that threatened to explode from her lips. What was she doing? It was madness!

  Sylvie squinted, trying to see through the fog that blanketed the road ahead. She thought she saw a carriage trundling toward her, and if she was correct, it was a miracle indeed. She did not care who the driver was—anyone would serve her purpose. She would hire him to take her away!

  “Hello!” Sylvie shouted as loudly as she could, desperate to get his attention. “Hello? Please! I need you to take me somewhere!”

  When the driver came closer, he halted his horse and alighted from the driver's seat. He was every bit as drenched as she was, and a bit younger than she expected. He was possibly a bit older than her five and twenty years, but it was impossible to know for certain. He put her in mind of a rogue or highwayman, which made her a bit hesitant to speak to him. But it wasn't as if she had another option.

  The driver swept his dingy wet hat from his head and wrung it out. As he returned his hat to his head, he asked, “You need to me take you somewhere, Miss?”

  “I...well... yes.” A small gap between the young man's front teeth had her momentarily distracted. “I need to get to Nottingham.”

  “Is that so? Nottingham?” The driver put his hands on his hips and raked his eyes across her body. He was hardly subtle in his observation of her, which made her very conscious of the way her wet skirts were clinging to her legs. “Are you off to search for Robin Hood and his Merry Men?”

  “No.” An exasperated sigh followed her answer. “I was hoping to reunite with my beau. He has an estate in Nottingham.”

  “A beau.” The driver repeated her words with a raised eyebrow.

  “Yes. I have no idea where you are headed, or what your usual route might be, but I will pay you for your services. Handsomely, of course.”

  “A... beau.” He repeated the words yet again. “Is this job going to get me in trouble with a wrathful husband or father? One who won't rest 'til he sees me swing for this?”

  “I don't believe anything so dramatic would happen.” Her hands shivered from the cold as she dipped into her reticule. “But if the worst came to pass, you would have a father to fear. Not a husband.”

  Her answer made him grin. “Good to know.”

  Sylvie pulled a few coins from her reticule and held them out to him. When his grin dissipated into a frown, she said, “I... I'm afraid I cannot offer much, not at present. But I am sure my beau will compensate you upon my safe arrival.”

  The driver crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against his carriage. “I like to think I'm a relatively smart man, one who has enough sense to avoid trouble.” His nose wrinkled as he forced a smile. “And my senses tell me that you'll be a troublesome charge.”

  “Is that any way to speak to a lady?” Sylvie exclaimed. “Particularly when the lady in question is desperate, tired, and likely to catch cold? If you turn me away, and I suffer from inflammation of the lungs, my death will be on your conscience!”

  “But you're the one who fled.” The driver uncrossed his arms and stroked the mane of his horse. “Am I correct to assume you're a runaway?”

  “I... perhaps,” Sylvie confessed with a sigh. “But what business is it of yours? I am asking you to provide a service, one for which you will undoubtedly be paid. You have my word.”

  He eyed the strands of wet hair that were clinging to her forehead. “You do look pitiful, my lady, and I would hate to disappoint you.”

  “Pitiful? Have you no manners at all?” She glowered at him. “You should know... I am an earl's daughter!”

  “And I'm a mill worker's son,” he added with a chuckle. “Very well, my lady. I will take you to Nottingham, if it pleases you... and only because I would hate to see you pout.”

  “Goodness, I can hardly believe this took so much convincing! While I will not say you should have leapt at the opportunity to assist me, it would have been the gentlemanly thing to do.”

  “Did you hear me say I'm a mill worker's son?” The driver chuckled as he handed her into the carriage. “Not a gentleman.”

  “Every man should have some manners, I do not care what his origins were.” When she was seated, she squeezed some of the rainwater from the bottom of her gown. “For my sake, will you attempt to conduct yourself in a more mannerly fashion?”

  “I can try.”

  Sylvie caught herself sneering at him. Then she remembered he was doing her a favor, so she forced a smile instead. “I suppose I could tell you my name. I am Sylvie Stafford, daughter of the Earl of Mawley.”

  “Sounds impressive,” he observed, smirking. “I'm Peter Hughes. Earl of Nothing.”

  “Well, Hughes, I look forward to a safe journey with you.” Sylvie closed her eyes for several seconds and heaved a tremendous sigh. Though the driver's manners were questionable at best, she was relieved to finally be on her way. Before long, she would be back with Robert, they could run away together, and she could officially put her fears to rest. “Now, if you would be so kind, let us be on our way.”

  When Sylvie opened her eyes and saw the carriage driver winking at her, she felt a sinking sensation in her stomach.

  She was starting to feel as if she had stepped into the wrong carriage.

  II

  Sylvie had gotten very little sleep the previous night, having been so worried about her situation. So it was no surprise when she found herself dozing during the carriage ride. When her eyes opened again, she had no idea how long she had been asleep, or how far they had traveled. Only one thing was certain: the carriage was no longer moving.

