1. A Squealing Introduction

1

A Squealing Introduction

December 1811

Ballenger Estate, Bordering the Midlands and Yorkshire

His right leg was useless. His left leg was too. And his propagator in the middle? Broken as well.

So Richard Andrew Martinson, eighth Earl of Warrick, sixth Viscount Tawton, not that long ago of His Majesty’s 13 th Light Dragoons, allowed his voice free rein.

“Here!” he barked, beyond humiliated, bilious with the up-and-down motion he’d endured across the formal gardens and toward the less populated lawn. “Stop with me here.”

“But…Lord…War…rick,” one of the footmen clutching and grasping to retain hold of his third of their burden panted, “thought…you?—”

“Enough,” he all but bellowed, uncaring if he sounded ungrateful. Downright pleased if his irritation shone through. “This is smashing, I tell you. Utterly.”

His misery, at this moment, could not be worse, his shattered carcass being carted about by three strapping lads he had met but seven painstaking minutes prior. Winded to a man, the trio drop-clanked his cumbersome ambulatory chair with every bit of the ungainly finesse they had used hauling his unwieldy arse out thus far. Considering how his lump-of-a-dead-weight self was in said chair, his body drop-clanked- plopped right along with it.

Strangling down the lashing he wanted to flay them with, he choked on the mortification rather than let it spew. It wasn’t their fault Lady Ballenger thought it a grand idea to let “poor Lord Warrick, cooped up in that carriage for days, have a spot of fresh air before the temperatures turn bitter and he retires to ready himself for dinner”.

Bah. He cared nothing about pleasing his managing hostess.

But he did care about Ed. About Frost. About the hell in Spain the three of them had endured—and barely survived—together. If he hadn’t valued the boundless friendships as much as he did, it would have been an easy thing to tell Ed’s future mama-in-law to take her unhelpful suggestions and shove them up her burgeoning stays.

Thank God and broken pricks he wasn’t the one who had to put up with her the rest of his life. Nay, he was the one who got to salivate over the sour tang of embarrassment harsh upon his tongue when one of the men punched his shoulder to shove him rearward before Warrick’s face planted itself among the lush grass.

His spine whipped back, slammed against the hated chair on a spike of pain. One hand clutched the grip; the other clasped the seat near his thigh. His head bobbed like a lure on a lake before he gained control again.

Control.

One second at a time, Rich, he reminded himself, although he heard the words in his mama’s voice as the sharp breeze floated tendrils of hair in front of his eyes. Hold tight for one moment more, dear boy. And then one moment more beyond that…

He had held on. Fought. Made it out alive.

Unlike so many of his comrades, Warrick had made it back to England, although he couldn’t claim to have stepped “foot” upon the shores of home.

“One second more,” he reminded himself on a low murmur, exhaling through the agony that had rammed up his back at the clipped landing. Why could he feel so much torture in places and none in others? Sitting so many hours at a time couldn’t be wise.

Nearly being toppled on your head didn’t help.

So much pain, sometimes lingering, sometimes sharp, in his mid to low back, crawling up to his shoulders at times. But below his waist? Naught. A drought, on so many levels…

“My lord?” a footman asked, interrupting the negative fog wrapping around him in a tight smother. He glared through the strands, his vision blurred until it wasn’t. The oldest one, yet still younger than Warrick. “Have you further need of us?”

He couldn’t answer. Not yet. Another slow breath as the red-hot fire faded to pink, spreading upward and outward. But not downward. Never downward.

It will fade. Think of something lovely. His mother’s voice again.

But nothing lovely interrupted the raw journey of the blaze still flaring low on his back.

One single aim for this week —his voice now— hide your pain. The worry.

There was precedent, after all. The eighth Lord of Warrick’s presence was valued for a reason: he was expected to do the pretty, smile and laugh and jest about with others, to enliven any gathering he deigned to attend. But that had been before. Now? His first excursion beyond home or physicians since he’d been reduced to rolling about in a god-blame chair.

He had far underestimated how difficult that would prove once outside the narrow confines of his London townhouse, where he had holed up upon finally convincing Mama to return to her younger children—and cease hovering over him—sparse months ago.

Pretend all is grand.

No one must guess. No one must even suspect how dire things had become, both his estate and his prospects of siring progeny.

Not when his dear mother—and others—remained dependent upon him to find, meet and marry a mushroom’s daughter. Some merchant’s unfortunate offspring who would be sacrificed to line his pockets and bank accounts.

Lucky, lucky girl, he thought with every bit of sarcasm in his blighted soul. Trading her future and blunt for… Nothing. He had nothing to offer anyone and could not see his way to condemning another to share his miserable fate until he could find something, anything valuable to trade in exchange.

His one comfort was that his mother and half-siblings lived a modest yet secure life. It was only his birthright, the Warrick title and entailed grounds, that headed for sure destruction.

“Forgive me, my lord, I did not—uh—” blathered the one whose knuckles were now imprinted in the hollow of his shoulder, “didn’t mean?—”

“’Tis naught.” The words swift, hard. All he could get out. “Back to the house with you.”

