Twice Upon a Time (A Danby Family Novella)

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Bio

Booklist

TWICE UPON A TIME

Samantha Grace

Copyright @ 2011 by Samantha Grace

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by author.

~1~

JULIAN Beckford, second son to Viscount Pickton, grandson to the influential Duke of Danby, and reluctant accomplice to his deranged cousin’s newest venture, crossed his legs at the ankles and leaned back against the carriage seat. “Wake me when you’ve come to your senses.”

“Ho ho! Do not count on
that
any time soon.” Pen kept his eyes trained to the back entrance of the Lord Orrick Theatre, a small playhouse unlikely to be frequented by anyone of their acquaintance. “We will be here all night if that’s what it takes.”

“Fancy that.”
 

When Pen, who had been like a brother to Julian since they both wore short pants, invited him out for an evening on the Town, this was not what Julian had pictured. Still, he had missed Pen’s escapades these last five years. He just hadn’t expected to be thrown into one of his harebrained schemes less than a week after returning to England.

 
His cousin bolted straight up in his seat, kicking Julian’s leg in the process. “There!
She
is the one.”

Julian’s gaze followed the direction of Pen’s extended finger. “Her? Do you wish Grandfather to cry imposter the moment we reach Yorkshire?”

“Imposter?” Pen tugged on a lock of hair, studying the woman. “What fault do you find with this one?”
 

“The tucked up skirts. The generous display of bosom despite the frigid temperatures…”

“Oh, quite right. She will never do. Too daft.”

Jiminy
. The woman wasn’t the daft one. “She’s a lightskirt, Pen. Did she even come from the theatre?”

His cousin shrugged. “I’m uncertain. I was woolgathering.” He slumped against the seat with a weary sigh. “Won’t you
please
lend your assistance? You have a better eye for these things.”

Julian would like to tell him to sod off and abandon this fool’s mission, but in honesty, he felt sympathy for his cousin. Pen possessed no ability to protect himself against their grandfather’s manipulations. Danby was on his deathbed. Again. For the
fourth
time this year to hear Pen tell it. Each trip his cousin had made to Danby Castle, he’d found the duke hearty and hale. Danby had been especially lively when demanding Pen take a wife and fill his nursery. The old man would outlive them all.

A small smile pulled at Julian’s lips. He hadn’t been certain he would ever lay eyes on his grandfather again when he left for Calcutta. A Christmas spent at Danby Castle suited him.

“I will help you,” Julian said, “but as soon as I determine a likely candidate, we’re leaving for Rendell’s.”

Pen’s enthusiasm returned, and he wiggled back into position to observe the actresses leaving the theatre.

“Why not make a real match and be done with the matter?” Julian asked.

His cousin grimaced as if chewing a mouthful of horseshoe tacks. Julian had never seen such a pained expression cross his countenance.
 

“Must I take a wife, Jul? Truly?”

“Of course you must. Who else is to provide an heir to the earldom?”

“Blasted Miriam and Harriet! Neither one had the decency to be born a male.” Pen jabbed a finger Julian’s direction. “Do you know they’ve always been selfish, those two? Ever since they were babies. Crying and keeping me awake. Not to mention messing their nappies and contaminating the nursery.”

“That’s what babies do.”

“Well, they are an inconsiderate lot.”
 

Julian chuckled. His cousin may complain often about his sisters, but Julian knew he held affection for both. Cousin Miriam, on the other hand, was less than fond of her brother. After all, Pen had stolen her birthright: blonde curls passed down from their mother.

The backdoor of the theatre eased open and a hooded figure peeked out, looking quickly in both directions. Apparently deeming the deserted alley safe, the person hurried out the door. Heavy, dark skirts and a lithe frame. The woman lowered her head, pulled the hood down to hide her face, and walked briskly in their direction. She clutched a large case in her hand.

Julian nodded. “She’s the one.”
 

It had dawned on him too late that it mattered very little which woman he recommended to Pen since Julian had every intention of talking his cousin out of his plans on the morrow. He could have ended this nonsense hours ago.

“Are you certain?” Pen asked.

“Yes. Now I have done my part, and I’m growing impatient with this clandestine operation. I’m ready to play faro.”

Pen rapped sharply on the roof and opened the window.
 

One of his servants moved into the woman’s path before she reached the end of the alley. “Pardon me, miss. Lord Penlow would like a word.”

She froze like a rabbit, poised to dash away. “Step away from me, sir.” She readjusted her grip on the bag. The poor dear was probably frightened out of her wits, being accosted the minute she exited the alley, and who could blame her?

“Make it quick,” Pen called out. “We have somewhere to be.”
 

When the footman turned his head toward Pen’s voice, she took advantage of the distraction and tried to bolt around him.

“Stop her!” Pen scrambled from his seat and threw open the door. “Stop her now!”

His servant lunged to grab the woman, hugging his arms around hers and knocking her bag from her hand. It hit the ground with a thud.

“My bag!” Her panicked voice echoed off the building.

“Quiet her,” Pen said. “Put her in the carriage.”

“No!”

The servant clamped a hand over her mouth before she let loose a scream and lifted her off her feet. She kicked and wriggled until he almost lost his hold. The hood fell away to reveal a cascade of dark hair.

Julian shot out of the carriage. “What are you doing? You said nothing about abduction.”

 
Her gaze darted toward him, her eyes wide, and her thrashing increased.

“See what you’ve done?” Pen sprang forward and captured her legs. “Let’s put her in the carriage before someone discovers us.”

