CHAPTER ONE
By the age of three-and-twenty, Miss Elinora Browning had given up on wedding vows--instead, she made herself a promise. Never again would she place her happiness in the hands of an unfeeling, disinterested man.
Unfortunately, that did not prevent unfeeling, disinterested men from wreaking havoc with her schedule.
"What do you mean, the stagecoach is already gone?"
"Well, miss. It's like this." The coaching inn proprietor scratched behind his ear. His fingernails were cracked and yellowed. "The coach you were meant to travel by, it was here. And it done left. An hour ago."
"But why?"
"The weather looks to be taking a nasty turn. All the other passengers were assembled, so the driver decided to get ahead of the storm. You can take the next one."
"When's the next one?"
"Tuesday."
"Tuesday?" Nora's heart sank. "Sir, I must be in Spindle Cove by tomorrow. I have an engagement."
The man chuckled. "If you're engaged, why would you be headin' for Spinster Cove?"
"It's not a marital sort of engagement. I've a speaking engagement at a subscription library there. I'm an author."
He blinked at her, uncomprehending. As if she'd said, I'm a hedgehog.
Nora didn't have time to explain. "Is there no way I can arrange alternate transport tonight?"
"By private post chaise, if you've the coin."
She clutched her purse. Hiring a private coach from Canterbury to Spindle Cove would cost a small fortune. She didn't carry that much money on her person. It wouldn't be safe for a woman traveling alone.
"Please, isn't there anything else traveling in a westerly direction? Even to another location."
He eyed the chalk-dusted slate hanging on the wall. "You may be in luck, miss. There's a gentleman keen to travel to Portsmouth tonight. The coach weren't full yet, but he offered to buy out the empty space. He's leavin' any moment."
"Portsmouth will do, thank you very much. If I can join him so far as Hastings, I can hire a post chaise from there."
The man took her trunk. Nora hurried behind him, dodging puddles as he led the way to a dark, creaking coach hitched to a team of four rather haggard-looking bays. Not precisely a crest-emblazoned, well-sprung barouche.
But when the door swung open, Nora climbed in without thinking twice. Beggars couldn't be choosers.
There was only one other figure in the coach. A man, sitting on the far end of the rear-facing seat, reading a newspaper. Nora positioned herself on the front-facing side, leaving plenty of room for any other passengers who might be joining them.
No sooner had she arranged her skirts, however, than the coach rolled into motion.
As the carriage trundled out onto the highway, she heard the snap of folding newspaper. For the first time, she ventured a glance in her solitary companion's direction. The afternoon's gloom made it impossible for her to make out details.
But Nora didn't need details.
Apparently, she needed a miracle.
She dropped her gaze to her lap and prayed, wide-eyed.
Oh, Lord. Please. Don't let it be him.
But it was. She didn't need to look twice to confirm it.
The other occupant of the coach was none other than George Travers, Lord Dashwood. Nora had suspected it the instant she glimpsed his silhouette.
She'd known it from the way her heart raced in response.
She'd always been affected by the sheer size of him. He was hewn from trunks and planks, where other men were carved from branches.
His broad table of shoulders, massive hands . . . They made her feel delicate, the way no one else had ever done. Few would look at sturdily built, fiery-haired Nora Browning and think "delicate." But she was, deep down. There were parts of her spun from floss and held together with hope--and those bits were fragile indeed.
Here was the man who'd destroyed them.
Oh, Lord. Please. Don't let him recognize me.
To be sure, they'd been neighbors in their youths. But he'd been at sea for years, and in the meantime Nora had changed. Hadn't she? There were fewer freckles on her cheeks. She'd swelled and rounded in the usual feminine places. And despite the years she'd wasted fixating on his capable hands or wavy dark hair, Dash was unlikely to have memorized her features.
He'd never taken much notice of her at all.
"Nora?" His familiar baritone shook her to the core. "Miss Nora Browning, is that you?"
She steeled herself to face him. "Why, Lord Dashwood. What a surprise."
And thus they began a brief, polite exchange that in no way indicated the years she'd spent pining for him, nor the way he'd departed so callously, much less the manner in which he'd once, on a long ago afternoon, reached for her hand beneath a table and twined his fingers with hers.
"I didn't realize you were back in England," she said.
"I've been in Town since late October. I hope your parents are well."
"They are both in good health, thank you."
She couldn't say the same for herself. After all this time, his face was still distressingly handsome. Her stomach wanted to squeeze through the window and escape.
The lengthening silence chastened her. It was Nora's turn to ask a polite question, but she couldn't inquire after his family. Dash had been orphaned as a young boy. He'd inherited his barony while she was still playing with dolls.
Instead she asked, "You're bound for Portsmouth?"
"Yes. Looking in on a new ship under construction. Sir Bertram has charged me with leading the next West Indian survey. And you?"
