Grace stared steadily out the window of the coach in a studied effort to avoid looking at any of the other passengers. In short order, she’d learned that making eye contact signaled an open invitation for conversation.

Mrs. Laymore, the grey-haired, self-proclaimed mistress of entertainment of the coach, did not take the hint. “And my Poopsie, when he fell from the tree—which I don’t know how he got into the tree in the first place, since I thought dogs did not climb trees. Anyway, when he fell down from the tree, from way up high on that limb up higher even than the roof of the house, he broke both of his back legs, he did. Mr. Laymore had a doctor in town fashion a contraption to put on his hind end, so the bones could heal. But then we were forced to carry the poor pup around. It’s certainly a good thing Poopsie is a poodle and not a larger dog, because I don’t believe I could carry one much larger than him.”

Mr. Turner interjected, “A dog that climbs trees? Are you quite certain your poodle is not a cat, Mrs. Laymore? I have never heard of such a thing.” His attire appeared to be from a previous century, with everything down to the cod-piece in position, and his teeth had seemingly not been cleaned since the days when a cod-piece could be considered fashionable.

“No, he is as much a poodle as any poodle, Mr. Turner, albeit a rather odd, tree-climbing one.”

Grace closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, but was jarred when Mr. Turner kicked her foot. Her eyes flashed open and she bit back a howl of pain.

“So sorry, Lady Grace,” Mr. Turner said with a look of abject horror on his face. “My gout is acting up again, it is, and I needed to move my foot to a new position. I never meant to kick you, ma’am. I promise it won’t happen again.”

His gout would be the death of Grace, if the man refused to stop talking about it. She had heard about gout ad nauseum today and learned more about it than she ever cared to know in her lifetime in the bargain. She was tired of discussing the various accidents of Mrs. Laymore’s precious Poopsie and the gout plaguing Mr. Turner. She just wanted to arrive in Somerton. That ought not to be too much to ask, after two full days stuffed into a coach with these insufferable strangers and another day to follow.

Grace shook her head. When had she become so intolerant? Obviously her concerns weighed so heavily on her mind that listening to the concerns of utter strangers was no longer as simple as it used to be—or even as simple as it should be, for that matter.

Being hungry didn’t help matters, either.

She had spent almost all the money she had procured before leaving London on the coach fare and on rooms at the posting inns where they stopped along the way. Food was a luxury she could scarcely afford, so she ate only a small bowl of thin soup each day of the journey, casting envious glances at the crusty breads and mutton pies her companions ate with robust vigor.

Grace fell asleep after staring through the dusty window, even though she had tried desperately to stay awake.

It was the same nightmare she had experienced for weeks now. His eyes, cold and black, stared into her tear-filled ones through his untidy mop of blackish-greyish hair. His rough hands tore at her clothes and body. She shuddered at the grim set of his jaw as he forced himself on her, above her, into her.

Grace jolted awake in a cold sweat as the coach launched itself into a colossal rut in the road. She glanced about to see if any of the other passengers were aware of her nightmare, but none of them were paying her any attention. She turned her focus to slowing her breath and calming her pulse, even through the hollow rumble from her stomach. Perhaps the Kensingtons would provide her with a meager tea upon her arrival. She didn’t want to raise her hopes, though.

She had neither seen nor heard from them since shortly after her mother’s death, so she had no reason to expect they would take her in. At best, she could hope they might allow her to stay for an evening, perhaps through the end of the week if they were feeling terribly generous. But once they learned of her true reason for the visit (if it could even be termed as such), Grace held every expectation they would turn her out. She ought not to expect the same amenities she was accustomed to receiving in her father’s home, however marginal they may have been.

She returned her gaze to the scene passing by outside the carriage window. After an interminable day of travel, houses and small shops started popping up along the roadway amongst the trees and wildflowers. What a relief. They must be approaching the posting inn where they would stop for the evening.

Within a few minutes, the coach pulled in front of the run-down building. The driver climbed down and handed them out. Grace rushed inside, hoping to get away from her irksome traveling companions and to the privacy of her own room. She needed a meal, a bath, and a good night’s sleep—preferably in that order.

When Grace boarded the coach the next morning, she couldn’t decide whether to be pleased or upset. A young woman with two toddlers and an infant sat in the coach, but there was no sign of either Mrs. Laymore or Mr. Turner. Thank goodness.

