Miss Carlyle's Curricle: Signet Regency Romance (InterMix) (2 page)

Chapter 1

Diana Carlyle rode furiously through the fields and into the woods, her mare’s hooves pounding the turf beneath her, pounding as hard as her heart. Cold needles of rain splashed her face, washing away tears of grief. She did not know how else to come to terms with the death of the man who had been, for all practical purposes, her father.

When she reached the wood, she more tumbled than descended from her horse, and leaned, gasping, against the old oak whose large, rambling roots she had often played amongst as a child. She had been happy that her Uncle Charles had brought her and her mother from London and from destitution after her own father had died. Her belly had been full after being empty for so long, and her mother’s face had ceased being so pale and wan.

But now she felt an emptiness once again, and her mother’s face was again pale and wan, but this time it was caused by a hunger in the heart, left bare and comfortless for the lack of Lord Brisbane’s joyful presence.

It had happened so quickly—the accident, the funeral—that Diana felt as if she had gone through it in a disbelieving trance, holding both emotions and reality at bay to keep some semblance of self-control. She had managed to note her mother’s bewildered gaze, and had held her hand through the funeral. But when the first shovelful of earth had been thrown upon the coffin, the sound of it had pierced the numbness that had covered her like a muffling shroud, and told her that her beloved uncle was indeed dead—suddenly, violently. She had drawn in a sharp gasp and shook her head in denial, and when the funeral was over, she had walked away as quickly as she could, running the last few steps to the house, and then up the stairs to her bedroom.

She had no comfort in the silence of her room; it reminded her of her first day in Brisbane House, how lonely she had felt in an unfamiliar place, and how her uncle had greeted her with kindness and a gentle pat on her cheek. She wanted to howl her grief, but her gentlewoman’s training forbade it.

She had borne the stillness and inactivity for more than a few days—until now. Today, the will would be read, and she could not stand one more reminder of her uncle’s death. Her mother’s mention of the will had brought on an inner wailing of sorrow, and Diana knew she had to leave before she humiliated herself with an outpouring of tears.

She had run to her room and stripped off her black gown and had pulled on her riding habit, then run into the stables, ordering, in a low, harsh voice, the startled stable boy to saddle her mare. She had had neither voice nor breath for thanks when the job was done; she had hoisted herself astride on the horse, for that was the only way to ride as hard and fast as she wanted, away from death, away from grief.

But here she was, leaning and sobbing against the old oak, for grief had followed her like a Greek Fury, making her want to wail and scream in protest against the snatching away of an important person in her life. She groaned instead, and pounded the bark of the tree with her fists, for the years of discipline she had imposed on herself would not allow the wildness within herself to burst forth as wildly as it wished.

The rain fell. It soaked her riding habit, and soon Diana’s sobs ceased. Perhaps because of the rain—the drops falling around her felt almost like the world itself wept, and it was an oddly comforting thought. She still leaned against the tree, sighing and catching her breath from the ride and the weeping, when a sound made her turn quickly around.

It was a man. He held the reins of a fine gray horse, and had walked up behind her, probably while she had leaned her head against the tree trunk. She had not heard him until this moment, perhaps because she had been so caught up in weeping, and because the rush of rain upon the leaves above had covered the sound of his approach. Hastily Diana wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand—a useless gesture, for the rain made them wet again.

“You seem troubled, ma’am. May I be of assistance?” he asked. His voice was low and husky, an intimate sound, and Diana blushed, feeling awkward at being caught in her grief.

She looked up at him. He was so tall that even though she was tall herself, she had to tip back her head. His brows were drawn together in apparent concern, and though she had opened her mouth to tell him to go away, a strong feeling of family likeness made her close her mouth again.

She narrowed her eyes, examining each feature. His hair was black and carefully combed from what she could see just beneath the brim of his beaver hat. It waved only slightly, unlike her own unruly yellow curls—Carlyle curls, her mother often said, for all the Carlyles had curly hair. His face was long and lean, with sharply cut cheekbones, unlike her own heart-shaped one. But perhaps he was related for all that, for the line of his jaw led down to a sharply cleft chin, his lips were fine and sensual, his nose straight and narrow, and he had the characteristic Carlyle eyebrows—thin and just a little slanted at the temples. Was he some relation? She did not remember ever meeting him, and she was certain she had met all of her cousins.