"I plan to change at Hastings. I'm traveling to Spindle Cove. It's a seaside resort. Popular with a certain set of young ladies."
"Ah."
She turned to the window and peered desperately into the rainy afternoon. There. They'd conversed. Etiquette was satisfied, and now she might travel in peace.
What more was there to say? He'd doubtless left any thoughts of her behind when he left England, and now she was nothing more to him than that Browning girl from down the lane. Andrew's bothersome little sister. The one with the carroty hair and hoydenish ways.
So long as he hadn't . . .
Oh, Lord. Please. Please, don't let him have heard of the pamphlet.
He cleared his throat. "I understand you have turned your talents to writing."
Drat.
"Indeed," she answered slowly. "I wrote a letter to a newspaper a few years ago. The editors liked it so much, they published it as a pam
phlet. It has received some notice."
She promptly kicked herself for minimizing her own accomplishments. Hadn't she told many a group of young ladies to do the reverse? Have the courage to claim your victories, she always encouraged them.
"I mean to say," she added, "the pamphlet has sold a large number of copies. Several thousand, as a matter of fact. But it circulated mostly among ladies, and you've been traveling for years. I would not expect you to have heard of it."
In fact, I would be most thankful if you had not.
"Oh I've heard of it," he said. "Every woman in London seems to be speaking of it. A number of the men, besides."
He slid down the seat, until he sat almost directly across from her. In the cramped coach, his long legs were nearly bent double. His knee brushed against hers.
And her foolish heart leapt.
Old habits never went away.
It had always been thus, for as long as she could remember. He'd been the lord-next-door, and Dash was a great favorite with the entire Browning family. He and her brother Andrew--God rest him--had been fast friends. Her father had praised the young baron's quick mind. Her mother lavished attention on him as she would as an adopted son.
As for Nora . . .
Nora had simply, stupidly adored him.
How could she not? Dash was clever, strong, and bold. He answered to no one. And God above, was he handsome. Hair black as a raven's wing, curling just at his collar. Equally dark eyes, set beneath heavy brows. A wide, expressive mouth. Add to all this, a voice that had darkened intriguingly as he grew from a boy to a man.
Andrew's death in a riding accident had devastated their family. But Dash had continued visiting Greenwillow Hall, studying Greek and geometry with her father before leaving for university.
When he promised to call on Nora during her season in Town, she had let herself harbor the silly hope that her moment had come. At last, perhaps he would see her--truly see her--not as a bothersome, freckled country girl, but as a cultured, sophisticated woman. His equal. And then . . .
And then he'd fall in love with her, of course.
No, No. And then he'd realize he'd always loved her, deep down. Just as she'd always loved him. That was the true fantasy. She might as well admit it to herself. Courtship, marriage, children. She'd dreamed a whole life with him.
Well, it hadn't quite gone that way.
Dash's treatment of her that season was so thoroughly abominable, it made Nora nostalgic for the sensation of being ignored.
A few months later, he disappeared from her life completely.
He'd accepted a place with a cartography expedition and left England with scarcely a word of farewell. Nora had felt rejected, worthless.
And--as the months went by--she grew angry. With Dash, with the world, with herself.
One lonely evening, after drinking a touch too much sherry, she sharpened a quill and attempted to purge her feelings on paper. By first light she'd put the finishing flourish on an essay. A literary vindication for every young woman who'd pinned her hopes to a man and then watched both man and hopes walk away.
She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed anew.
Oh, Lord. If you can grant me one plea, let it be this one: Please, please, please. Don't let him have read that pamphlet.
"Your pamphlet made for quite interesting reading." His voice had a frosty edge.
Nora slid her eyes heavenward. Really. Do you ever answer these things?
"What was it called?" he mused, tapping his finger on the seat rail. "Oh, yes. Lord Dashwood Missed Out."
"Actually, the title is Lord Ashwood Missed Out."
"Yes, of course." He fixed her with a stern glare.
She tried to escape it by turning to look out the window, but the small pane was too foggy. She huffed a breath and rubbed the glass with a corner of her sleeve.
All the while, she could sense him staring at her.
"Are you ill, Miss Browning? You've turned quite pale."
"Coach travel rarely agrees with me."
"Pity. Is there something I might offer to increase your comfort?"
"Thank you. I find that silence is the best medicine."
He made an amused noise. "Then I shall let you have your silence. That is, just as soon as you've answered one question to my satisfaction."
The back of her neck tingled.
He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, confronting her. Caging her. Forbidding her to escape.
And now the tingling made its way down her spine, bringing her every nerve to awareness.
"What, precisely, did I miss out on?"
CHAPTER TWO
"Bollocks."
With a baleful look at the gray clouds overhead, Pauline gathered her cloak about her shoulders and hurried across the village green, dodging raindrops as she went.