At least the day would be a short one. They should arrive in Somerton by about midday. Thankfully, no other passengers boarded, and Grace breathed a sigh of relief.

The coach departed with a jolt. What would life would be like for her in Somerton, should she be allowed to stay? Grace had very little memory of Sir Laurence and his wife, and the bits she did remember were spotty, at best.

After her mother had died, her father had stopped allowing the Kensingtons to visit. Letters from Somerton had slowed to a trickle, and then came to a complete stop. They could be as horrid and heinous as Father, for all she knew. Oh, why had she thought this would be such a grand idea again? Her misgivings threatened to take over. Perhaps she could convince the driver to stop before Somerton, and she could get off there. Then she wouldn’t have to deal with such a dreary outlook. Of course, then she would never know the truth, too.

An argument between the children interrupted her thoughts.

“It is my dolly!” cried the female child. The little girl could be no more than three.

“No it’s not. Mama, I had it first.” An older boy pulled the doll from his younger sister’s grasp and she wailed in distress.

“Christopher, you promised to let Annabel play with the doll today, did you not?” The young woman gently pried her son’s fingers free of the toy and returned it to Annabel. The girl stopped weeping almost instantaneously and placed a thumb in her mouth while she held the doll.

“I do apologize, ma’am. Travel is difficult on children.” The woman’s face pinched when the infant began to cry. “Oh, lud. I hoped she’d sleep through this. I’m very sorry.”

The older children seemed to take the baby’s cries as an invitation to resume their argument. Christopher pulled the doll away from Annabel. She screamed out loud before she bit the boy’s arm. He retaliated by sitting on her.

The young mother seemed overwhelmed, sitting and watching it all happen with wide, fraught eyes. She made no move to intervene, so Grace took matters into her own hands.

She plucked young Annabel up from beneath her brother and sat her on the bench alongside herself. Grace pulled the young girl close and held on to her, soothing away the tears. “Christopher, sit next to your mother. You can keep that one.” She dug through her valise and found her old, beat-up doll. It was one of the few things her mother had given her that Father had not confiscated to sell. Grace handed the doll to Annabel. “Here you go sweetheart. You can play with this.”

Annabel’s eyes twinkled, and she took the doll from Grace and held it in a close embrace.

Their mother stared at Grace from across the coach, her expression that of weary gratitude.

Grace gestured to the infant still crying in the woman’s arms. “Do you need help with her, too? I could hold her for a stretch.” The woman’s jaw dropped open in dismay. She must never receive any help with her children. It must be overwhelming at times.

The woman did not respond, but held the baby out to Grace. She placed the infant over her shoulders and rocked back and forth, cooing and whispering until the child slept once again.

“Thank you, ma’am.” A single tear slid down the mother’s haggard face. “You are most kind.”

Grace smiled at her. She didn’t want to let the baby go. There was something very comforting about the feel of a baby sleeping in her arms.

The two older children each played with their respective dolls and refrained from further arguments, the mother slept, and Grace fervently prayed she would someday be able to hold her own baby like she held this stranger’s baby.

When they neared Somerton, the woman awoke as the baby once again cried. “I believe she has a wet nappy, ma’am,” the young mother said. Grace passed the child back to her mother’s waiting arms, reluctant to let go. “Annabel, give the lady her doll back.”

Annabel’s eyes filled with tears as she lifted the toy up. Grace pushed the doll back into her grubby hands. “No, you may keep her, Annabel. I have no need of this doll anymore, but I can see you do.” It hurt Grace to let go of this piece of her mother, but not as much as seeing the little girl cry. She would somehow find a way to provide her own child with a doll, but this one must go with Annabel.

“Thank you again, ma’am. You’ve been most generous with us.” The mother worked to situate her children and all of their belongings, and Grace stared out the windows again.

As the coach pulled into town, the driver stopped in front of the Brookhurst Inn. Grace glanced about the street as the coach door opened and the driver set down the steps.

A tall, well-clad man with rich, auburn hair a bit longer than would be considered stylish stepped out of the inn, heading toward the stables. His breeches hugged his thighs so closely she could almost feel the power they possessed. The man’s greatcoat, as snug as possible over him, displayed a broad expanse of muscular back and arms. Oh goodness. Now that was a man who cut quite the dashing figure. Grace flushed at the tingling sensation forming in her bosom, a most inappropriate and even wanton reaction, to the merest sight of a stranger. She had not even seen his face!