An amused expression flickered in his eyes. “I hope you approve?”

Diana glanced away, feeling her face grow warm, then gazed at him stiffly. “Not if you are trespassing, sir.”

“I was asked to come to Brisbane House,” the man said. “Lord Brisbane had some business to discuss with me.” He smiled slightly. “Gavin Sinclair at your service, ma’am.” He made an elegant bow, extending his booted leg at just the proper length from his greatcoat.

Unfortunately, the rain that had accumulated on the curled brim of his hat poured down and splashed upon his fawn pantaloons and into his boot. Diana hastily pressed her hand to her lips, smothering the giggle that threatened to burst out at his grimace. But then she recalled his words, that he wished to see Lord Brisbane, and her laugh died.

He sighed. “This is not a promising introduction, is it? One usually wishes to look one’s best when presented to a lady, but I am afraid the weather prevents me from looking as I ought.”

“I am not any better,” Diana replied. She gestured at her sodden skirts. “Indeed, I must look like a bedraggled cat.”

There was a short silence while Mr. Sinclair’s gaze went over her. Then his eyes met hers, and she felt a slight shock—she had not expected his eyes to be so very green. None of her cousins had green eyes—they were brown, or hazel, or blue like her own. Mr. Sinclair had large green eyes, fringed with black lashes, but somehow they did not look girlish as they might have. No, they were heavy-lidded, sleepy, as if he had just arisen from bed—nonsense, of course.

As she continued to gaze at him, his eyes did not lose their heavy-lidded look, but became assessing instead, and his smile grew wide. She became uncomfortable—he was very tall, and she was not used to anyone towering over her, much less anyone smiling at her in such a way.

The chill of wet cloth against her skin suddenly made her conscious of how her riding habit must be clinging to her legs. She tried to pull her skirts away, fighting a rising blush. Stupid of her not to think sooner how indecent she must look!

“Not at all like a cat, bedraggled or otherwise, Miss—?” The smile was still on his face, and Diana wanted to remove it, quite forcefully. She disliked anyone looking at her like that.

“Diana Carlyle,” she replied. “I live with—my mother at Brisbane House.” She had almost said with her uncle; for one moment the memory of the funeral had left her while she talked to Mr. Sinclair.

Diana hunched one shoulder for a moment, a brief, protective gesture against the recent pain. She focused on the words he had just spoken; she felt no better. Perhaps he intended to imply some flattery, but she knew how false that could be. “I suppose you’d best be about your business, though you are too late if you wish to speak to Lord Brisbane,” she said brusquely, knowing her voice sounded ill-mannered. She did not care at the moment, and a sudden resentment rose in her at his intrusion into her grief, even though she knew he no doubt meant it kindly. “Both of us will catch our death of cold if we do not find some shelter.”

“Too late—?”

The words to tell him of her uncle’s death stuck in her throat. She could only shake her head, walking quickly to her mare. She mounted it astride again, ignoring Mr. Sinclair’s raised brows. “You may follow me if you wish,” she said. “My way is shorter, though perhaps more muddy than the road you were following.”

He gazed at her for a moment before he nodded, saying nothing, and mounted his horse as well.

Diana did not look back as she turned her horse toward Brisbane House once again. She relaxed her hold upon the reins, leaned forward in her saddle, and the mare leaped into a gallop across the fields. She wanted to be away from Gavin Sinclair, and his intrusiveness. Her conscience pricked her at the thought. The man had not really been intrusive, though his smile had been—well, she did not know what his smile had been, but she had not liked it. She wished to be alone, and she cared not whether Mr. Sinclair followed her or went by the road he had come upon. Indeed, she would be happy if his stay at Brisbane House was so short that she did not see him—or anyone for that matter.

***

Mr. Sinclair watched the young woman gallop away from him, but he only followed at a canter, avoiding as much mud as possible. She clearly did not want his company. His smile faded. It was just as well she did not. If all was as he hoped at Brisbane House, then he could go about his business as he wished. If it were not . . .His hand tightened on the reins, and his horse slowed to a walk. Well, he would find out soon enough.

