A Troublesome Circumstance (Courting the Unconventional #8)

Chapter 1

Lady Josephine Tweedale forced her eyes open, though every part of her wished to sink back into the oblivion that called to her. A dull throb pulsed behind her temples, spreading down the back of her neck. When her vision cleared, the horror before her came into sharp, unforgiving focus.

The black coach lay on its side, one wheel spinning idly in the air. The horses were tangled in their harnesses, their frantic snorts slicing through the night. Clothing and trunks were strewn across the roadside, silks and linen muddied by the damp earth.

Her gaze drifted to the driver and footman. Both lay motionless a few yards away, eyes wide and unseeing, their faces slack in death.

A strangled cry caught in her throat. She pressed a trembling hand to her lips, trying to quell the rising panic. Do not fall apart now. Not yet.

She shut her eyes, desperate to will away the pounding in her skull. The last memory she had was of the carriage tilting perilously, the thunder of hooves, and her own desperate leap into the dark.

Then a single name clawed its way to the forefront of her thoughts.

Mr. Broderick.

Her heart seized.

Where was he?

She forced herself upright, though the world tilted dangerously. Her limbs felt like lead, her head screamed in protest. She scanned the wreckage but saw no sign of the man who had abducted her and dragged her towards Gretna Green.

The memory of his voice—slurred, triumphant—made bile rise in her throat.

Run.

The word echoed in her mind, sharp and clear. If Mr. Broderick lived, he could come for her again. And she could not, would not, let him find her.

Grim determination cut through her dizziness. She staggered to her feet, clutching her torn gown, and half-stumbled, half-ran towards the dark line of trees beyond the road.

Branches tore at her sleeves as she pushed into the woodlands.

Roots caught her hem, sending her sprawling once, twice—but she refused to stop.

She clawed her way forward, breath ragged, her lungs burning.

Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted, a low mournful sound that only deepened her sense of isolation.

At one point, the ground vanished beneath her, and she tumbled down a small ravine, landing hard on her side. Pain flared along her ribs, but she gritted her teeth and rose again. Her vision swam, but she kept going, guided only by the cold gleam of moonlight filtering through the branches.

When at last she dared to glance over her shoulder, there was only darkness. No shouts. No pursuit. Yet she could not shake the feeling of being hunted.

Her chest ached, each breath sharp and shallow. But anything was preferable to being trapped in that carriage again—married off to a man she despised, bound forever to shame. She would rather die in these woods than face that fate.

After what felt like hours, she stumbled upon a small stream. She sank onto a smooth rock, her legs trembling, her hands shaking uncontrollably. The water glimmered faintly, catching the silver light. She wanted to cry, to scream, to sleep—but she could do none of it.

Tears filled her eyes anyway. She blinked them back fiercely. Crying will not save you, Josephine.

She had to be clever. She had to survive.

A flicker of light in the distance caught her attention. It was a faint golden glow among the trees. Hope surged through her weary limbs. A cottage, perhaps. Someone lived there.

Could she risk it? What if they were in league with Mr. Broderick? Or worse, what if the occupant was a man—alone?

She hesitated, then clenched her fists. She could not afford fear now. She needed warmth, direction, something. She would face whatever awaited her.

Gathering her torn skirts, she crept through the trees until she reached a small clearing. A modest stone cottage sat at its center, smoke curling lazily from its chimney. The faint light from the windows flickered like a beacon of safety.

She approached quietly and peered through one of the panes. A man sat before the hearth, his broad shoulders outlined by firelight. His hair was dark, his jaw shadowed with stubble. He wore no coat, only a loose shirt open at the throat.

Her pulse quickened. He looked neither old nor frail, and he was very much alone.

“This must be the gamekeeper’s cottage,” she whispered under her breath. Still, she searched for any hint of a woman’s presence—a shawl, a second chair, a bit of embroidery—but found none.

Drat.

She wanted to knock, to beg for help, but the thought of being discovered alone in a man’s dwelling sent a chill of dread down her spine.

Even if she escaped Mr. Broderick, the scandal of such impropriety could ruin her utterly.

Perhaps it already had. If word had spread about her abduction…

no. She wouldn’t dwell on that. Not now.

Her strength was failing. She sank down beside the outer wall, pressing her back to the rough stone. The cold bit through her gown.

She needed shelter—just until dawn.

Then she spotted a small stable beyond the cottage, half-hidden by trees.

