his curricle, Charles Henry Beltane Mountford, Marquis of Tonbridge, couldn’t miss the irony in his father’s proud words. What choice was there for Charlie, other than duty, if Robert was to be accepted back into the family? If he was found. No. Not if. When he was found.
Face stinging and ears buffeted by the wind, he lifted his gaze from the road to the leaden sky and bleak stretch of moors ahead. Three years and not one word from his wayward twin. While on some deep level, he knew his brother hadn’t come to physical harm, every time he recalled Robert’s face as he left, Charlie’s gut twisted with guilt.
He should not have said what he did, imposed his own sense of duty on his brother. They might look alike, but there the similarities ended. Their lives had followed different paths and each had their own roles to play.
Finally, after three years of arguing and pleading, he had sold his soul to bring his brother home. He would visit Lady Allison and begin the courtship his father demanded. The weight of duty settled more heavily on his shoulders. The chill in his chest spread outwards.
Damnation, what in Hades was the matter with him? Lady Allison was a modestly behaved, perfectly acceptable, young woman of good family. She’d make a fine duchess. Marriage was a small sacrifice to bring Robert home and banish the sadness from his mother’s face. Sadness he’d helped cause.
He urged his tired team over the brow of the hill, eager to reach the inn at Skepton before dark.
What the hell? A phaeton. Sideways on. Blocking the road. Its wheels hung over the left-hand ditch, its horses rearing and out of control. Coolly, Charlie pulled his ribbons hard right. The team plunged. The curricle tilted on one wheel, dropped and swung parallel to the obstruction. It halted inches from catastrophe, inches from a slight young man in a caped driving coat bent over the traces of the panicked animals of the other equipage, unaware of the danger.
Damn. What a mess. Charlie leaped down. Nowhere to tie his horses. He clenched the bridle in his fist. ‘Need help?’ he yelled against the wind.
The young man spun around. ‘By gum, you scared me.’
Not a man. A woman. Charlie stared, felt his jaw drop and could do nothing to stop it. Her eyes were bright blue, all the more startling beneath jet brows. Her cheeks were pink from the wind and black ropes of hair flew around her oval face in disgraceful disorder.
A voice in his head said perfect.
Her arched brows drew together, creasing the white high forehead. ‘Don’t just stand there, you gormless lump. If you’ve a knife, help me cut the bloody traces.’ She hopped over the poles and began sawing at the leathers on the other side with what looked like little more than a penknife.
Charlie snapped his mouth shut, pulled the dagger from the top of his boot and slashed the traces on his side. ‘Here, use this.’ He passed her his knife, handle first.
She grabbed it, cut the last strap and proceeded to untangle the horse’s legs with very little care for life and limb.
Charlie grabbed the bridle of her horses while hanging on to his own.
The young woman straightened. She was tall, he realised, her bright sapphire eyes level with his mouth. ‘Thank you.’ She dragged strands of hair back from her face and grinned. ‘The damned axle snapped. I must have been going too fast.’
Another Letty Lade, with her coachman-style language. ‘You were lucky I managed to stop.’ He glanced around. ‘Where is your groom?’ No gently bred female travelled alone.
‘Pshaw.’ She waved a dismissive hand. ‘I only went to Skepton. I don’t need a groom for such a short journey.’
Reckless, as well as a menace on the road. ‘It seems on this occasion you do.’ He huffed out a breath. He couldn’t leave her stranded on the side of the road with night falling. ‘A broken axle, you say?’ It might be a strap, in which case he might be able to fix it. ‘Hold the horses for a moment, please.’
With a confidence in her abilities he didn’t usually feel around females, he left her holding the horses and went to the back of her carriage. He crouched down beside the wheel and parted the long yellowed grass on the verge.
Blast. No fixing that. The axle had snapped clean in two near the offside wheel. She must have hit the verge at speed to do so much damage.
He returned to her. ‘No hope of a makeshift repair, I’m afraid. I’ll drive you home.’
‘That’s reet kind of you,’ she said, her Yorkshire accent stronger than ever. Then she smiled.
It was as if he’d looked straight at the sun. The smile on her lips warmed him from the inside out. Lovely.
A distraction he did not need.
He glared at her. ‘Where do you live?’ His tone sounded begrudging. And so it should. The careless wench could have killed them both, or damaged some very fine horses. She’d been lucky. And she should not be driving around the countryside without a groom.
Her smile disappeared. She cocked her head on one side. ‘No need to trouble. I’ll ride.’ She jerked her chin towards her team.
‘One is lame. And the other is so nervous, it is sweating and likely to bolt. It is my duty to see you safely home.’
And his pleasure, apparently, from the stirring in his blood.
Damn it.
He looked up at the sky, took in the fading light. He’d be finding his way to Skepton in the dark if they didn’t get started. ‘I insist.’
‘Do you, by gum?’ She laughed, probably at the displeasure on his face. ‘I’ll not deny you your way, if you’ll tie these beasts on behind.’
Kind of her to oblige him.
Leaving her with his horses, grateful they were tired enough not to protest a stranger’s hand, he led her team to the back of the curricle and jury-rigged a leading string.
Returning to the girl, he shouted over the rising wind, ‘I’m going to push your vehicle further off the road.’
He strode to her wrecked equipage, put his shoulder to the footboard and pushed. The phaeton, already teetering on the brink of the shallow ditch, slid down the bank, its poles tilted to the sky. No one would run into it in the dark.
‘Strong lad,’ she yelled.
Good God, he almost felt like preening. He suppressed an urge to grin, climbed up on to his box and steadied his team. The perfectly matched bays shifted restlessly. Probably feeling the chill, as well as the panic of the other horses.
‘Can you climb up by yourself?’ he asked, controlling the beasts through the reins.
She hopped up nimbly. He caught a brief glimpse of sensible leather ankle boots and a silk stocking-clad calf amid the fur lining her driving coat before she settled herself on the seat.
A very neatly turned calf, slender and sweetly curved.
Bloody hell. ‘Which way?’
‘You’ll have to turn around. I was on my way home from Skepton.’
Skepton