Chapter 2

Diana carefully wiped the mud of the stables from her boots with a rag before she entered the house by a back door, but hesitated before going inside. She knew what she would find: no maids humming as they worked, no footmen whistling merry tunes as they fetched and carried, no smiles to accompany the quick curtsies or bows as she walked down the halls.

The house was silent, only her footsteps made any noise; the servants walked quietly and spoke in hushed whispers. Brisbane House was a house of mourning, after all. Diana shook with the sudden anguish she felt at the thought, and glanced at the black crepe draped almost everywhere. She wanted abruptly to tear it all down. Uncle Charles would have despised such displays.

If he were here, of course. Which he was not. Diana swallowed down the welling sob in her throat. No. She would not cry again. It would be better to think of her and her mother’s possible futures. She could not be sure that the new Earl of Brisbane would be as good a man as her Uncle Charles, who saved her and her mother from hunger and want. And, she did not know if her uncle had made any provisions in his will. The will that would be read today, soon, this afternoon.

She went up to her room and changed her clothes, hesitating over the choice of colors. She should, of course, wear black as was proper, but her mind went back to the black already draped over almost everything in the house. No, not black. Brown. She would wear brown—it was dark enough for mourning, and should anyone eye her askance, she would stare them down. Diana smiled grimly, ignoring her maid’s questioning look at her choice.

A pang of guilt went through her—she knew her mother would no doubt wear black for the proper length of time and more. She shook her head at herself. She was a selfish wretch, to be sure! She should have seen to her mother, and not have dashed off as she had done. But the pain of loss had seized her suddenly like a white-hot fire, and she had run away in a blind panic.

Dismissing the maid, Diana hurried down the hall to her mother’s room. Though she thought her mother ought to be there, she was not sure at first; no response came on her first knock. But then a faint “Yes?” beckoned her, and she opened the door.

Mrs. Carlyle was indeed arrayed in black; the only white she wore was her cap. She sat by the window, looking out at the gray skies that had brightened a little after the earlier downpour. Her eyes lightened when she saw Diana, but her daughter could see the shadows beneath them nevertheless. Mrs. Carlyle said nothing for a moment, only shading her eyes as she looked out of the chamber window, though there was clearly no sunshine.

“It’s an odd thing, Diana,” she said softly. “Charles should have died in the midst of winter, not in spring.” She moved to look at her daughter, and made no noise except for the sighing slip of her dress against the sofa. “Although I suppose the rain is appropriate for this day. He detested rain, you know. I believe he must have been the sunniest man I have ever known.” Her lips lifted briefly, but she looked ghost-pale and weary, as if she had not slept at all. A vague uneasiness made Diana look at her mother sharply. Her mother had always had an affection for Lord Brisbane, a sisterly one, Diana had always thought. But now she wondered if there might have been something more. Though she herself mourned her uncle, she had fallen into her bed from an almost depressive fatigue and slept more deeply than usual, and—Diana remembered her mother had eaten little if nothing since Lord Brisbane’s death—Diana’s appetite had only been a little affected.

Mrs. Carlyle raised her brows. “Is there something amiss?”

Diana shook her head, smiling slightly. “No, Mama, other than worry over you, You have eaten very little since Uncle Charles . . .” Her voice faded for a moment. “Come, Mama, shall we have something to eat? I believe Cook has prepared a roast chicken and sweetmeats.” Diana rose, still holding her mother’s hand. “We can have it in the library, where it is quite bright and cheerful, and perhaps I can read to you from one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels.”

Mrs. Carlyle shook her head and smiled, gently pulling her hand away. “No, I am not hungry, my dear. Do you go down and eat, and I shall be with you later.”

Diana squeezed her hand tightly. “No, Mama. You
must
eat something. Please. Dress yourself in black if you must, but . . . but if you die of starvation, I shall be very angry, for I don’t think I can bear it if I lose you and Uncle Charles all in one week.”

