Archibald Napier, Viscount Morley, climbed into his coach feeling warmer, his stomach full of pasties and ale. Now perhaps he could sleep through the jolting and rocking of his conveyance on the muddy highway. The latest letter from Gantry, his secretary, hinted at the urgency of Morley's return to London without giving details. The man did have a tendency towards the dramatic, but as Gantry was in the midst of investigating some ugly gossip involving Morley and the daughter of the Marquess of Boxworth, there was nothing to do but get to London as quickly as possible.
The clouds opened up as soon as the carriage began to roll. Rain pounded on the roof and windows, and the large coach rocked unsettlingly in a gust of wind. For a moment, Morley questioned the wisdom of pushing on in the inclement weather, but Gantry wouldn’t have suggested urgency without cause. Smithers knew how to handle the horses and would get them safely to their next stop.
Leaning back against the padded leather seat, Morley closed his eyes, blocked out the crack of thunder in the distance, and let the patter of rain lull him to sleep.
He could not say how long he’d slept when he suddenly sat upright. The carriage was still rocking, the night was still miserable, but he couldn’t find any cause for his disturbed sleep.
Then he heard it. A tiny mewling from the pile of blankets on the opposite bench. The squeak that followed had him fearing a rat had snuck into the carriage while he was inside the inn. He suppressed a shudder and wiped a hand down his face to clear away the dregs of slumber. How had the creature stolen aboard? He made a note to have Smithers examine the undercarriage for holes as soon as they arrived in Bath.
With one hand, he reached for his cane on the floor while leaning across the space between the benches towards the blankets. His free hand grasped a corner of the top blanket and yanked. As the wool puddled on the floor, all he saw was another blanket. When he pulled that one free, he discovered something much larger than a rat.
Much prettier, too.
A petite young lady lay curled in the corner of the seat, pale golden curls framing her exquisite face. She looked as peaceful as a cherub in a painting, but thankfully wore more clothing. The last thing he needed was more scandal. While it was too dark to see clearly, the fine cut of her fur-trimmed pelisse said plenty about her family.
Who was she, and why was she sleeping in his coach? Where were her maid and the rest of her party?
Morley pulled back the curtain on one window, letting in some light from the lamp. Glancing out, he peered at the blackness but through the rain he could see nothing of the landmarks around him, so he couldn’t determine how far they’d traveled. If they were close to the next stop, he could send someone to the last inn to notify the young woman’s companions. He doubted Smithers would appreciate being asked to turn around at this time of night.
As he pondered what to do with her, she stirred, a slight gasp escaping her lips. She shifted her position, practically falling from the seat before her arms flew out to catch her balance. Morley jumped to her rescue and caught her, holding her close for a moment before setting her on the cushioned seat.
She smelled heavenly, like a spring breeze through his mother’s garden, a subtle, scintillating blend of flowers and innocence.
He quickly backed away to his own side of the coach. “Who are you?”
The young lady tugged one of the blankets across her like a shield. “Who are you?”
Stifling a groan, he grimaced. She was too much like his sisters, which meant it could be some time before he had the answers he sought. “As we are sitting in my carriage and not the post chaise, I believe this entitles me to ask who has stowed away on board.”
She smiled and her arms relaxed, letting the blanket drop to her lap. She straightened her position on the bench. “You must be Archie. Ellie has told me so much about you.”
He didn’t fight the groan this time. He rubbed the back of his neck beneath his loosened cravat. The chit was one of his sister’s playmates. The light falling on her delicate features and the rounded bosom encased so tightly in her pelisse, forced him to amend the thought. She was no child. When had his sisters grown old enough to become young ladies?
He cleared his throat and tried to take control of the situation before him. “I am Morley.”
The chit laughed lightly. “I beg your pardon, Lord Morley. It is only that I feel I know you as well as my own brother, Leander.”
He knew that name. Leander Thornhill, Lord Penlow, was the cousin of his good friend Nick, Baron Edgeworth. Now, which of Leander’s sisters was this? “Ah, then you are Lady…?”
“Harriet.” She laughed, but he failed to see what amused her.
“And did you mistake my carriage for that of your father?”
She shook her head, sending her curls fluttering about her face. “I hoped Ellie was at the inn, but this is much better. Much better!” She clapped her hands together.
“How so?”
“Grandpapa can never force me to marry a dullard now.”
Her words settled over him like a black hood. He fought the sensation of a noose that followed. He reached for his cane and thumped on the roof.
“What are you doing?” Lady Harriet clutched at the blankets and sat up straighter.
“I’m having Smithers turn around so we may take you back to the inn. You were traveling with your family, I presume?”
“Oh, no, please, my lord. We can’t go back there. That will ruin everything.”
“I’m afraid you are ruined no matter which way I resolve this. What were you thinking? Do I appear to be a sap who will sit by and let your father force me to marry you? There is a slight chance, if we return now, perhaps your absence will not have been noticed.”
Lady Harriet slumped against the back of the bench. “Oh, dear. I hadn’t thought of what Papa will say. I only meant Grandpapa would never want anyone to learn of this, given that I’ve spent the night alone with you. He wouldn’t push me into a marriage for fear his friends would discover the truth. I suppose I didn’t think that through.”
She sighed and looked out the window as Smithers opened the small door behind his seat and called down. “My lord?”
“How close are we to the next stop, Smithers?”
“A few hours, my lord.”
“As soon as you can safely do so, we must turn around and return to the inn.”
“Very good, sir.”
The door snapped shut and Morley turned his thoughts to getting out of this situation as gracefully as possible. He was not ready to marry anyone. Not the marquess’s daughter, nor the Thornhill chit. How did he find himself in situations like this? At least with Lady Susan, daughter of the Marquess of Boxworth, he’d had some less than gentlemanly intentions, although he’d come to his senses before acting on them. The girl was rumored to have left suddenly for Paris at the same time an undergardener on the marquess’ estate had taken a position elsewhere.
Now, two years later, Boxworth was trying to force Morley into a union with the girl. Morley had a strong suspicion if he were to agree to the marriage, he’d find himself with an infant born months too early but normal in size and health. The thought of a child didn’t scare him any more than the thought of marriage. The idea of being forced to marry a girl he couldn’t trust to bear him a legitimate child rubbed his nerves raw. And the idea of some other man’s child inheriting his father’s title was too much to bear.
If there were any chance the child could be his, he’d be the first to step forward to accept his duty. He hadn’t been the only man visiting Boxworth’s estate during the week he was accused of compromising Lady Susan. He was simply the man she chose to blame for her condition.