Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Ryland had not begun his journey today with the expectation that he would be feigning marriage in order to retrieve a woman from the grasp of scum parading as a man. Yet there he stood, watching the woman realize her carriage had abandoned her in this gloomy place. The Red Lion hadn't been his first choice either, but after a day of haggling horse prices with the breeder, Ryland and his stepfather were famished, with home still two hours away.

He swallowed, watching her and waiting to see what she would do. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a neat knot at the base of her neck, and despite the plainness of her clothing, she carried herself as only a lady could. He would guess she was from a fine family, but had perhaps fallen in station, given the worn state of her clothing and the clear refinement of her speech.

To say nothing of the fact that she did not look old enough to be without a companion, yet was evidently traveling alone.

Each of these things contributed to the way she reminded Ryland of his late wife. When he'd approached her in the taproom to extricate her from the imbecile accosting her, her likeness had taken him by surprise. He must have chosen to call her his wife because that was who sprung to his mind when he looked at her.

Wycliffe approached them with unease. He'd been Ryland's stepfather for more than a dozen years now, but they had a strained relationship nonetheless. The hope of this outing was undoubtedly to bond, but it had been made up of long pauses in conversation and the purchase of horses. At least there, they could speak for ages.

"You've a wife now?" Wycliffe asked, the hint of facetiousness coloring his words.

Blast . Ryland dragged a hand over his face and looked to where the young woman stood in the doorway, her fingers gripping the jamb with white knuckles. "I hoped that hadn't been overheard."

"It was," he muttered. His thick, dark hair was peppered with white, lending him polish. His eyes raked over the girl with concern. "News spread like the plague through the taproom. It is a good thing no one knows us here or you would be facing more rumors than you'd know what to do with."

"It was the quickest way I could see ending the conversation without fists flying." Ryland wouldn't have minded landing a facer on the blackguard, but he was heading home to his six-year-old son and would prefer to do so without a swollen lip.

Ryland's youth had been littered with fisticuffs. He chose to avoid them as an adult at all costs. He motioned to the woman. "We ought to obtain a private parlor until we can be certain she is on her way to her destination."

Wycliffe frowned. "The next post does not pass through until tomorrow."

Deuce take it. "I should have stepped in sooner."

"You can't change the past, Ryland. Focus on the matter at hand." Wycliffe spoke with a measure of concern, his wrinkled eyes looking to where the woman stepped outside, the door closing behind her. His mouth flattened, lips pressing together. "I'll obtain the parlor. You bring her back inside."

Wycliffe's daughter was near the same age as the woman, and his fatherly instincts must have reared to life. There was no doubt why she'd ignited a sense of protectiveness in either of them. In that, Ryland had an ally. They would not abandon her to the den of cads. Ryland nodded, pushing his way outside and taking long steps to reach the portmanteau abandoned there before she could lift it. His hand swung down and eased it from the ground, despite its unnatural heaviness.

His arm strained under the weight. "Gads. What is this full of? Books?"

Pink tinged the woman's high cheekbones. "Yes."

Oh. Ryland cleared his throat, adjusting his hold on the handle. Now she certainly believed he was prejudiced against bluestockings. In truth, he didn't care a lick for any woman outside of his family, regardless of how she chose to pass the time. "My stepfather is working to obtain a private parlor. Will you come in and dine with us?"

She looked anxiously toward the road, the carriage gone so long the dust had already settled.

"I've been informed the next post arrives in the morning."

"Tomorrow?" she yelped.

He nodded gravely. "As fortune would have it, I've already spun a protective story for you." His face pulled into a grimace. "For that, I must also heartily apologize. It was a liberty I had no right to take."

She smoothed back her blonde hair. "I cannot fault you for it when it was so utterly effective."

"All the same, it was a moment of insanity. I assure you, I do not typically go around claiming strangers as wives."

"A sister would have accomplished the same thing."

He stared at her. Why had he not taken such an easy route? Must he always complicate things beyond necessary? He looked toward the empty road. "Next time I attempt to rescue a damsel, I will take that under advisement."

She chuckled softly, sending a wave of relief through him. If she could chuckle, then all was not lost.

"Are you traveling with anyone?"

She hesitated. "No."

When he returned his attention to her, he did his best to appear trustworthy. "We will not leave until you are situated, ma'am."

She raised her eyes, searching his. They were blue, a shade so soft they almost appeared cloudy. He wondered briefly if the time of day contributed to the color. Her blonde hair was golden in the sunlight, wisps curling softly around her ears and trailing down her neck. She tugged at his memory, but he shoved the thought aside. When women reminded him of his late wife, Jane, the pain was so acute, he felt only the desire to run.

