Read Her Favoured Captain Online
Authors: Francine Howarth
Her Favoured Captain (11 page)
“I can only guess it was not a person, for surely we would not
drive on with someone left lying dead or wounded on the highway.”
“We lay it on the verge, and I shall arrange for it to be
picked up first thing in the morning.” The coach lurched and then proceeded
onward. “Little harm will befall the poor creature on a night such this.”
“May I ask what it is?”
“A hound, and why it was out and about strange indeed. I cannot
recall its ever deserting my father’s side.”
Her stomach tightened. Breath caught in her throat, as dread
and fear gripped her. Oh no, not a son of Abbeyfields. “You live near here?”
“Indeed I do,” his reply, his grey eyes levelled on hers. “I
fear I have been somewhat lax with introduction, despite our having conversed
in genial spirit. May I say the tinkling ring of your voice is most delightful
and sweet music to the ears, unlike the caustic tones of erstwhile colleagues
and clients.”
If not in fear of who he might be she could well have laughed
in coquettish manner at his bold inference, for he’d fallen asleep whilst she
talking to him, instead her tongue rallied quite sharp, “And you are?”
“Edwin
Brockenbury.”
Her heart began
to race, bile rose in her throat and silence became deafening. She could not
muster a word, her thoughts collided with memories, yet try as she might she
could not recall Edwin Brockenbury’s face as one of those present on the night
of James Brockenbury’s tragic death.
“Does the name
Brockenbury distress you?”
He leaned
forward elbow to knee, hesitant in stance, his face rigid calm though genuine
concern etched thereon. “Reaction such as yours is not so uncommon. My brother
it seems is wont to leave a trail of broken hearts countrywide, which has
rather tarnished the name Brockenbury. Hence Ranulph and I are forced to suffer
the consequences of bitter tongued beauties when introduced at social
functions.”
“Broken
heart
. . . I with broken heart, and
left in Adam’s wake? I think not.”
“Forgive me,
please. I had no right to suggest or imply you might harbour bad feeling toward
a Brockenbury.”
He sat back, his
eyes not leaving hers for a second and it was most disconcerting, but in a nice
way. Throughout the journey air of authority and reserved calm had emanated
from his very person, though his manner caring at the coaching inn or they
would not now be sharing the drag. His deep timbre of voice, too, had sounded
sincere and not once had it raised sense of alarm to falseness nor implied him
a man of ill repute.
She had to say
something. Break the silence. For he looked most concerned that he had
wrong-footed her and made bold on wild assumption. “No, please, forgive me.
Supposition is unwise at the best of times, and our journey, until the
accident, indeed, most pleasant. To have company on a long journey always
lessens what is otherwise a tedious and lonely experience.”
A tentative
smile creased his face. “In that case, would you mind terribly if I leap from
the coach at the gates to Abbeyfields?”
“At the gates.
Not be driven to the house in style?” He chuckled, a deep-throated chuckle. In
other circumstances such might have caused her heart to flutter. “Please, you
cannot walk in these freezing conditions.”
“I fear you are
chilled enough young lady, so home with you straight away. I’ll not freeze to
death trudging the drive to the house. As it is, the hound’s death has raised a
needling question as to why he was where he was at time of his death.” He
reached for his gold-topped cane previously abandoned on the seat beside him.
She had already surmised it to be a swordstick, its dragon’s head handle ornate
and curved to fit neat to palm of hand, which he promptly used to thump the
roof of the drag.
“Shall you be at
Fenemore for a long or short stay?”
Her heart
lurched. “How did you know I am to stay at Fenemore?”
“You booked for
a drive from London to Batheaston and I from London to Batheaston, and when I
arrived at the inn it was assumed
I
to be the passenger for Fenemore,
Batheaston. Hence your arrival coincided with and interrupted a heated argument
that although I, too bound for Batheaston, it was Abbeyfields I wished to be
taken to.”
A smile creased his face. “I
am not sure how, but you seemed to think my intended journey was to Bath. And
gentleman that I am I chose not to reveal otherwise.”
“So you had
intended escorting me to Fenemore and then returning to Abbeyfields?” She
laughed. “Oh how gallant, and now you wish to leap from the coach and abandon
me.” She immediately corrected her outburst. “Please, I do beg your
forgiveness. That sounded terribly remiss, when you must be quite worried about
your father.”
Aware the drag
was slowing down with verbal encouragement to the horses from the coachman,
Edwin Brockenbury once again leaned forward only this time he extended his
hand. She accepted his gesture of friendship their kid gloves coming together,
and not for one minute had she expected him to dip his head and kiss her gloved
fingers.
The contact was
fleeting, but when his eyes levelled on hers something indefinable sparkled
within and, “Good night, Lady Beaumont,” came as quite a shock. Though his
smile was enough to melt the coldest of lady’s heart and somehow as reassuring
as were his final words. “Be assured your presence at Fenemore will not slip my
tongue.”
With that he
departed and closed the door and disappeared from view. So he had known her
identity all along and said not a word. He was most certainly nothing like his
hateful brother. She could, if he were not a Brockenbury be quite taken with
him.
It was all but a
few moments before the drag moved off and there he was standing in front of
magnificent wrought iron gates, a large leather valise at his feet. He waved,
turned, pushed one of the gates and that was her last sighting of him.
Yes. Indeed, there was
something about Edwin Brockenbury that was most appealing. But, who was he
really? For all she knew he could be a married man. After all, who would say no
to a man of his looks, good manners, and those eyes?
~
~
~
It
is 1793: era of the French Revolution.