Relief washed through her. She rose and crossed the clearing, slipping inside through the door.

The scent of hay and horse filled the air.

A single black stallion stood in a stall, its intelligent eyes watching her with mild curiosity.

Josephine lifted a trembling hand. “Easy now,” she whispered. The horse flicked an ear, then stepped forward, allowing her to stroke its sleek neck.

“You’re a beauty,” she murmured. “Do you mind if I rest here for a time? I promise not to disturb you.”

The horse let out a low, approving nicker.

Josephine managed a small, weary laugh. “Thank you, kind sir.”

Her gaze drifted towards a mound of hay piled in the next stall, a pitchfork leaning against the wall. She reached for the pitchfork—just in case—and settled down upon the hay.

The moment she lay back, exhaustion swept through her like a tide. Her body ached and her eyelids grew unbearably heavy.

“Just for a few moments,” she said to herself. “Then I’ll move on.”

But the warmth of the stable, the steady rhythm of the horse’s breathing, and the soft rustle of the wind through the cracks in the wall lulled her under.

Before she could think another thought, sleep claimed her.

Jude Dexter, Earl of Pendryn, startled awake to the sound of the stable door slamming against its frame. Once. Twice. Then again. The wind howled through the trees outside, shaking the shutters on his small cottage.

“Botheration,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Blasted door again.”

He must not have latched it properly after putting up the horse earlier. The last thing he needed was a fox—or worse, a wild dog—getting inside.

With a groan, he pushed himself up from the armchair that had become his bed these past few nights.

His neck ached from the awkward angle, and his back protested as he stretched.

The proper bed stood across the room, rumpled but empty, a silent rebuke.

He couldn’t bring himself to use it much anymore.

Not when sleep meant dreams—dark ones filled with faces and voices he’d rather forget.

And always hers.

Lady Gwendolyn.

The name alone made something sour twist in his chest. Fool that he’d been, he had once imagined a future with her—until he’d overheard her bragging to her friends about how she ensnared an heir to a dukedom. He had walked away from her that night and had not looked back since.

“Better off without her,” he muttered, though the words rang hollow in the lonely cottage.

He pulled on his Hessian boots and reached for the rifle leaning against the wall. The barrel was cold beneath his fingers. It was best to be cautious since there was no telling what creatures might be skulking about in the dark.

When he opened the door, the chilly wind hit him full in the face. The smell of damp earth and pine filled his lungs as he stepped into the night. Moonlight silvered the clearing, casting long shadows from the trees that surrounded the small property.

As he neared the stable, the door banged again. He reached for it—and froze.

Footprints. Small, muddy ones, pressed into the straw and leading inside.

“What in the blazes?” Jude tightened his hold on the rifle. He was certain those hadn’t been there earlier.

He stepped quietly through the open doorway, his boots muffled by hay. He scanned the interior. Moonlight filtered through cracks in the walls, illuminating his stallion in his stall and something else.

A shape. Small. Still.

Someone was lying on the hay pile near the far wall.

His heart kicked. He raised the rifle and approached slowly, every instinct alert. “If you’re thinking of robbing me,” he called out, “you’ve chosen a poor mark.”

No response.

When he stood beside the pile of hay, he realized the intruder was a woman—young, disheveled, and entirely unconscious.

Her gown was torn, spattered with mud. A jagged cut split her forehead, blood dried along her temple.

Her hair—fair, tangled, and heavy with straw—fell in loose waves around her shoulders.

He frowned. “What in heaven’s name happened to you?”

She didn’t stir.

He tapped her slippered foot gently with his own. “Wake up.”

Nothing.

A cold thought struck him. Was she—?

He leaned closer, holding his breath. Then he caught it: the faint rise and fall of her chest. Relief loosened his shoulders. “Thank heaven for that.”

Straightening, he used the barrel of his rifle to nudge her side.

Her eyes flew open. In an instant, she was on her feet, snatching up a pitchfork and aiming it squarely at his chest. “Who are you?” she demanded, her voice trembling but fierce.

Jude blinked, momentarily stunned by the speed of her reaction. “Who am I?” he repeated. “I should think I’m the one with the right to ask that.”

“Stay back,” she warned, gripping the pitchfork tighter.

He raised a brow, lowering the rifle slightly but not entirely. “I would, if you weren’t threatening to skewer me in my own stable.”

Her eyes darted about, assessing him warily. “What do you want?”