In this, he had no choice but to stay.

"You are under no obligation," she said at length.

"In that, you are mistaken. I cannot leave a young woman alone when the present company has already proven to be so despicable. Will you agree to come inside? My stepfather is a good man."

"And you are not?"

He stiffened. Their acquaintance had not yet outlived the time it took to drink a cup of tea, yet he felt she seemed to see through him. "That was not the implication I meant to make." Further still, he could not bring himself to answer her. He settled on an unequivocal truth. "You will be safe with us."

She must have sensed his honesty, for she stepped toward the inn again. Ryland adjusted his hold on her portmanteau and followed her inside. Blast, it was heavy. The thing must've been half-full of tomes.

Wycliffe waited inside and led them toward a door to the side of the taproom's counter. They traveled down a dark corridor dotted with doors, the sconce on the wall barely throwing enough light to mark the path. The private parlor was dim, with dark-paneled walls and little in the way of light. One small window was surrounded by heavy drapes, and the fire smoldered low.

"Are they bringing dinner?" he asked.

Wycliffe nodded. "Come sit," he said kindly. "The fire leaves something to be desired, but it is undoubtedly warmest near it."

Ryland set her portmanteau near the wall and lowered himself into a seat at the small, round table after the woman claimed her chair. "We find ourselves in an unusual circumstance. Since we have no others to perform introductions, perhaps we ought to do them ourselves."

Her gaze flashed toward him, then lowered. "I am Aurelia . . ." she said, searching the table. "Grey."

"Miss Grey," he repeated. "Or Mrs.?"

"Mrs. Grey," she confirmed, the words dragging out of her slowly, like sap from a tree. She watched him expectantly. "Widow."

Blast. She was waiting for their names. He hadn't considered this part of the conversation. It would seem as though he meant to flash his title.

Wycliffe saved the moment. "I am Richard Wycliffe. This is my stepson, Lord Ryland. We come from Harewood in Hampshire."

"Harewood?" she asked, straightening in her seat. She didn't spare his title a moment of awe or surprise. He would have been grateful had the oddity of it not tugged on his mind. Having obtained the status of earl at a young age, Ryland had spent the majority of his life bringing rooms to a hush with his title, unintentionally commanding respect by the very words alone. The fact that this woman appeared nonplussed proved her familiarity with his set. Perhaps they were already acquainted and that was why it felt he'd met her before.

He would prefer to believe that above the very real fact that she shared a hair color and nose structure with Jane. Her form appeared similar to his late wife's; her age as well.

In a sweeping moment that had been over all too soon, Ryland had had Jane again. But no, this woman was not his beloved wife. She only looked the part.

"Are you familiar with Harewood?" Wycliffe asked as the door opened. They remained quiet while the serving girl delivered plates of food and a fresh pot of tea.

When the door closed behind the serving girl, Mrs. Grey continued. "That is my current destination."

Ryland looked at his stepfather sharply. This was unexpected. Their quaint town, nestled in the hills of Hampshire, was small enough that they knew nearly everyone who lived in it. They were likely familiar with the family she intended to visit.

"How fortuitous. You need not wait on the post, Mrs. Grey. We can take you the rest of your journey," Wycliffe said. He eyed the table. "You may eat first."

She shot him a grateful smile. "I wouldn't wish to put you out."

"Nonsense. We are already traveling to Harewood. You will make the drive more pleasant. Where in Harewood are you visiting?"

Mrs. Grey reached for a roll and set it on her plate. "Tilton Manor. Are you familiar with it?"

His eyes flashed to Ryland. "We know the place," Wycliffe said.

Ryland's chest went tight. Why was the woman going to his house? Her lack of surprise when hearing his title did not reconcile with her innocently stating her destination. Had she known Tilton was the seat for the Earl of Ryland, she would have mentioned it immediately upon hearing his name, would she not? Something did not add up.

He stepped in before Wycliffe could give him away. He needed to gather more information about her motives and character. "What business do you have at Tilton?"

Mrs. Grey pulled the pot of butter toward her and scooped a small amount to slather over her roll. "I've been contracted as a governess for the young boy who lives there."

Silence sat in the room so thick, they could have sliced it with Mrs. Grey's butter knife. Ryland could not inhale a full breath. When he'd allowed his mother to write to his sister's old governess, Mrs. Hoskins, he'd expected a woman in her dotage with a cheerful smile and graying hair. He'd only met her a handful of times, but he distinctly recalled a kind face and excessive wrinkles. Mrs. Grey was not Mrs. Hoskins, nor was she anything like the woman. She did not have a single line marring her face except the worry grooves on her forehead. She appeared far too similar to his late wife—too young, too pretty, and entirely unacceptable.

