Jo Beverley (2 page)

A
t crack of dawn the next day a coach sped away from Rothgar Abbey as fast as the overnight snow would allow. Inside, Damaris prayed that they’d not be caught in a drift. Briggs, her guardian’s coachman, had dourly predicted that they’d not get far, and if they did it would snow again and stop the journey, but she’d poured out guineas until he agreed.

Being one of the richest women in England had to be useful for something.

What if she was pursued? The crunch of her coach wheels and the pounding of the horses’ hooves blocked any sound of pursuit—or perhaps she was deafened by the pounding of her own frantic heart.

“It’ll come to disaster; I know it will,” Maisie prophesied, for perhaps the twentieth time. Twenty-five-year-old Maisie was plump, plain, and generally merry, but today every line of her round face curved downward. “How’re we going to get all the way back home without being caught, miss?”

Damaris would have screamed at her except that Maisie could be the only friend she had left in the world. “I told you. We only need to reach the London road and buy tickets north. I’m twenty-one. The Mallorens can’t drag me off a public stage.”

Maisie’s grim silence said,
I wish I were sure of that
.

Damaris felt the same doubt. The Mallorens seemed to be a law unto themselves, and her guardian, Lord Henry, was a tyrant.

Perhaps they wouldn’t care. Perhaps they’d be glad to see the back of her.

The coach swayed as it turned out of the park of the abbey. It was probably irrational, but she felt relief at no longer being on Malloren property.

She began to look ahead. She would switch to a public coach at Farnham, then in London buy tickets north. Once back at Birch House…Her vision ended there. She had no idea what she’d do then. She’d probably be back in poverty, because her father’s will allowed her guardian to withhold her money if she didn’t live where he said and do as she was told. She would hate it, but she could survive with little. And it would be only until she was twenty-four—

Movement in the corner of her eye made her whirl to her right.

A rider thundered by her window. Fine horse. Fine rider. Wild blond hair flying in the wind.

Fitzroger?

No!

He cut off her coach. It shuddered to a halt and the coachman said, “Trouble, sir?”

The reply came in that crisp, cool voice that had tormented her for days. “I need a word with Miss Myddleton.”

Maisie moaned. Damaris wanted to. Instead of a means of escape, the coach now felt like a trap.

Fitzroger rode to the window and looked in. He was always plainly dressed, but now he looked the very picture of a vagabond. His blond hair curled loose about his shoulders, his shirt lay open at the neck, and he wore no waistcoat beneath his plain blue jacket. He was as good as undressed!

His ice-blue eyes seemed…what? Exasperated? What right did Ashart’s penniless friend have to be exasperated with her?

Damaris let down the window, but only to lean out and call, “Drive on, Briggs!” Cold air cut at her. Briggs, plague take him, didn’t obey.

Fitzroger grasped the edge of the window frame with his bare hand. He couldn’t hold back the coach by brute force, but that commanding hand unnerved her, preventing her from raising the glass between them.

Bare hand. Bare neck. Bare head.

She hoped he froze to death. “What do you want, sir?”

“But a moment of your time, Miss Myddleton.”

He released the coach and swung off the horse, calling for the groom to come down and take the animal. That snapped Damaris back to action. She leaned out farther and yelled, “Drive on, you spineless varlet!”

She could have saved her frozen breath. Despite the extortionate bribe she’d paid him, Briggs was abandoning her at the first challenge. If she knew how to drive, she’d climb up on the box and take the reins herself.

The wide-eyed young groom, in his frieze coat, gloves, and hat, appeared outside the window and took charge of the horse. Fitzroger opened the door, smiling—but at Maisie, not Damaris. “Return to the house behind the groom. I’ll bring your mistress back shortly.”

“No, he won’t. Maisie, do not dare to obey him!”

Maisie, the traitor, scrambled toward the door. Damaris grabbed her skirt to stop her. Fitzroger chopped sharply at her hand, shocking it open, and pulled Maisie free.

Damaris gaped at him, her hand still tingling. “How
dare
you.”

She reached for the door to slam it, but the man leaped into the coach and closed it himself. He took the seat opposite her and addressed the groom through the open window. “Take the maid up to the house, and keep quiet about this.”

“Aye, sir.”

Pure fury blazed through Damaris, and she reached for the holstered pistol by her seat. She knew nothing of guns, but surely one had only to point one and pull the trigger.

A strong hand closed over hers. He said nothing, but she was suddenly unable to move, frozen by his bare hand controlling hers and his cool, steady eyes.

She pulled free and sat back, tucking her hands back in her muff and directing her eyes to a spot behind his head. “Whatever you have to say, Mr. Fitzroger, say it and be gone.”

He leaned out of the window. “Walk the horses, coachman, and you might as well turn them.”

Back toward the house. She wouldn’t return—she couldn’t—but right now she didn’t see how to prevent it. Tears choked her, but she swallowed them. It would be the final straw to cry.

He raised the window, cutting off the bitter winter air, but trapping her in this enclosed space with him. Their legs could hardly avoid contact, and she could almost feel his heat.

“You don’t really want to run away, you know.”

She responded to that with silence.

“I’m impressed that you persuaded Lord Henry’s servants to carry you away. How did you manage that?”

“Guineas,” she said flatly, “which I have in abundance, and you, sir, significantly lack.”

“Whereas I have understanding of this world in abundance, which you, Miss Myddleton, significantly lack.”

She fired a look at him. “Then you understand that I am ruined.”

“No, but this mad flight might do it.”

She looked away again, out at the bleak scene. “I won’t be here to find out.”

But how did she escape? Fitzroger looked impervious to reason or tears. Despite his obvious poverty, she didn’t think he could be bribed.