Together, Pen and his servant struggled to toss her in the Berlin before Pen climbed inside. “Come on, Julian.”

Julian hesitated a moment, then snatched her bag, and clambered into the carriage, closing the door behind him. Pen was sitting on the bench, holding his nose and oddly silent. The girl huddled in a corner, her breaths shallow and rapid. She was as scared as a church mouse. Good Lord, this might take some doing to make everything right.

Julian placed her bag on the floor and reached a hand toward her. “No one is going to hurt you, miss.” As he leaned in, her leg shot out, and her boot struck him in the center of his chest.

“Damnation!” He fell against the door; his side banged against the seat.

She barreled for the exit, trying to climb over him to reach it. Her boot ground into his thigh, and she lost her footing on the slick fabric of his breeches. She dropped like a lead ball, her knee crashing into his groin.
 

Julian hissed in pain. Pinpricks of light danced in the blackness, clouding his vision. His gut wrenched, wringing every ounce of comfort from him and replacing it with excruciating torture.

He would never trust his judgment again. He’d chosen a wildcat.

As the waves of pain slowly receded, he became aware of her hands resting on his chest. She was no longer struggling as she sprawled atop him. Her face was inches from his, her lips parted in horror. The carriage was moving now, carrying them away from the theatre.

“Please forgive me, sir. Did I hurt you?”

Her large eyes glittered in the carriage lamplight and were filled with concern. His lips parted in surprise. He wouldn’t expect compassion from a woman he had just helped snatch off the street.

“Of course you hurt him.” Pen grabbed her around the waist and hauled her off Julian. Her warmth was missed at once. Cool December air invaded the carriage through the open window. “Now do behave so we may conduct our interview and carry you to your destination.”

She sat in her corner again and folded her hands in her lap, warily looking between the two of them. “Y-you plan to release me?”
 

“Yes,” Pen said, “although I will require an apology first for bloodying my nose.” He pulled his hands away from his face. A dark stain marred his once pristine cravat.
 

“Oh, dear,” she said. “Would you like me to check if it’s broken?” When she reached a hand toward Pen, he recoiled.
 

“Don’t touch me, you harridan.”

Julian eased himself onto the opposite bench, tempted to ask if she wished to examine his stones. “You had best not have broken
me
.”

She lowered her head. It was too dim in the carriage to determine the color of her skin, but he suspected she was blushing. Perhaps he hadn’t been wrong to select her on Pen’s behalf. She played the role of innocent maiden well enough now.

Pen issued an exaggerated huff of annoyance. “Shall we try this again? Please allow me to make introductions. I am Leander Thornhill, Baron Penlow, and this is my cousin, Julian Beckford. And you, my dear, are to be my wife.”

~2~

WIFE!
Felicity Halliday nearly fell off the carriage bench. “You want to
marry
me?”

Lord Penlow sniffed and closed the window. “You needn’t sound so appalled. My offer is better than any other you are likely to receive.”

The gentleman had a sound argument. A physician’s daughter with no dowry would receive no offers of marriage from anyone, much less a nobleman. Still, the man had stolen her from the streets. He probably hadn’t even gotten a good look at her yet. What in the world made him think he wished to marry her, or that she would consent, for that matter?

Mr. Beckford gingerly adjusted his position. A soft groan accompanied his movement. She looked away, focusing on the dark street beyond the window, as a fresh wave of heat swept over her. Mr. Beckford’s testicles had felt like smashed apricots under her knee. His pain must have been horrendous.

“You should request ice for your injury as soon as you arrive home,” she said.

“Nothing is going anywhere near my
injury
, thank you very much.”

“And don’t think he is pleased about it either,” Lord Penlow said, scolding her like he’d been a cantankerous grandmamma in a former life. “I’m certain Julian had other plans for the evening.”

She aimed a glare at the obnoxious popinjay. “As did I, and they did not include an abduction by a madman or a ridiculous proposal of marriage.”

“Abduction was not part of my plan. I simply wished an audience.”

Mr. Beckford sighed. “Correct her misunderstanding, Pen. You have caused enough distress for the woman already.”
 

“The wench hasn’t suffered near the distress she has doled out,” Penlow argued.

“An unpleasant experience, to say the least,” Mr. Beckford agreed, “but not unprovoked.”

Felicity sent a fleeting smile of gratitude across the carriage for him. The gentleman obviously didn’t remember her, or perhaps the circumstances of their reunion negated his memory. She, however, had never forgotten Julian Beckford, smitten as she had been at the age of seventeen.
 

She hadn’t been foolish enough to believe she could ever make a match with a viscount’s son. But Mr. Beckford, through his loving attentions to his aunt during her illness, had set the standard for the type of husband Felicity would someday marry. She hadn’t realized at the time someday would never arrive.

“What do you really want with me?” she asked. “Do you require a doctor?”
 

Lord Penlow looked down his nose at her. “Not prior to our unfortunate meeting, Miss…?”

She hesitated to reveal her true name. The last thing she needed was rumors of her abduction and subsequent ruin destroying Meredith’s chances of making a match.

“I was under the impression I would soon be Baroness Penlow.”

Mr. Beckford laughed. “Grandfather will have met his match with this one.”

The baron swiveled toward her, angled his head to the side, and looked her up and down. “But will he find her believable?”

Mr. Beckford rubbed his chin while Lord Penlow fiddled with his unruly hair. Neither of them spoke as they eyed her like a piece of horseflesh up for auction.