Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“Are you absolutely certain about this?” Ambrose pressed, an eyebrow raised.
Morgan Sedgewick, the Duke of Kirkhammer, embraced his friend, clapping him firmly on the back.
“For the third time, Ambrose, yes. I’m certain. Now go enjoy your honeymoon.”
Ambrose pulled back, his expression skeptical but nodding. He glanced past Morgan to where his wards, Arthur and Philip, were locked in enthusiastic hugs with Imogen, the Duchess of Welton, their small arms wrapped around her waist.
“We could take the boys with us,” Ambrose said, lowering his voice. “I could rearrange the trip. France and Italy are lovely this time of year, and—”
“And utterly wasted on two seven-year-olds who would much rather chase each other through gardens than appreciate Renaissance art.” Morgan raised an eyebrow.
“Besides, you’re supposed to be on a romantic honeymoon.
I am very fond of your nephews, but they contribute absolutely nothing to romance. Trust me on this.”
A reluctant smile tugged at Ambrose’s mouth. “Very well.”
“Excellent. Now.” Morgan straightened his cravat and adopted a solemn expression. “I solemnly swear to be on my best behavior, not to corrupt your wards, and to keep Kirkhammer Hall standing for the duration of your absence.”
“Morgan.”
“I’m serious! Mostly.” Morgan’s grin was unrepentant. “Go. You’ve been married one week. You deserve this.”
Ambrose sighed, but his eyes were warm. “Thank you. Truly. Just… do be careful with them.”
“They’re in excellent hands. Mine.”
Ambrose shot him a look that suggested exactly how reassuring he found that statement, then moved to crouch before his nephews. Arthur and Philip immediately detached themselves from Imogen and rushed to their uncle.
“Now then,” Ambrose said, his hands on their small shoulders. “I need you both to be good for Uncle Morgan. The same way you’d be good for Aunt Imogen and me. Can you do that, my little gentlemen?”
“Yes, Uncle Ambrose!” Philip chirped immediately as he nodded enthusiastically.
Arthur, however, crossed his arms and looked decidedly less cooperative. His lower lip jutted out in a pout.
Imogen knelt beside Ambrose, her expression softening. “Arthur? What’s the matter, dear?”
“I want to go back to France too,” Arthur mumbled, his voice small but stubborn.
Imogen’s smile faltered for just a moment, guilt flickering across her features.
Morgan saw it: the weight of what these boys had lost, the life they’d been torn from when their parents died. France wasn’t just a country to them. It was home. It was their mother and father.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Imogen reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind Arthur’s ear. “I know you miss France. But I promise, I absolutely promise, that we’ll take another trip there. All of us. As a family. Would you like that?”
Arthur’s pout softened slightly. “Really?”
“Really,” Ambrose confirmed, his voice gentle but firm. “You have my word. We’ll go back to France together.”
Arthur considered this, then finally nodded. “All right, then.”
“That’s my boy.” Ambrose ruffled his hair, then stood.
He and Imogen exchanged one last lingering look with the twins before climbing into the waiting carriage.
Morgan and the boys stood on the front steps, waving as the carriage rolled down the drive and disappeared around the corner.
The moment it was out of sight, a strange silence settled over the group. Morgan looked down at Arthur and Philip. They looked up at him. He cleared his throat.
“Well then.”
This is going to be interesting.
Thankfully, before the awkwardness could stretch any further, a calm voice came from behind them.
“Your Grace?” Morgan turned to see Miss Helen Winslow, the boys’ governess, approaching with her usual composed demeanor.
She was a woman in her early thirties, sensible and unflappable. She was exactly the sort of person one wanted managing two energetic seven-year-olds, and a good replacement for Imogen, who was now Ambrose’s wife.
“Miss Winslow, perfect timing,” Morgan said as he gestured to the twins. “I’ve arranged for you and the boys to travel to my country estate today. The carriage is ready whenever you are.”
Arthur frowned. “Why can’t we stay in London with you, Uncle Morgan?”
“Because,” Morgan said, crouching down to their level, “my house in Sussex is right next to the beach. You can explore the shore, build sandcastles, chase the waves. It is far more entertaining than stuffy ol’ London, don’t you think?”
Philip’s eyes went wide. “The beach?”
“The very same. Miles of it, in fact.”
“Can we go swimming?” Arthur asked, his earlier sullenness forgotten.
“Autumn is a bit chilly for swimming, but if Miss Winslow will allow a quick dip, I have always thought cool water hardens the constitution.”
