Chapter 1
Rowan
“Iknow this might come as a great shock to you, Miss Delafield, but I do indeed wish to marry you.” My carriage bounced on the rough country road destroyed by the recent storms, but it was not enough to knock sense into me.
I dearly wished I could call the whole ludicrous idea of marriage off.
Regardless, I could not retreat now. A promise made under extreme duress was still a promise—even if I’d taken my precious time in fulfilling it.
Setting my hand against the black satin-lined carriage wall to steady myself, I began again.
“I wrote ahead to your parents of my plans, hoping that a fortnight’s notice would be enough for you to adjust to the idea.
” Although, if roughly twelve years since our last meeting had not been long enough, another fortnight would not matter.
“Before you answer, Miss Delafield, please remember that this is our familial duty. Our parents’ hopes are tied to this union, and it would be a grave disappointment to them should we not act upon it. ”
I paused, wondering if I should mention my personal reasons for marrying.
The greatest being the bet I had made with my friends, and the nagging collective price of six hundred pounds if I failed.
I’d made the bet because I wanted to honor my mother’s wishes and start a family, but the longer I had been off the boat, the more those reasons had grown hazy.
It had taken six years and letters from four different besotted friends to motivate me to propose marriage.
With only three remaining bachelors, the race was on.
I couldn’t afford to dawdle and still have the funds to pay off my friends.
My man of business had obtained a rare copy of Shakespeare’s First Folio.
With thirty-six of his plays, it might as well be the bible of Shakespeare.
The expense had nearly exhausted my allowance.
If he succeeded in chasing down the recent rumor I had heard, I would soon have the Third Folio too, which was quite scarce thanks to the Great Fire of London destroying many of its valuable copies.
Once I had the Third Folio, my collection of all four Folios would be complete. A dream come true.
I stared at the empty seat across from me, feeling a bit foolish as I tried to imagine Miss Delafield’s response to my practiced speech.
Why did the red velvet upholstery on the bench look as if I had murdered the lady’s hopes and dreams to marry for love?
The stain of blood would surely mar my conscience for all eternity, even if I was not one to take stock in love matches. The thought made me shiver with unease.
“Come now, Miss Delafield,” I pleaded with the empty carriage seat.
“I am a much nicer person than when we saw each other last. It’s been, what?
” I paused to count on my fingers just to be certain.
“Yes, twelve blessed years of peace since our last not-so-pleasant encounter. I assure you that when we are wed, we can both reside in opposite wings of the house and only see each other at holiday parties.”
Parties? I hesitated, my breathing quickening and my shoulders rising.
Anyone like Miss Delafield who did not respect books and the sacred written word should not be permitted in polite Society.
The selfish thought was greeted with another hard bounce in my seat that made me reach for my tailbone.
No bruise would make me feel repentant. Not where Miss Delafield, the spindly girl with legs long enough to trip over and more freckles than sense, was concerned.
I had enough memories of her to be quite certain that an amicable marriage would only be accomplished with a great deal of tolerance.
I would have to start praying for patience the minute the banns were read.
The carriage struck a deep rut in the road, and this time, there was more than my tailbone at stake.
The carriage lurched to the left. Time suspended as my body momentarily levitated.
The next moment was akin to a nightmare.
The carriage crashed against its side, and I barely let out a yelp before my body followed, slapping hard against the conveyance wall.
Everything went still—the only sound in my ringing ears a faint whine of a horse.
With a grimace, I pushed myself to a sitting position in the downed carriage.
My left arm had taken the brunt of the crash.
I slowly rotated it, assessing the limb.
It hurt, but nothing seemed broken. My head pounded, and I gingerly dug beneath my hair to feel a small goose egg forming.
The damage was minor, considering. There was nothing of lasting consequence to prevent me from marrying. A small whimper escaped my lips.
“Sir!” my valet called, thumping on the carriage. “Sir, are you alive?”
Perhaps I should have restrained my condemning thoughts about Miss Delafield after all. The universe did not care for the idea of me cursing my future bride and had punished me for it. “I’m alive, Hastings. How did you and the driver fare?”
“Well enough, sir.”
“Good,” I said under my breath.
With Hastings’s assistance, I was able to extract myself from the conveyance.
The three of us stepped back and studied our plight under the unusually cool afternoon sun.
Even the June weather was as off as I was.
“Fortunately, the fall of the carriage was softened by that convenient row of shrubs,” I offered, unhelpfully.
I slapped Hastings on the back. “And you look no worse for wear.”
“Unfortunately,” Hastings began, “the carriage wheel is decidedly broken.”
“Yes, there is that,” I sighed. Of all the rotten luck. At least in my anxious state, I had left home a few days early with time to spare.
“Stay here and rest, Hastings,” I directed. “As the horses were spared, I will ride to town for help.” I had no plans to go mad while sitting around waiting to be rescued.
“How good of you, sir,” Hastings said dryly, dipping his head in acquiescence. “The driver and I will unhitch the horses.”
A few minutes later, I was atop a gray mare and trotting down the unkempt road that had destroyed my carriage. Not more than a mile later, I was greeted by a crooked piece of wood labeled Quillsbury.
“Quillsbury it is.” With a fortifying breath, I followed the road until I reached the main street of town.
I went straight to the nearest blacksmith and had a hand sent out to survey the damage to my carriage.
After disposing of my horse at the mews, I attempted to dust off my disheveled attire and took in my first real glance of Quillsbury.
It was quaint, to be sure. But was it too much to hope that I would not be stuck here long?
With the way my friend Ambrose attacked his plans, he was likely well on his way to solidifying his own engagement.
Even Leonard, shy and sullen as he was, was equally likely to find some smiling debutante to balance him. I hadn’t any time to lose.
I passed a country bank that Andrew Langford would have appreciated and shook my head. It seemed I was unable to keep my friends and the silly bet from my mind.
The sun at just past noon glimmered through the cloud cover against the sign of a small shop where a pleasant bench sat below a large bay window. I squinted to read the peeling paint: Inkwell Books Etc. A bookshop?
A sharp thrill of anticipation ran through me.
It was highly unusual to see such a store in a small town.
What luck! Every bookshop was a treasure hunt I could not resist. My feet were moving before I acknowledged them, and soon enough, I was across the street and reaching for the door handle.
A bell rang to alert the store manager of a new customer.
My eyes raked over the oak shelves stretching above my head, placed in neat lines through the confined space.
I passed between two, only wide enough for a single person to cross at a time.
I ignored the cheap chapbooks and fashion magazines and eyed a row of poetry.
There was a decent collection, but nothing eye-catching.
Turning the corner, my eyes traced the myriad of books.
This set of shelves was shorter, and my gaze drew up to a shelf on the row beyond mine.
A line of books caught my attention—all Shakespeare.
One spine in particular drew my gaze, even from across the room.
It was not a hardback like the others. Paper covered it, tinted with age.
It was too small to be a Folio or one of the newer prints.
I grinned; I knew a treasure when I saw one.