“Thank you again for the luncheon, Mrs. Derringer,” he called out. “It was excellent fare, as usual.” He nodded toward the unseen woman and continued on his way.

The stranger’s gaze caught Grace’s eyes as he walked past the coach. His eyes were clear—kind. There was something, she could not be sure what, but something light about him, light and good and true. Her gaze passed to his straight, Grecian nose and angular jaw line. He smiled, a smooth, gentle smile, with just a touch of wickedness—enough to let her know he was no angel. Still, most of the men she had encountered through her father’s acquaintance were quite unkind. The compassion, even sweetness, she sensed in this stranger intrigued her.

He was a large man, certainly capable of overpowering her should he desire to do so. Yet without ever speaking a word to him, Grace felt safe. She somehow knew he would never hurt her. He would never be like the Earl of Barrow. She imagined this stranger to be the Greek god Apollo—handsome and light—before the absurdity of such a thought struck her.

He broke eye contact before it became improper, but he looked at her over his shoulder before turning the corner and moving out of her line of sight.

When he disappeared, her thoughts returned to the immediate. It was childish of her to let her mind wander in such ways, especially in regards to a man she had never met. For all she knew, he could be just like her father and all the men he had, at various points, desired to marry her off to.

No respectable gentleman would have her now. Not only was she damaged through Barrow’s actions, but she would soon give birth to his bastard child. She would be lucky indeed if she managed to find suitable employment after her confinement. Her prospects for employment would depend on just precisely how far the arms of the gossip mill reached. Returning to London would be out of the question. Grace would have to travel to find an employer. She must never forget her present circumstances would forever determine her lot in life, fair or otherwise. But she couldn’t fret over that now.

The coach driver was waiting to assist her as she climbed down from the coach. She was surprised to find another carriage and driver waiting for her, apparently sent by her aunt and uncle.

“Lady Grace?” The new driver bowed. He was an older man, with streaks of grey mixed in with his neatly trimmed chestnut brown hair and a slight stoop in his posture.

“Sir Laurence sent me to fetch you to New Hill Cottage, ma’am, as soon as he received your letter. It’s a good thing, it is, that the post travels so fast these days or we would never have known you were coming, ma’am. No, we most certainly would not! I’m Barnes. If you would please show me which bags are yours, I’ll help you into the carriage before I collect them, and then we’ll be off to the cottage in a jiffy. I imagine you’re right weary of all your travels by now and would like a spot of tea. We’ll have you home in no time.”

Her uncle had sent a carriage for her? Why would her relatives take such pains to assist her? She would be a burden upon them, so why should they care for her comforts?

While she had only meager belongings, making the trek on foot would have been rather difficult. She didn’t know if any hired hacks were available for public use in Somerton. Even if she found a hack, paying for one to cart her and her bag was out of the question since she’d spent every last farthing she owned on her journey, lodging, and sustenance during the travel.

Thank goodness they were willing to help.

She pointed out her valise to Barnes, and he assisted her into the carriage before loading her bag on the back. Within a few minutes, they were, remarkably, on their way to New Hill.

Alex paid his tab at the Brookhurst Inn and headed out the doorway. Mrs. Derringer, the amply-curved cook and housekeeper who had been employed at the Inn for as long as his memory served, smiled and waved at him on his way out.

“Don’t you be a stranger around these parts while you’re visiting, Lord Alexander. You come back to see us, if you please.”

Unable to resist a harmless flirtation with the woman, he flashed what he hoped to be a devilish smile. “Thank you again for the luncheon, Mrs. Derringer. It was excellent fare, as usual.”

She tittered like a schoolgirl as he nodded and headed out the door. When he ambled toward the stables to fetch his horse, a coach being unloaded of its baggage and passengers caught his eye. This was an entirely ordinary and unremarkable occurrence, to be sure, yet for some reason, he couldn’t look away.

Initially, he only glanced at the passengers, but then he caught sight of the most intriguing pair of icy blue eyes he had ever seen on a woman. They were crystal clear, with just the smallest hint of a silvery tone to accompany the blue.