~
Richard
Courtenay Viscount Somerton, gallant as heroes come, has agreed to see Miss
Diamonta Whitaker, safely delivered to the Palace of Versailles. Half French by
birth and daughter of a French countess, Diamonta has more than one reason for
accepting a gracious invite to stay at the Royal Court at Versailles. Her heart
lies at court, with Francois de Boviere, Count of Saint Mont Marche.
Unfortunately,
tide of revolution has swept from Paris to Versailles and heads of French
aristocrats are seriously under threat of Madame Guillotine. With Diamonta's
coche still en route to Versailles, strange as it seems a highwayman delivers a
message by way of robbery to save her life. Can she, upon return to England,
ever recover from her mother's wrath once her relationship with a highwayman is
discovered, and can he survive a duel to the death?
~
Chapter One
~
“Would he not make for a divine suitor?” said Leohne, emitting a deep
sigh.
Diamonta raised her fan to
shield her face and considered Richard Courtenay, Viscount Somerton with
leisurely eye. She had not indulged in consideration of his handsomeness in a
long while. It was true he was fine of stature, fair of hair, a wicked smile
and uncommon pleasant in manner.
In all the years of his having paid court to
her and her younger sister, she never had thought of him as divine in any sense
of the word divine, nor as a potential suitor, though an angel in many ways.
Her own heart dwelt elsewhere, with someone who might never learn of her
affections toward him.
“I fear you grant Richard more favour than
he deserves,” she said, baiting her sister’s keened regard for the viscount.
Leohne spun round, the silk of her blue gown
shimmering beneath warm sun of September afternoon. “How can you say, that. He
has heavenly blue eyes, hair the colour of ripe corn and a smile to die for.”
“Must you be so obvious in your attentions
upon Richard?”
“I am not,” replied Leohne, petulant in
manner. “I like him, that is all.”
Diamonta’s eyes drifted from the figure of
the tall young man in conversation with their brother, and settled on
Leohne.
“I see, and this
like
you talk of, is it reciprocated?”
Her sister blushed and let fall her eyes to
the grass at their feet. The brim of her hat perched precarious on powdered wig
shaded one eye in coquettish manner, which amused Diamonta in extreme. “I think
not,” replied Leohne, “I am of mind to think him enamoured by you.”
“By me?” exclaimed Diamonta, letting slip a
chuckle she could not hold back at such a suggestion. “He and I are merely
friends, childhood friends of longstanding. I have no desires in his direction
and he none in mine . . . That I am aware of.“
Leohne flashed a look of disbelief. “But you
laugh a lot when you are with him, and I am always left to follow the pair of
you as though I do not even exist.”
“That is an unfair statement. Oft Richard
has drawn you into our conversations, and it is
you
who chooses to stay
behind instead of catching up and slipping your arm in his.”
“But he has never offered his arm to me.”
“Then cease your pretence of shyness and
step forward first in future. I am more than happy to walk behind for a
change.”
“What are you two squabbling about now?”
asked Charles, inclining head over shoulder from where he was seated, his
injured leg resting on a pillowed stool.
Richard, with amused glint in his eyes
glanced their way. “I fear we have displeased them somehow.”
Charles chuckled, said, “Shall we go for a
stroll alongside the lake? I think I can manage a little farther today.” As he
struggled to gain his feet, assisted by Richard, they really had no option but
to agree to his suggestion.
She took it upon herself to help Charles,
“Here, take my arm, dear brother.” For she was utter determined she would not
be accused of harbouring Richard all to her self, which left young Viscount
Somerton with no option but to offer his arm to Leohne.
To which her sister giggled in acceptance,
and off they set.
For Charles it was a case of slow and
steady, for he could not bend his injured leg at all and only quite recent had
begun to take light exercise after a serious fall from his horse. It was no
wonder then that Leohne and Viscount Somerton soon gained distance of several
yards ahead, and before long almost out of sight.
Charles patted her hand, the lake
shimmering, swans floating past them majestic and stealing their attention.
“That was a kind gesture, you’re taking my arm and allowing Leohne time alone
with her heart’s desire.”
She laughed. “Well, why not. I have no wish
to raise Richard’s expectations of more than friendship between him and I, for
it would be so unfair. I like him, true enough, but cannot envisage a marriage
between us.”
“He’s very fond of you, you know.”
“Yes, but now I know Leohne is utter smitten
by him I shall do my utmost to procure a happy outcome for her.”
“Darling Diamonta, the sacrifices you make
for yon snippet of a sister, indeed most commendable.”
“It is no sacrifice to step aside and hope
Richard will be lured by her charming guile, for the little minx has had her
heart set on him for quite a while methinks.”
“And you, what gentleman has caught your
eye?”
A self-conscious laugh escaped in haste to
allay any suspicious thoughts he might have, though she duly cursed a sudden
flush to her cheeks. “Oh, no one in particular.” She averted attention to the
far side of the lake where her sister and the viscount were animated in
conversation. “You see, they’re getting along famously.”
Charles chuckled. “You can say what you
like, but this Mr
. No One in Particular,
has most certainly stirred
something within you, for I have never seen you looking so vivacious and
ravishing.”
“Charles Taylor Whitaker, what would our
father think if he were here now to hear you talk of me in such a manner?”
“No doubt agree, and demand the name of the
bounder.”
“Bounder?” She turned to face him, noted a
mischievous glint in his slate blue eyes. “If Francois De Boviere, Count of
Saint Mont Marche could hear you, he would no doubt call you to a duel at
dawn.”