Mrs. Carlyle looked up at her and gave a reluctant laugh. “In which case, I will most certainly change my dress and come down. I can hardly wish you to become angry at me.” She rose from the chair and touched Diana’s cheek. “You are a dear—I am truly blessed that you are my daughter.”

“Nonsense,” Diana said, and smiled widely, and made her voice sound high and nasal. “I am a headstrong girl who will not find a rich husband and save both of us from abject poverty.”

“Horrid girl!” Mrs. Carlyle said, emitting another reluctant laugh. “You could not help it that your Aunt Matchett is such a squeeze crab that she would outfit you in only the most drab colors and designs that did not suit your figure. And she did not even bother to try to get you into Almack’s even though she was fully capable of it.”

“Exactly. If I had been biddable, and less of a large lump of a girl, and less reluctant to leave you, she might have.” Diana sobered. “I am sorry, Mama. First my lack of success during a London Season, and now this.”

“You are not a lump!” Mrs. Carlyle said indignantly. “Indeed, I almost wish you had not gone to London, if that is the impression you received there. You are not to blame for your uncle’s death—what nonsense! And, as to your Season, it’s your Aunt Matchett’s fault for not showing you off to advantage.” She glanced at the clock, then waved at her daughter in a shooing motion. “I think if you are to eat Cook’s meal when it is warm, you should go to the library now. I will follow shortly.”

Diana met her mother’s eyes, then nodded. Mrs. Carlyle wished to be alone. Though Diana was loath to allow it, she understood such needs, for she also valued solitude.

She reached the library at last, a well-lighted room with a warm southern exposure, heavy draperies at the window, and well-padded chairs and sofas—a comfortable place. It was one of her uncle’s favorite refuges, for though he was an avid sportsman, he had loved books as well. She caught something, however—a movement, a sound—that made her stop at the threshold before stepping over. Her eyes scanned the room, and her brows drew together in a frown.

Feet. A pair of booted feet stuck out from one side of a sofa. It could be one of her cousins, but it was unlikely, for they always retired to their own rooms when they wished to rest—there was no reason for any of them to rest here. Certainly not one of the servants; the boots were gentlemen’s boots, and besides, her mother had trained all the servants strictly. None of them would dare be caught sleeping in the library. Quietly, carefully, Diana walked around the sofa and sat down upon a chair opposite to it, staring at the man.

It was Mr. Sinclair. Her eyes scanned the clothes he wore, and she wrinkled her nose. He must be quite a distant relation—none of the Carlyles were dandies. Even in repose, the man’s neckcloth was unrumpled, his fine blue coat was stretched neatly across his shoulders (padded, no doubt), his waistcoat was elaborately embroidered, his fawn trousers hugged admittedly muscular legs—although she had heard some men enhanced them with sawdust—and his boots bore a bright shine that could only have come from some secret polish dandies always claimed they had.

His long, elegant fingers, neatly folded upon his stomach, wore two rings, one an elaborate signet ring, the other quite plain. Diana wrinkled her nose again. Most men she knew—the men she preferred—wore no rings, or if they did, favored only one plain one. If this man was indeed related to the Carlyles—and she supposed he was if his facial features were any indication—he was certainly not like them in manner. Carlyles were robust and hearty men, favoring sport and the countryside, not like this lean, citified creature. She gazed at his highly polished boots again. How he managed to have cleaned them so well after his ride through the rain, she did not know. She cast a quick glance around the sofa—no, there was not even one drop of water on the rugs or the floor, much less the furniture.

“Alas, I still have not met with your approval,” said his deep, soft voice, startling her.

Heat flared into Diana’s cheeks, and she stood up abruptly, not able to look at him in embarrassment. “Please excuse me—I am not used to finding strangers lounging about in our house.”

“Quite understandable,” he replied, and rose with an easy grace from the sofa. “The servants had not quite made up my room yet. It seems my letter went astray, and I was not expected today. And I am afraid this sofa was much too tempting—I had a long journey, you see, and had become quite exhausted from it.”