More than their color though, the eyes captured his interest because of what he sensed beneath the surface. These two eyes spoke of something Alex could not quite determine. Sadness perhaps, or fear. He wondered what would cause such intense emotions.

She was young, likely not yet one-and-twenty, with midnight black hair pulled into a severe knot at the nape of her neck. Her traveling gown was a soft shade of blue more akin to a summer sky on a clear morning rather than to the shade of her eyes. And her skin—it was sheer perfection, all soft and pale and blushing at the same time, or at least he imagined it to be soft. How could the skin of a heart-shaped face so luminous, so radiant, be anything but smooth as silk or satin?

Dash it all, he was staring. He broke his gaze away from her and moved on toward the stables, where another carriage was situated alongside the Inn. The driver climbed down and called into the coach, “Lady Grace?”

Could Lady Grace be the young lady whose eyes had so fascinated him? Blast, he had no business even thinking along those lines. His entire purpose in coming to Somerton was to avoid Mama’s matchmaking. Well, that and his summons from Lord Rotheby, of course. But really, if he were being honest with himself, it was to avoid being caught in the parson’s mousetrap. If anyone in the world were capable of trapping him that way, he was sure it was his mother. The woman was bloody determined.

His horse had been fed, groomed, and saddled, and was ready for the last few miles of their journey. Alex had sent his carriage, along with his valet, ahead of him to Roundstone so he could enjoy the last portion of his trip alone. Any more time trapped inside the damned interior of that carriage, and he would lose his mind.

Besides, he loved a good ride in the outdoors, and he missed Somerton—the open air, the nature all around him, the people. He could breathe here. In truth, that was why he had chosen to eat his luncheon at the inn instead of traveling on to Roundstone Park. He wanted to catch up on all the things he missed from his childhood.

Fiend seize it, those eyes were back in his mind. He had to forget that woman. Alex held every intention of enjoying his stay with Rotheby—a man who had become something of a father figure to him in recent years, since the heartache of his own father’s death. Doing that meant not wasting his time thinking of some chit suffering from a fit of the blue devils.

Sampson set off at a good clip, and Alex looked around at the familiar surroundings. The horse seemed to enjoy the open roadways, and frankly Alex couldn’t blame him. He loved to look about and see more signs of nature than of a bustling city. The weather was a touch cool, but the sun was out and the roads were dry. All in all, it was a beautiful day.

Alex took his time on this final leg of the journey. There was no great hurry. Gilbert Thornton, the Earl of Rotheby, would not expect him until at least tea time. Alex and his horse wandered about Somerton and reveled in the freedom of open road and open sky. The late spring crops were maturing and flowers—crocus, daffodils, and foxgloves—were budding along the lane. The quiet atmosphere spoke to his soul.

He made the final turn into the lane where Roundstone Park stood. The manor house boasted an elegant but never fussy park and giant shade trees that created an arch overhead. The twitters of birds and familiar yaps of Rotheby’s border collies created a pleasing welcome.

At the end of the drive, Roundstone came fully into view ahead of him. Ivy and vines climbed up the tall, stone sides of The Park. Large windows allowed sunlight into every room, with their drapes pulled back to soak it all in. Cobbled walkways ran between stone fences and a trickling creek, and bushes and flower beds lined more walkways, twisting and turning like a labyrinth through the garden, with the occasional bird feeder, statue, or water fountain. A creek trickled behind the manor house and whispered its way to join the Cary River before making the final run to the sea.

Alex inhaled deeply and enjoyed the newness of life in the air. The scents of spring were heady, even amongst the old structures they surrounded—Roundstone had been built more than two centuries before.

The head groom met Alex at the entry to the stables. “Good afternoon, my lord. I trust you enjoyed your ride today.” He reached up to take the reins from Alex as he dismounted.

“Yes, thank you. Is Lord Rotheby at home this afternoon?” Alex took long strides across the lawn, not expecting a response. If the groom gave one, he didn’t hear it. He wanted to see the old man and learn why his company had been requested—nay, commanded.

More than anything, Alex eagerly anticipated catching up with the earl. The two had always had a unique bond. The time they spent together was special to them both.

Jasper, Roundstone’s butler, met him at the front door. The man had filled the post for the whole of Alex’s life, and if appearances proved correct, that post would not be changing hands any time in the foreseeable future, despite the butler’s curmudgeonly demeanor. He looked set to live the next century or so.