  She peeled back the curtain and cautiously peered outside. As a pessimist, she half-expected the worst case scenario. What if her father was waiting for her outside? What if he had somehow managed to track her down, apprehend her, and force her to turn back? Her heart was momentarily gripped with fear, but it was fleeting. The carriage had stopped in the middle of a lush green field, and only Peter Hughes was standing outside.

  Sylvie was a bit surprised by the sight of the brash carriage driver. More specifically, she was surprised to discover he was actually somewhat handsome. He was dry now, but his messy dark hair was as black as ever, even in the sunlight. His eyes were dark and narrowed, and looking ve
ry stern beneath straight black eyebrows. His coat had been removed and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing muscular forearms. Peter Hughes looked a bit dangerous, but in a way that was not wholly unappealing. Even the streak of mud on his cheek was strangely appealing.

  Sighing, Sylvie let the curtain fall. Her strange thoughts had her shaking her head with disbelief. She had no business thinking about the carriage driver in such a way. It was inappropriate and outlandish—not to mention, inaccurate. He wasn't so handsome, certainly not as much as her Robert. And she did not care for the slight beard on Peter Hughes' rugged face.

  “Lady Sylvie?”

  When she heard him call her name, her breath was momentarily caught in her throat. He must have seen her lower the curtain.

  “My lady? Are you awake?” Peter opened the carriage door and peered inside. When he caught her gaze, he was frowning.

  “Indeed I am.” Sylvie sat up straight in her seat and folded her hands across her lap. “How long was I asleep?”

  “Two hours.”

  “Two hours?” She sounded a bit startled by his answer. “And where are we, Hughes? We appear to be in the middle of nowhere.”

  “We appear to be in the middle of nowhere because we are in the middle of nowhere,” he replied. “The carriage is stuck.”

  “Oh.” Sylvie's lower lip quivered at the thought of it. “Very stuck?”

  “More stuck than I'd like to be, my lady. At the moment, we're mired in the mud.” When Peter wiped his hands on the sides of his shirt, his fingers left faint trails of mud. “I've been trying to free us for several minutes now.”

  “Oh dear. That is a very unfavorable turn of events. Can we find someone to help us?”

  “As we already discussed, we are in the middle of nowhere. I am afraid there is little help to be found. But I haven't given up.”

  “Will you help me down from the carriage, Hughes?” Sylvie extended her hand, but when she saw him reach for her with mud on his fingernails, she quickly retracted it. “On second thought, I am sure I am quite capable of alighting from the carriage on my own.”

  With a permanent sneer on her nose, Sylvie climbed down and followed Peter to the front of the carriage, where one of the carriage's wheels had sunken into the mud. The soggy earth was quite cumbersome to slog through; Sylvie nearly lost a slipper to the mud as well.

  “I was trying to dig us out with a stick,” Peter explained, “but I was getting nowhere... so I tried to push the carriage, but it won't budge.”

  “Oh. That's... very bad,” Sylvie said with a frown.

  “Of course, I've not given up the fight. I'll get us freed, one way or another. What do you think, my lady? Should I try to dig or push?”

  “I'm not sure I have a suggestion, Hughes.”

  “Very well. I'll try to push.” Peter returned to the back of the carriage, leaned his shoulder against it, and attempted to push the mired equipage with all the strength he could muster.

  “Can the horse not pull the carriage out of the mud?” Sylvie suggested hopefully.

  “No.” He grunted softly as he gave the carriage another shove.

  “Is there anything I can do to assist you?” Sylvie asked. “I could help you push.”

  “No!” Peter's reply was more adamant this time.

  “Very well. I can see you have no use for me.” Sylvie crossed her arms and watched him strain and struggle. She felt a bit guilty for being so useless, but it wasn't as if she did not offer to help him. “Do you mind if I talk to you while you work?”

  Peter stopped pushing and swiped a hand across his sweat-laden forehead. “If you must.”

  “I think, perhaps, I need someone to talk to. I feel so burdened by my thoughts.”

  Peter donned a pair of gloves and proceeded to push the carriage again. “As it happens, I know a thing or two about being burdened.”

  At the moment, she was his burden, but the earl's daughter failed to grasp that fact.

  “I am in love with a man named Robert, who has been courting me for some time,” she began. “Robert is everything I could possibly want in a husband. He is kind. He is strong. He is thoughtful. I wanted to marry him... I wanted that more than anything, but my father did not approve.”

  “This Robert isn't wealthy enough?” Peter asked.

  “No. He's quite wealthy, but my father insisted that I marry a man named Charles Tonbridge. Mr. Tonbridge is an old friend of his,” Sylvie continued. “A very, very old friend of his. Charles is even older than my father. Do you think I should be forced to marry a man who is older than my father?”