The boys exchanged excited looks, already chattering about what they’d do at the beach. Miss Winslow smiled, clearly relieved by the shift in mood.
Morgan straightened, watching them with a mixture of affection and relief.
The beach excuse was partly true. The boys would love it. But the real reason was far more practical. Fewer distractions in Sussex. Fewer social obligations. Fewer opportunities for him to neglect his nephews while buried in parliamentary business or dragged to yet another tedious ball.
A month. He could manage a month in the country with Ambrose’s nephews.
“Go on, then,” Miss Winslow said gently, ushering the boys toward the stairs. “Let’s pack your things. We’ve a journey ahead of us.”
The twins raced off, their excited voices echoing through the hall. Miss Winslow followed at a more sedate pace, throwing Morgan a grateful look over her shoulder.
Morgan stood alone in the entryway, hands in his pockets, mentally preparing himself.
One month. Two seven-year-olds. A country estate.
How hard could it be?
The countryside stretched endlessly on either side of the road, fields of green and gold rolling beneath a pale blue sky.
It should have been peaceful. It should have been exactly what Eliza needed after days of riding, of looking over her shoulder, of jumping at every single sound.
Instead, it was a disaster.
Rosie stumbled again, her gait jerky and uneven. Eliza felt the shift immediately and pulled the reins gently, bringing the mare to a halt.
“Easy, girl,” she murmured, dismounting quickly. “Easy.”
She ran her hand along Rosie’s neck, soothing her, then crouched to examine her hooves. The problem was immediately obvious. The front left shoe was gone.
“Oh no.”
Eliza’s stomach sank. She scanned the road behind them, but the shoe was nowhere to be seen, lost somewhere in the last mile, probably.
She straightened, looking around. Fields. Trees. A narrow dirt road that stretched in both directions.
No inn. No village. No help. Too far to go back to the inn in Sussex she had stayed at. Too far to push forward to the position she sought at Kirkhammer Hall.
Eliza pressed her hands to her face, frustration welling up inside her and tightening her chest. She’d been so careful. So cautious. And now this.
“I’m so sorry, Rosie,” she whispered, stroking the mare’s nose. “This isn’t your fault. It’s all right. We’ll figure this out.”
But her heart was racing. She was stranded in the middle of nowhere, exposed on an open road.
What if someone came by? What if they recognized her? What if word somehow got back to London that a young woman matching her description had been seen wandering the Sussex countryside?
She glanced up and down the road again, her pulse quickening. No one.
Not yet.
I can’t stay here forever…we will catch a chill, starve, die of thirst!
Yet her only option was to wait. She hoped that whoever came along was willing to help, and not ask too many questions.
Morgan was reviewing a letter when the carriage suddenly slowed. He glanced up, frowning. They were still a good distance from Kirkhammer Hall, there was no reason to stop.
“Your Grace?” his driver called from above. “There’s a young woman on the road. Looks like she’s in some trouble.”
Morgan leaned toward the window. Sure enough, a figure stood beside a horse at the side of the road. It was a woman in a plain brown traveling dress and dark cloak, her posture tense.
“We stop,” Morgan said, and the carriage rolled to a halt.
Morgan stepped out, his boots crunching on the gravel as he approached.
“Good afternoon,” he said, keeping his tone light and unthreatening. “Is everything all right, Miss?”
The woman turned, and Morgan’s first thought was that she was far too young to be traveling alone.
His second thought was that she was remarkably composed for someone stranded on a country road.
His third, and most powerful, thought was that she was the most attractive woman he had seen in a long time.
Perhaps ever. She was slightly petite and lean with subtle curves that swayed as she walked.
She had dark blonde hair that curled, even when pulled back, and bright hazel eyes that glittered in the sunlight.
“Good afternoon, sir,” she replied, her voice polite but shy. “I apologize for the inconvenience. My horse has lost a shoe. I’m afraid we’re rather stuck.”
He was struck by her accent then, refined, sweet, soft and educated.
Not at all what he’d expected from a lone traveler on a rural road with a small mare.
Morgan’s interest sharpened as he looked her up and down once more, his eyes settling on the generous curve of her backside as she turned back to look at the horse.
She brought a finger to her mouth and bit on it, clearly distressed. The sight made his mouth water.
“May I take a look?” he asked, turning his attention away from her body and back to the horse. “I might be able to help.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Of course, sir. Thank you.”