“You have a fighting spirit,” he said, “but a fighter needs to understand the terrain. Running away won’t help, because you’ll have to meet all those people again one day. Unless you intend to live like a hermit.”

When in doubt, attack.
“It’s Ashart who should be ashamed. He was supposed to marry me. You know he was.”

“He was supposed to marry your money.”

It hurt to have the truth stated so bluntly, but Damaris met his eyes. “A fair bargain. My wealth for his title. He’ll not survive without it.”

“A penny saved is a penny earned.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “He’s planning economy?
Ashart?
He of the diamond buttons and the splendid horses?”

“A point, I grant you, but what’s done is done. It is your future that matters now.”

She suddenly wondered if she saw the reason for this interference. Fitzroger was a mystery to her, but he was clearly poor. He survived as unpaid companion to Ashart.

“I’ll not trade my fortune for less, sir, if that is your plan.”

If the truth hurt him, he hid it well. “I wouldn’t aspire so far above my station. Think of me as Sir Galahad, Miss Myddleton, riding to the maiden’s rescue from pure and noble motives.”

“I don’t
need
rescue. I need only to be allowed to go on my way.”

He looked as if he might shake her, but then he relaxed, stretching out his long legs so they brushed her wide skirts. She almost shifted away but stopped herself in time.

“I embarrassed myself once,” he said. “I was fifteen, a freshly minted ensign, proud of my uniform but certain that everyone knew I was a lad pretending to be a soldier. I was hurrying across the busy barracks square one day and stepped back to make way for one of the officers’ wives. Alas, I hooked up the skirts of another with my sword. It tangled with some ribbon or some such and I couldn’t pull it free, so I turned, which made matters worse. Her legs were exposed up beyond the knees, and she was shrieking at me to stop. I was sweating and desperate. I tried to back away. Something ripped…. I was certain that no one would ever forget it. I’d have taken ship to the Indies if I could. But after some teasing, it ceased to matter.”

She could imagine all too well, and felt some sympathy, but said, “It’s hardly the same.”

“True. My misfortune was pure accident, whereas yours is to some extent willful. You wanted the prize you’d picked out, and if I hadn’t stopped you yesterday—”

“Stopped me! I still have the bruises.” But the whole horrible event rushed back to her as if it were happening right then. She leaned forward in desperation, pulling her hands from her muff to beg. “Please let me go. Please! I’m going to my old home. I’ll be safe.”

He took her hands. She tried to tug free, but strength seemed to have deserted her, and her vision was blurred by tears.

“Flee and your bad behavior will be fixed in people’s minds. Return, seem in good spirits, and everyone will doubt their own memory of events.”

She blinked, trying to read truth or error in his face. “Every detail must be etched in their minds.”

“Every detail is etched in yours, as my sword misadventure was etched in mine. In the minds of others, it’s merely part of a tumult of fascinating drama, and for the most part you were the injured party. We can return you to that, to the point where people sympathize.”

She snatched her hands free. “With a pitiable creature, jilted because all her jewels and riches couldn’t compensate for a plain face, awkward manners, and inferior birth.”

She froze, unable to believe that she’d just exposed her secret shame to this man; then she covered her face with a hand.

He swung over to sit beside her and gently tugged her hand down. “Begging for compliments, Miss Myddleton?”

Damaris had to look at him, but she could hardly think with his body suddenly so close in the confinement of the coach seat. She’d lived most of her life in a world without men, without their effect at close quarters. Now this man pressed against her at leg and arm, and his strong, warm hand enfolded hers.

“You can’t compete with Genova Smith in beauty,” he said. “Few can. But plain, no. And I’ve seen nothing amiss with your manners except when strain over Ashart rode you. Come back with me. I promise to stand by you, to make sure everything turns out as you would wish.”

His tone as much as his words shivered along her nerves, weakening her will. Was it possible?

“How can I? What will I have to do?”

“Face them and smile.”

Damaris’s mouth dried, but she recognized the second chance she’d prayed for in the night. She wasn’t sure it was possible to regain her foothold here, but she had to take the opportunity if only to prove to herself that she wasn’t a coward as well as a fool.

Logic didn’t defeat fear, however, and she had to fight a tight throat to speak. “Very well, I’ll return and put on a glad face. But I hold you to your promise. You will stand by me?”

His smile was remarkably sweet. “I will.”

He had to have an eye on her fortune—no other reason explained his apparent kindness. “Before you go any further, Mr. Fitzroger, please understand that while I appreciate your help, I will never, ever offer you my hand and fortune.”

“Damaris, not every man who does you a service will be after your money.”

“Are you claiming to have no desire to marry riches? I cannot believe that.”

He shrugged. “I’d take your fortune if you offered it, but you won’t do anything so foolish, will you?”

“No.”

“Then we know where we stand.”

How could he tie her in knots by agreeing with her?

“Lord Henry is taking you to London for the winter season, isn’t he? You’ll have your pick of the titled blooms there. A duke, even. Think of it. As a duchess, you’ll outrank Genova, Marchioness of Ashart.”

He seemed to see right into her petty soul, but she couldn’t deny the appeal of that. That list of the needy, titled gentlemen had included a duke—the Duke of Bridgewater. She’d passed over him because he’d sounded dull, but high rank had its charms.

“What are you plotting now?” he asked in lazy amusement. “You make me nervous.”

“I wish that were true.”

“Any sensible man gets nervous when confronted with an inexperienced lady weaving plots.”

“Inexperienced?” she objected, but in truth she could hardly claim otherwise.

“Very. Are you experienced enough, for example, to choose your husband wisely?”