She looked up at him, once again impressed by how tall he was. He had to be well over six feet, for she was tall herself, embarrassingly so, she found when she had gone to London. She almost grimaced, remembering how oxlike she had felt in London next to the fashionable sylphs and smaller women. Her Aunt Matchett had tried to corset tightly every part of Diana, but could do nothing about her height, and it had been with considerable relief—in more ways than one—that Diana had come home, thrown off her corsets, and put on her short stays instead. She felt awkward in the presence of this man, but not so very large. Indeed, even without his greatcoat, he looked broader of shoulder than she thought when she first saw him.

He took her hand and bowed over it. “I am pleased to see you again, Miss Carlyle.”

His hand was very warm upon hers—she realized suddenly that she wore no gloves, though why she should be conscious of such a thing when she rarely bothered with gloves at home, she did not know. Dismissing the thought of warm hands and the lack of gloves firmly from her mind, she looked into his eyes and found herself staring again. She felt suddenly that he was indeed quite pleased. It embarrassed her—well, he was still holding her hand, for one thing. She pulled away.

“May I ask what your business is, sir?” she asked abruptly. She sounded a little rude, and this flustered her even more. What
was
it about this man that discomposed her so? Perhaps it was that she did not like dandies, and so did not like the thought of him being pleased to meet her. His brows rose, and she was glad that perhaps she had put him off by her manner, though her mother would not have approved.

“I came at the request of Lord Brisbane.” He looked at her intently for a moment. “Did he not tell you?”

“I am afraid . . .” Diana paused, tamping down the rising grief. “Lord Brisbane has—he is dead.” It was a bald, bleak statement, but better she make herself face the fact now than pretend with sentimental words that it was not so.

A grim look flitted across Mr. Sinclair’s face. “So I understand, and I am sorry to hear it. However, my business with him still stands.”

For one moment there was silence, and Diana grew aware of an odd tension in the air. She looked at him and then . . . she could not say he changed precisely. The tension between them shifted and dissipated. Mr. Sinclair smiled at her, gave a little sigh, and his eyes caught sight of the mirror above the mantelpiece. He bowed slightly, walked to the mirror, then peered into it and frowned. “How inconvenient it is when one must choose between the set of one’s neckcloth and resting to recover from fatigue,” he said.

She barely refrained from wrinkling her nose again. “Of course,” she said, more politely this time. Her stomach twinged a little, and she remembered that she hadn’t requested breakfast yet. “Would you care for any refreshment? I am about to order my break—” She cast a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Well, I suppose it’s luncheon.”

He turned and smiled widely now. “Yes, please, I would, and it is kind of you to offer.”

Heat crept into her cheeks again, and Diana let out an impatient breath—she was blushing again, and she hated it. It was as if a cloak of awkwardness had wrapped itself around her, and once again she felt lumpish and too large, as she had in London. It was the way he looked at her, perhaps, with more attention than she liked. She pulled the bell rope and ordered the maid to bring luncheon—a substantial one, for she could not help thinking such a tall man would eat a great deal, even though he was quite lean.

Another glance at the clock made her wonder if her mother would come down for her meal. She bit back a sigh—she would very much like to go up to her mother, but manners dictated she not leave Mr. Sinclair alone to eat the luncheon she had just ordered, especially since she had already said she wished to have some. She had been abrupt and ungracious as it was.

When the luncheon arrived, Diana noted with a certain envy that Mr. Sinclair did indeed eat a great deal, and very precisely. She smiled slightly. He reminded her of the kitchen cat, Tom Mousekin, a large, sleek animal of impeccable elegance and finicky habits, who picked neatly at the scraps Cook would throw him, but never left any tiny sliver of food behind. That was the word for Mr. Sinclair, perhaps: sleek.

He was so even in his conversation: smooth, urbane, witty. He lounged upon the chair across from her with a dandy’s negligent, lazy posture. He seemed to be familiar with most of the tales of the
ton
, or at least the ones she had heard when she had her come-out some years ago, and some others she had not heard—all frivolous, insignificant news. She glanced at him and for a moment her eyes met his. Yet, there was a
watching
manner about him, as if he were trying to search past the social smile she kept pinned on her face. Her polite smile turned wry. He was a cat, indeed, watching potential prey. Well, she was not prey, no mouse to be caught.