Otway, Shropshire, Christmas Eve, 1815
Edmund Sherritt, Major Lord Canforth, pulled his tired horse up on the brow of the hill. Below him, the fine Jacobean manor of Otway Hall nestled in its pretty valley near the Welsh border. Early winter twilight descended, lengthening the shadows and turning the leafless trees to silhouettes against the darkening sky.
At last he was home.
Four days ago, he’d finally received permission to turn his back on a distinguished military career and return to civilian life. He’d left London at a gallop, traveling on horseback because he couldn’t bear to wait for his carriage to be packed and ready.
North and west he’d ridden, eager and happy. The first night on the road, he’d snatched a few hours’ sleep in a rough inn and set out at first light.
But as the miles from London mounted and the miles to Otway dwindled, he found himself unaccountably slowing down, taking his time. Lingering over meals. Staying in bed longer in the morning—he couldn’t call it sleeping without making himself a liar.
One might almost imagine the gallant major delayed his arrival at the home he’d longed to see for close to eight years. If such an idea weren’t inconceivable in connection with a decorated war hero, one might even wonder if the gallant major dallied because he was…afraid.
Of course that was absurd. Lord Canforth had served his country since the British army joined the Peninsular War in 1808. He’d been wounded at Waterloo, and once recovered, he’d spent the last few months crossing the Continent, working to establish the peace. Such a man would hardly quail at the idea of returning to his estates.
Afraid or not, he’d dawdled on the road, when by rights, he should already be sleeping in his own bed.
Even a sluggard’s journey eventually came to an end. Now he paused above the landscape he loved more than any other. Whatever uncertainty he harbored about his reception, he felt long-delayed pleasure seep into his bones.
This was a fine view in any season. Winter lay lightly on the valley, creating a symphony of subtle greens and grays and browns. His gaze drifted across the gardens surrounding the house, and the bare woodlands rising behind it. The low hills encircled what to him had always seemed an earthly paradise. Brimming with happy boyhood memories of loving parents, and freedom and adventure.
Smoke curled from the house’s chimneys. This close to Christmas, he hadn’t been sure if anyone would be home to greet him. The coward who had possessed his soul since he’d returned to England last week had hoped the house might be empty, giving him a chance to settle in before he needed to worry about anyone else.
Of course he’d have to deal with people again. He was the Earl of Canforth, and he had obligations to his estate. But a few days alone would offer a welcome respite.
A few days before he had to meet the wife he’d married nearly eight years ago and hadn’t seen since.
***
Felicity, Lady Canforth, emerged from the dark warmth of the stables, blinking against the gray light and carrying an empty bucket she intended to fill at the pump. The promise of snow edged the air. It looked like a cold Christmas ahead.
When the raw-boned bay horse clattered into the stable yard, she didn’t recognize it. Or the man bundled in hat, scarf, and greatcoat in the saddle.
This isolated valley didn’t get many unexpected visitors. And it was odd for someone to come to the stables instead of the front door. She straightened, annoyed at the intrusion, not least because in her brown pinafore, she wasn’t dressed to receive guests. “Can I help you?”
The rider drew to a stop, and she felt him studying her from under the brim of the hat he’d pulled down low over his face. A thick green muffler concealed his features.
“I hope so,” he said through the scarf.
“An introduction might be a nice start,” she said pleasantly.
One gloved hand rose to pull away the scarf. “Don’t you remember me, Flick?”
Dear God in heaven. Shock shuddered through her like a blow. Her legs threatened to collapse under her. The bucket crashed to the cobblestones where it rolled disregarded.
“Canforth?” The word emerged as a whisper.
Under her wide-eyed gaze, he unwound the scarf and, with a slowness that struck her as significant, he lifted away his hat. “The same,” he said in a dry tone.
She barely heard through the blood rushing in her ears. Her heart raced like a wild horse as her hungry eyes devoured the man she’d last seen over seven years ago. Powerful joy and equally powerful uncertainty churned in her stomach, turned her knees to jelly.
She drank in every detail of his appearance. Over the years, his image had faded in her mind, despite her best efforts to remember. Thick auburn hair sprang back from his high forehead. The bony nose and jaw were the same. But there were other, obvious changes. Deep lines now ran between nose and mouth. His gray eyes no longer hinted at a continual smile. Most shocking of all was the long, angry scar that extended from temple to jaw.
That must have hurt like the very devil. At the thought of his suffering, she couldn’t control a murmur of distress.
Her involuntary reaction made his lips tighten. He raised one gloved hand toward the saber slash—for surely nothing else could cause such damage—before he sat upright in the saddle and surveyed her down his long nose. “Or perhaps not quite the same, after all.”
The pride was familiar. And the courage. He’d loathe her pity. She forced herself to pretend that she didn’t want to drag him off that big, ill-tempered looking nag, and take him in her arms, and weep all over him like a fountain.