Straightening, he dismissed the men with a curt nod. Leave me to wallow in angst, to wish my hand held a tumbler instead of these infernal controls . Once they were beyond hearing, he banged his fist against one of the two handles that turned and propelled his chair. Leave me to try and forget the last few miserable moments.

“Something god-damned lovely?” Pfft. He shook the lingering strands in front of one eye off with a swift turn of his head—and froze.

Devil take it! Blasted?—

Rather than blast blasphemies until the second coming, he nearly bit the tip of his tongue off, until he could trust himself to speak.

“Might as well come forth,” he said upon releasing his tender tongue, aiming his words toward the thick trees a few yards away.

A shrouded miss, bonnet and dress as dark as the shade she hovered in. Face obscured but posture not. The upright, stiff bearing one he recognized, could not halt curiosity over. He knew what caused his angst; what caused hers? “Your very stillness does you a discredit, unwavering against the rustling branches.”

If he couldn’t have blasted lovely, he would settle for distraction .

A few minutes prior…

“Primmy! Here!” Lady Harriet, the exuberant twelve-year-old known far and wide for her love of what she considered fun, handed off the squirming, squealing piggy into the unsuspecting grasp of her governess.

Her governess, Aphrodite Primrose, who feared this week would only become more fraught as any number of titled lords and ladies of rank continued to descend upon the Larchmont home where she worked (valiantly) to impart manners, knowledge and decorum to her charge.

Over the coming days, Lady Harriet Larchmont—the youngest daughter of Lord and Lady Ballenger and Aphrodite’s energetic challenge—would be leading her a merry chase, testing Aphrodite’s lauded patience as she attempted to moderate the child’s natural exuberance into something less loud—and less likely to offend.

And while guiding her charge was something Aphrodite excelled at, proper, sedate governesses were no match for mud-slicked hoglets.

The scuffle to control the squirming bundle of pink-and-brown porkling (brown thanks to the sludge, not something else , she dearly hoped) was lost. The slippery creature sliding from her frantic grapple to coast down her dress before scampering off toward its siblings and the promised safety of its pen. At least the gruntling ran toward Lady Harriet and not the formal gardens and milling guests.

“Why, oh why,” Aphrodite muttered, looking at her customary day dress with naught but dismay, and speaking to the woman at her side—the elder Larchmont daughter, Lady Anne, “do I ever expect a visit to the barns to elapse without Lady Harriet or myself needing to change and scrub?” She looked up, rueful grin in place, to see Lady Anne suppressing giggles. “Or should I say scrub and change?”

“Oh, Miss Primrose!” The forthright blonde, within a year or two of Aphrodite’s age, lost the battle to stifle laughter. “You have been with us long enough to know better than to hope for such a miracle. Take this.” The other woman held out a handkerchief, then quickly whipped it back. “Wait. Let me help remove your gloves first.”

Lady Anne considerately muddied her own, peeling Aphrodite’s gloves back by the very edge, leaving at least Aphrodite’s hands free of grime, though the rest of her reeked with it.

Plucking the soiled gloves from her companion, carefully holding them by the edges, she accepted the clean handkerchief with thanks.

The comfortably cool hour after nuncheon had seen the three of them casually walking the grounds, ostensibly to expend Lady Harriet’s energy, but in truth, Aphrodite suspected, both she and Lady Anne wanted to avoid the visitors who had begun trickling in this morning on the grand carriages she’d heard more than once since escaping outside, rambling around the manor, heading for the stables and carriage house.

After a fruitless search for a goose she considered more pet than was appropriate, Lady Harriet had turned her attention to the swine pen, giving Aphrodite and Lady Anne a few moments of adult-oriented privacy. Privacy that now wallowed beneath the wet filth and sour stench of her dress, she feared. Though conversations with Lady Anne were never overly familiar, the easefulness with which they occurred was something Aphrodite looked forward to.

“I will remain with Our Trial,” Lady Anne offered, sharing a quick smile over her sister—Aphrodite’s only responsibility since joining the Larchmont household not quite a year prior. The responsibility who managed to necessitate the care of governess, elder sister and their mother. Yet the boisterous child’s antics could somehow manage to elude them all at times. “Go see about washing and changing. Take a few moments for yourself before your unceasing duties begin in earnest.”

Aphrodite bit back a sigh. “How long is everyone staying, do you know?”

Guests, a myriad of them, coming for the Winter Ball that very evening and staying for the house party intended to celebrate the pending nuptials of Lady Anne herself.

Guests. (Which might as well have been gnats , as welcome as Aphrodite considered them.) Invading the normally quiet—if one discounted Lady Harriet’s environs—estate Aphrodite had come to appreciate as the weeks and months went by without incident to threaten her well-being.

But no more, not in the coming days, while she would be exposed to any number of arrogant, titled men—and their dangerous whims.

“Longer than either of us might wish, I daresay.” In private, Lady Anne had made little effort to disguise her plaguesome doubts about the arrival of her intended.