  “That does seem rather unfair,” Peter indolently offered his opinion.

  “Nevertheless, I was promised to him and... I was supposed to marry him today,” Sylvie explained. “I... ran away. I refuse to have my fate decided for me, especially when that fate is so very bleak.”

  “And now you're running away... to Robert?”

  “Precisely!” Sylvie exclaimed. Her companion left something to be desired, but she was pleased that he was paying attention. “I cannot begin to tell you how disappointed I am in my father. He kept insisting that I marry Charles, even though I protested very adamantly. I thought he cared for me! But he has no concern for my feelings, none whatsoever, and that fact breaks my heart!”

  Peter stepped away from the carriage and went to retrieve his stick. Pushing the carriage had failed again, so he thought it was time to resume his digging.

  And Sylvie continued her tirade. “Mr. Tonbridge and I have absolutely nothing in common, as I am sure you can imagine. I have known him since I was a child, which makes it absolutely absurd that he could ever want me as his wife. Would you believe my father called me a spinster? He insists that Robert has no intention to marry me, but I know he is wrong. Robert is very passionate when he speaks to me. He even wrote a poem for me.”

  “Did he?” Peter turned toward her and clasped a hand over his heart. “How... moving.”

  “You are sarcastic, but there is truth in what you say. I found him to be very romantic, and I was always very moved by his words.”

  As Peter prodded at the mud around the carriage wheel, he shook his head and sighed. How could he tell the young lady he had no interest in hearing about her affairs of the heart?

  “I am nearly five and twenty.” Sylvie confessed. “Do you think I am a spinster?”

  He stared at her for several seconds, then quietly answered, “No.”

  A large clump of mud was dislodged by Peter's digging. It flew toward Lady Sylvie, nearly missing her dress. “Oh my!” she exclaimed.

  “Sorry, my lady.”

  “You needn't apologize. Your hard work is very much appreciated, Hughes. You seem very determined to dig your way out of this predicament. If you would like some assistance, I would be more than happy to--”

  “No.” His answer came more swiftly than ever.

  “Very well. Perhaps your pride will not allow you to accept help from a lady. It is perfectly understandable.” Sylvie sighed, shrugged, and quietly watched him dig. She felt a strange fluttering in her heart when she saw him tug at the collar of his shirt. His tan, sweat-covered neck was glistening in the sunlight. “Are you married, Hughes?”

  “No.”

  “Ah. I see. Well, I do not find that surprising in the least. You do look very young.”

  “I am eight and twenty.”

  “Are you? I wouldn't have guessed that. I thought there was every possibility you were younger than me. You have a very boyish face.”

  When Peter stopped digging and turned in her direction, one of his dark eyebrows was raised. “Even with the beard?” He dragged a hand across his bristly chin.

  “I am afraid so.” Sylvie attempted to console him with a smile. “Do you know what Robert said when he first saw me? He thought I was my youngest sister's mother! I must say, it was more than a bit insulting, and I was very determined to dislike him after that! Of course, he was far too charming to dislike for very long.
And my youngest sister is only eight, so I suppose it would be possible for me to be her mother, had I gotten married very young. Do you think I look old, Hughes?”

  “Not at all, my lady.”

  “Even if I look a bit older than my five and twenty years, my father should not expect me to marry a much older man. It is too cruel. It is--”

  Peter interrupted with a sigh. “Lady Sylvie?”

  “Yes?”

  He lifted his mud-covered stick and playfully jabbed it in her direction. “I do not mean to be rude, but your endless prattle is a bit... distracting.”

  “Prattle?!” She gasped at the word. “How very offensive!”

  “I do not mean to offend,” he assured her, “but I would strongly prefer a quiet companion right now.”

  “A quiet companion...” Sylvie repeated his words with a snort. “Now you will have no companion, Hughes! See how you prefer that! I shall inflict loneliness on you!”

  Sylvie opened the carriage, climbed inside, and slammed the door behind her. When she was gone, Peter drove his stick into the mud and whispered to himself, “I do prefer it...”

  When the earl's daughter was no longer around to vex him, Peter worked twice as fast. He burrowed around the wheel with renewed vigor and had the carriage freed in less than ten minutes. When he went to tell Sylvie the good news, he was surprised to find her sleeping in the carriage.

  “Poor girl,” he whispered to himself. “She must be exhausted. One could almost feel a bit sorry for her.”

  Peter noticed her nose was bright red and assumed she was cold, so he went to retrieve his discarded coat and draped it around her shoulders. He watched her for several seconds, shrugged, and then climbed back into the driver's seat.

  It was still quite a distance to Nottingham. In Peter's mind, that was a very unfortunate fact.

  III

  Sylvie hovered in and out of sleep for hours, and when she finally woke, the carriage had halted in front of a rustic inn. When Peter abruptly opened the carriage door, she simultaneously gasped and squealed.