Wycliffe chuckled. "You are in luck, then. We?—"

"Are happy to take you," Ryland cut in. His mind swirled with concerns, chief above all the way he could end this contract before it began. But he needed time to consider the best way to terminate the position. Should he purchase a ticket to return her to wherever she had come from? Send her with whatever money he had on his person?

Mrs. Grey visibly relaxed, her shoulders falling in relief and, if he was not mistaken, defeat—the latter of which tugged at his chest. "This is a blessing," she said. "I will not hide my gratitude. I'd spent my last penny on tea earlier, and I hadn't the faintest idea how I was to reach my destination when I discovered the post chaise had left."

Her last penny? He would need to provide her a grand sum for the inconvenience, undoubtedly, when he sent her on her way.

"You poor thing," Wycliffe said, his eyes softening. He looked to Ryland, lifting his eyebrows.

Yes, this was the moment to inform the woman he was her employer, yet he could not do so until he had developed a plan.

Wycliffe pushed himself to his feet. "A word, son?"

"Of course." Ryland followed him to the door.

"We will send for the carriage to be readied. Eat your fill, Mrs. Grey," Wycliffe said.

"I will repay you," she promised.

"No need." Wycliffe hesitated at the door. "I have a daughter. I hope she would be treated with the same courtesy were she to find herself in similar circumstances."

Why did Ryland feel that particular barb was meant for him? Had he not stepped in once already today when Wycliffe had noticed Mrs. Grey being pursued by the filth in the taproom? What more did his stepfather expect of him?

Though, in all fairness, he would have stepped in sooner had he noticed the situation himself, but as it was, he'd been sitting with his back to her.

Wycliffe closed the door behind him and looked Ryland in the eye, one of his dark eyebrows rising. "You will not abandon her."

Ryland let out an exhale, trailing his words wispily. "She looks like Jane."

His voice was raw, the words scraping their way out. The narrow, dark corridor was silent, the air growing tense with meaning. A cool draft seeped from an open room at the end of the corridor and drove a chill down his arms. He noticed truth reflected in his stepfather's eyes, proof he was not the only person to make that observation upon seeing Mrs. Grey, and the confirmation was like another blade piercing him between the ribs. It was growing difficult to breathe.

Wycliffe let out a heavy sigh. "All the same, she is clearly in dire straits if she would risk spending the last of her money on tea in this wretched place. She must have been assured her position was secure."

Her position teaching Ryland's son . This was not something to be determined lightly. It was not the expectation he had had when he decided to bring in a governess.

Wycliffe continued. "It would not be the Christian thing to return her to the circumstances that placed her in so desperate a situation. Imagine it was your sister in that room. How would you hope she would be treated?"

"Ruth would not have found herself in such a situation," Ryland muttered. The fact was, her exuberant personality aside, Ruth had parents and brothers who adored her. They would not have allowed her to become as desperate as Mrs. Grey seemed to be. Was her family dead? He gestured toward the door. "What I do not understand is where the miscommunication arose. I requested Ruth's governess. I recalled Mrs. Hoskins being much taller and a fair bit older than the woman sitting in that parlor."

"Your mother wrote to Mrs. Hoskins," Wycliffe confirmed. "I assume Mrs. Grey comes with an explanation, perhaps a reference. She seems to think the position is already hers…I would not turn away Mrs. Hoskins' recommendation without at least a trial."

A trial. Living with a woman who pulled at his heart and sent his memories to his late wife by merely existing in his peripheral vision. He swallowed hard. "And if I cannot bear to face her day in and day out?"

"Then give her time to find another position. It is a grace she very well deserves."

Ryland could not refute it. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. "Very well. I will bring her on as a trial."

Wycliffe clapped him on the shoulder. "You are a good man."

He tensed but swallowed his arguments. It was not the time to pick apart each of Wycliffe's falsities. If he was a good man, he would not have hidden from the entire world after Jane died. For Edmund's sake, he would have borne the questions and pity instead of retreating to the safety of his house.

"I'll send for our horses. You may return to the parlor and inform this woman you are to be her employer."

"Without a chaperone?"

Wycliffe lifted his eyebrows and Ryland read his meaning. Not only was she a widow, but he was about to employ her as a governess. She would become part of his household staff, the caregiver for his son. He needed to remove from his mind the proprieties and statutes Society wished to place on unmarried men and women. Their relationship would be far different.

When Wycliffe started walking away, Ryland called after him. "We did not bring a carriage."

Wycliffe chuckled. "We cannot put her on the back of your horse, son. Pray I might find a carriage to let."