“Lord Alexander, his lordship is awaiting your arrival in the yellow drawing room,” Jasper said. “I have prepared a suite for you and your valet has seen your belongings safely delivered there. Would you like to visit your suite first, or shall you attend to his lordship immediately?” During the course of this speech, Jasper had deftly escorted Alex through the door, removed his coat, and sent it off with a maid to be placed upstairs in the appropriate suite. Somehow, the butler did all of this without ever saying a word to the staff or even giving a signal. Roundstone Park always ran smoothly under the old goat’s tutelage.

“Thank you, but I believe I will go in to see Lord Rotheby, if that’s acceptable. I freshened up at the Brookhurst Inn just a short while ago.” His eagerness must be evident to the servant, but sometimes such things could not be helped. And really, who gave a damn?

Jasper would likely be aware of Alex’s eager demeanor even if the man were blind. He had a knack for picking up on moods—a skill Alex sometimes found exasperating, but more often recognized how such a quality in a butler could be useful. He might enjoy having a butler with such skills himself. Someday, that is. Someday in the rather distant future, when he had a home of his own which would need a butler.

“Very well, my lord. I believe you remember the way?” Jasper gave Alex a pointed look with a raised brow, perhaps remembering the way the Hardwicke siblings had run herd through Roundstone as children.

Alex nodded then turned in the direction of the parlor. A footman opened the door and announced him before leaving the two men alone.

A fire burned in the hearth, and a comfortable, brocade wing chair sat close to the warmth it radiated. “Come on in, boy, and be sure they close that door behind you. You are letting in a draft.”

Alex closed the door himself and moved closer to the voice calling out to him. The earl was bundled tightly beneath two blankets. His skin held a greyish pallor, and a sickly smell hung on the air. Not a good sign.

“Have a seat, have a seat. Pull another of those chairs over here where I can see you.”

Alex did as requested—even though he was more than amply warm, and the proximity to the fire might soon cause him to be over-warm—keeping a curious eye on Lord Rotheby. Had he come down with influenza? He hoped not.

The earl gave Alex a thorough once-over. “Goodness, are you taller than you were at your father’s funeral? I would not have thought that possible, but my eyes tell me it is.”

Alex gave a wide smile. The earl wanted to discuss his height, of all things under the moon? “My lord, I don’t believe I have grown at all since I turned about twenty, but my valet could be more certain. He would have had to adjust my clothes. Shall we ring for him and ask?” He loved to tease the older man.

“Lord Rotheby? Hmph. You are still a cheeky lad, aren’t you? What is this ‘Lord Rotheby’ business? I told you years ago. You are a man now, as am I. Call me Gil.” The agitation in his words did not quite make it through to his voice or his face.

Try as he might, Gil would never pull off the part of the crotchety old man—at least where Alex and his siblings were concerned. Others might not agree with that assessment, but the earl had long ago developed an affinity for the Hardwicke family.

He lacked the acidity required to be considered cantankerous in his dealings with them—though rumor had it that his grandson and heir might have felt a bit of it from time to time.

Still, Gil could never be truly cross with Alex, though he had tried to be on a number of occasions. “All right, Gil it is. Although, my father taught me to always respect my elders.” He ducked his head as Gil launched a crumpled piece of parchment at him. They both laughed. “It is excellent to be here again. It’s been too long. I’ve been in need of a break from Town for a while, and your invitation arrived with perfect timing.”

The earl raised an eyebrow at Alex in an unasked question.

“Mama is scheming. We’ll leave it at that for now.”

Gil chuckled, but he didn’t push for further explanation. Surely, he remembered the dowager duchess’s plots and plans as well as anyone.

“So why did you ask me to visit you?” It didn’t really matter why Gil had asked. Alex had wanted to come—actually, he had been adamant about the visit. It would just help him to rest easier if he knew this was just a visit and nothing more.

“Does an old man have to have a reason to ask a friend to visit? Just stay for a while, and relax. We don’t see each other often enough.”

There was something in Rotheby’s eyes—something Gil wasn’t telling him.

Hmm. We shall have to see about that, my friend. But now was probably not the best moment to push for answers. He had, after all, just arrived. There would be plenty of time for such things.

No they certainly did not see each other often enough.