Childish giggles and a couple squealed grunt-grumphs flew toward them on the breeze, prompting a shared, indulgent smile. “At least someone is excited about the coming week.”

“Three someones.” Lady Anne’s humor faltered. “Make that four someones. Harriet, our parents and Lord Redford’s mother.”

Lord Redford, whose yet-to-be-realized arrival boggled with all its uncertainty, and now with tonight’s ball? All waited for him perched uncomfortably on edge.

“No sense in you being disordered over my absent betrothed.” The smile returned to Lady Anne’s suddenly drawn features, full of insincerity. “The longer he delays, the more I find a life of spinstry beckons.” Her expression eased upon voicing that. “Best you go tend your dress before Harriet returns with another porcellum .”

“Very well.” Chuckling over the Latin, Aphrodite nevertheless hesitated, uneasy about crossing the grounds, currently peopled by a few strangers, on her own. “I shall run up to my bedchamber and return posthaste to?—”

“No running allowed, Miss Primrose.” Lady Anne gave a light laugh, one that quickly turned rueful. “What sort of example would that be for my sister? Nay, walk at your leisure, take ease in the respite. For we both know the coming days are likely to be fraught.”

Fraught , which emphasized her own disquiet, the unease knotting her chest as she made her way back to the manor house. Hoping to avoid encountering anyone, she took a circular route around the formal gardens, coming up through the line of trees that had been left wild along one side of the manicured grounds.

Only to stop short just before exiting the copse upon spying three footmen laboring with a most unusual burden.

“Might as well come forth,” the burden barked at her endless moments later, his voice a dangerous growl. “Your very stillness does you a discredit…”

Caught.

The rest of his sentence lost beneath the instinctive panic. Though her feet twitched with the need to retreat toward the familiar, toward safety, Aphrodite kept them firmly rooted. Maintained her wits. Squeezed her muddied gloves in one palm and Lady Anne’s clean handkerchief in the other.

It was daytime. She was not alone. Not locked in her room, trapped.

The rustle of evergreens comforted when a pleasantly cool wind gusted forth and danced the fall of sooty black hair about his face. She cautioned her rapid, not-quite-panting breaths to calm. Bade her heart to quit jumping.

Simply one of the guests, newly arrived. Others walked the formal gardens, could be seen from the edge of the trimmed lawn. If she were to scream, her cries would be heard. Although no one—save herself and the seated stranger—existed in their immediate environs.

But after what she had stumbled upon? What she had seen? Haughty lord or no, her slowly settling heart went out to this particular guest.

To not be able to walk must be a trial indeed, unlike anything she could fathom. To realize someone had witnessed the near catastrophe of being topsy-turvied onto one’s head? That must be a crushing blow that smarted beyond the moment.

She remained where she was, amidst thick evergreens at her back and sides, though apparently not concealing her front. Noticed, as the urge to sweep his thick hair off his forehead and out of his eyes grew, how the limb-stiffening fear freezing her in place slowly receded.

Which made her daft. To allow her closely held guard to slacken, even for a moment?

But today’s circumstances were nothing like the other two. Nothing at all.

She wasn’t the one being restrained against her will. Wasn’t being forced to accept the hard thrust of a tongue—and threatened with worse.

Nay. She was free. Could walk away—or even run—if she chose. But he could not…

“I would bid you to show yourself.” The command in his deep voice drew her back to her quandary: 1. Turn and flee with calm restraint? 2. Race swiftly past? Or… 3. Remain? “Why hesitate? After witnessing that harsh straggle, ’tis the least you can do—give me a moment to spew something redeeming.”

She almost smiled. But didn’t, oddly wounded at how his softer, almost cajoling tone was now tinged with unmistakable chagrin.

No wonder. She had no doubt the limits his body placed on him rankled, had not yet been met with acceptance. For defiance was written in every raw line of his body. From the muscular arms that had to be straining the seams of his fitted midnight-blue tailcoat, to the way he ruthlessly shoved his knees together when his legs splayed apart at an abrupt jostle. To the slightly gaunt, angular planes haunting his features beneath that sweep of black-as-sin hair.

And when do you think of sinning, missy?

“Come now. I lose patience at your dithering.” He was back to being brusque. “You are ill-disguised, standing there all agawp.”

Before she had quite made up her mind, she was charging from the blanket of trees. “I am not gawping!”

“Oh no? What, then?”

“If you must know, admiring your hair,” she practically spat at him, stomping to a stand far beyond his reach. “’Tis longer and thicker than I am used to seeing and—and—” Her fingers squeezed tighter. “Oh! That was such an inane thing to say. Why did you propel it from me?”

He gestured toward his chair and the smooth, narrow wheels, inept, she was sure, over the pebbled walkways and lush grass carpeting the Ballenger estate. “I propel nothing , the least of which are your words. But I do bid you to entertain me further. Please.”

Entertain him? That was his wish?

Please.

How silly of her, to be flattered by the ridiculous request. He wished her attention but for a moment, to ease his own embarrassment?

She could do that, surely…