When she clattered through the door of Brights' All Things shop, she was glad to see a familiar face--and a flash of sunny hair--behind the counter.
Sally Bright looked up from her work, glimpsed Pauline, and then dipped in an exaggerated curtsy. "Good afternoon, Your Grace."
"You know how I hate it when you call me that."
"Of course." Sally gave her a cheeky look. "That's why I do it."
Yes, Pauline understood that. And she couldn't help but smile in response as she unknotted the drawstring of her cloak. She and Sally were the oldest of friends, and old friends teased one another--even when one of them kept a dry goods shop and the other had become a duchess.
"Has the mail coach come through?"
"Not yet." Sally returned to her work, arranging a row of Christmas ribbons on a prominent shelf. "No doubt it's delayed by the weather."
"That's what I feared."
"Why, were you waiting on something in the post?"
"Not a letter. But I'm worried about the roads. Miss Browning is supposed to arrive today. You know, the visiting authoress?"
"Certainly I know her. I like her. She sells. I ordered in a dozen extra copies of her pamphlet. Sold every last one, and I've just received a dozen more."
Without turning, Sally tipped her head toward a stack of slender pamphlets encased in plain brown board.
Pauline walked to the display and picked up the topmost folder. She opened it to see the defiant title: Lord Ashwood Missed Out: A Gentleman's Rejection, Rejected by Miss Elinora Browning.
"No surprise that one's popular with the Spindle Cove set," Sally said.
"Indeed."
Spindle Cove had long been a refuge for "unconventional" young women--the bookish, the awkward, the heartsick, the painfully shy. In short, any well-bred young lady who didn't quite fit in with London society.
As a serving girl who'd somehow married a scandalous duke, Pauline counted herself foremost among the odd ducks. From time to time, Griff needed to spend a few weeks in London, but she certainly didn't fit in there. She would far rather be here in Spindle Cove, surrounded by her friends and children--and close to her sister Daniela, with whom she managed the Two Sisters subscription library.
Miss Browning's visit was the first in what Pauline hoped would be a series of literary salons. An attraction during the seaside village's low season. However, if their first authoress failed to appear, the series would not be off to an auspicious start.
And Daniela would take the disappointment to heart.
In a village of unique young women, Pauline's sister was perhaps the most different of all. Despite being a grown woman, Daniela had the understanding of a child. She struggled with speaking and complicated sums, and she was deeply wounded when long-awaited pleasures didn't go as planned.
Pauline let the pamphlet fall closed. "Well, I can't just stand about fretting. Too much to be done. Daniela is still readying the shop. The children are at home with their grandmother. I must go over to the Bull and Blossom to see how the biscuits and cakes are getting on. Griff is due back from Town. He's bringing the sherry."
"Sherry? If you're serving spirits,
even I might attend."
"It's Miss Browning's favorite. Supposedly too much sherry one evening is what gave her the courage to write this." She tapped the pamphlet on the counter.
Sally took the pamphlet from Pauline's grasp and leafed through it. "This was more than sherry. Something tells me the woman brash enough to give a wealthy lord a published rebuke isn't about to be cowed by a bit of typical English weather. It's not even three in the afternoon. She'll make it through. It's only a touch of rain."
Pauline peered out the window, wishing she shared her friend's certainty. "It looks as though it's turning to snow."
"Well?" Dash prompted. "I'm waiting."
Keeping his arms braced on his knees, he interlaced his fingers in the center and drummed his thumbs with impatience.
I have you now, Nora. You won't escape.
"I'm sorry, what was the question?"
"You published a pamphlet alleging that I missed out. What, precisely, did I miss out on?"
She didn't answer, which irritated him.
More irritating by far, however, was the way his mind starting filling in answers of its own.
Those lively eyes. That fiery hair. That damnably tempting body.
He recalled her being powerfully tempting, of course, but he'd taken to attributing those memories to his own youthful randiness. To an adolescent boy, even a shapely table leg looked arousing.
And surely she would have aged and changed. He'd aged and changed. The tropical climate and sea crossings had weathered him.
But Nora wasn't weathered. She was as pale and rosy and deliciously curvy as all of his memories--only more so. The only noticeable difference he could find was the scarcity of freckles on her cheeks and neck. Had they faded, he wondered? Or had they merely migrated south like a flock of sparrows, seeking warmer climes beneath the tropic of her neckline?
His gaze wandered downward. Perhaps if he were to grasp the tight-fitting cobalt velvet of her traveling frock and rip it seam from seam--laying her bare--he would discover them.
He shook himself. Erotic fantasies were all well and good, but not when they involved Nora Browning.
He didn't want to want her. Not after what she'd done.
Not after what she'd written.
"The pamphlet?" Her lush, pink mouth broke into a nervous smile. "I hope you can understand, Dash. That wasn't about you."