Prologue

Prologue

Yorkshire , England

May, 1819

D rat, drat, drat! Lady Celia Kendal did not appear a lady at all as she held her skirts and kicked the carriage wheel. Her brother Charles, the Duke of Selkirk, would be furious when he discovered what she'd done.

Her companion, Rosie, poked her head out of the carriage's door, a scowl drawing lines across her forehead. "Lady Celia, please come back inside. This is not the thing for young ladies," she called, her gaze narrowing. "You will see us both to ruin."

"Come along, my lady," the coachman urged her to accept a hand up into the conveyance.

Celia stiffened her back and turned her nose up at them. "I shall not cower within the coach and pray for a good outcome. I am responsible for this debacle and I intend to be part of the solution as well." She turned her gaze back to the wheel. The mud encasing it reached halfway up the spokes. Still, she refused to admit defeat. Instead, she picked up her skirts and stepped into the mud. "Perhaps we can push it free?" She said, determination laced through her voice.

She moved to the back of the coach, then placed her hands flush against the boot, allowing the moisture to soak through her gloves and her skirts to rest against the rain-soaked ground.

"My lady!" The coachman exclaimed.

"Lady Celia!" Rosie gasped at nearly the same time as she alighted from the coach.

Two outriders stepped forward, their brows knitted with concern. "Allow us."

The coachman joined them. "Indeed, return to the coach, and we will work to lose the wheel." The coachman stared at her, his gaze imploring.

"Please," Rosie begged, her gaze softening.

Celia released a sigh and stepped back a few feet. "Oh, very well, but we will watch from here. Your work will be easier without the burden of our added weight."

Satisfied, leastwise, for now, the men set about their task.

Rosie came to stand beside Celia, her fingers curled into her cloak, holding it tight about her. "I told you this was a bad idea. In fact, it has become disastrous. The duke will be furious." Rosie shook her head. "I wager he will dismiss me at once."

"Nonsense," Celia pressed her lips together and pulled in a deep breath. "My brother will not hold you accountable for my actions."

After all, he was well acquainted with Celia's antics. She'd wager he would only be furious with her.

Rosie shook her head. "I daresay he will. You have gone too far this time and he will hold me to account?—"

"Look." Celia interrupted Rosie's fit, then grinned as the carriage rocked forward, her expression crumbling as it settled back into the mud. "Drat, but I thought they had it dislodged. Surely they almost succeeded." She stepped toward the carriage. "Come help, Rosie. With a bit more strength, we can free the wheel and be on our way. The duke need not know what happened here."

"He'll know. Mark my words, he will." Rosie wrapped her cloak tighter about herself. "You were told to remain in London. The moment you fail to arrive at Lord and Lady Froth's ball, he'll know what you've done."

Celia ignored her companion and joined the men at the back of the carriage. Of course, Charles would learn that she had left London. Celia did not fret about that. What she meant to keep from her brother was the debacle she currently found herself in. He could not scold her as thoroughly if she reached her destination without incident.

The coachman turned his disapproving gaze on her. "My lady, you must not?—"

"I'll have none of it," Celia said, her tone brooking no argument. She put her hands flush against the conveyance and ordered, "Push!"

Her heart soared when the coach rocked forward, but it was a short-lived joy as it quickly settled back into the mud. Not to be dissuaded, she said, "Again, with all your strength."

After several attempts, she released a frustrated breath. They needed Rosie's help. Dropping her hands from the coach, she pivoted toward her companion. The mud enveloped her left foot, and she lost her balance. A nearby outrider stopped her descent, but not before her knees met the saturated ground.

"My lady!"

"I am fine. Do not fret," Celia said, allowing him to help her back to her feet. Irritation thick in her voice, Celia peered at Rosie. "Come help, this instant."

To her amazement, Rosie did not protest, and soon the entire group worked to push the coach free of its muddy confines.

Celia's muscles quaked with effort as she braced her feet against the slippery earth and concentrated all of her strength into pushing the coach. "Do not stop," she ordered. "Push."

"What have we here?" A masculine voice interrupted her concentration.

Celia looked toward the newcomer, hoping he would be of help. Her gaze landed on glossy black fur-covered legs. Charles! Her goose was cooked for sure. She squared her shoulders and prepared to defend herself to her brother as she moved her gaze up over the horse's chest and neck to the rider.

Her eyes rounded, then she peered at the man.

The man was not Charles—not even close.

He was broad of shoulder, with deep green eyes and hair the same inky shade as his horse. She swallowed hard.

Rosie nudged her with her elbow, snapping Celia out of her shocked state.

Celia forced a bright smile. "Good day. I am afraid my coach has gotten stuck in the mud."

"So it would seem." The stranger arched a dark brow. "And you are attempting to push it free?" He continued, amusement dancing in his eyes.

"We nearly succeeded," Celia said, glancing back at the forlorn faces of her servants. "Perhaps you could lend us your strength, Mr…." Her smile grew wider in an attempt to charm the stranger.

He studied the mud-locked wheel for long heartbeats before bursting into laughter.

Furious, Celia turned back to the coach and pushed again. If the scoundrel did not wish to help, then so be it! She did not need him. "Rosie, Herman, Conrad, all of you, help me push." She ordered, but not a one came forward to help.

Instead, a firm hand clamped onto her shoulder. "You are only making it worse. Your horses, and I daresay, your servants, are exhausted."

She spun on the stranger. "You are most vexing, sir. You said you would not help, and yet, you remain. Be on your way if you would be so kind."

"I said I would not help push the coach, for doing so is only digging the wheel deeper into the mud." He waved a hand at the wheel, which was now close to halfway buried in the mud. "I will wager that when you started this fruitless endeavor, it was not so bad?" He arched a questioning brow.

"Listen, Mr…"

"Lord Jasper Crawford," he drawled. "Marquess Crawford, to be exact." He swept into a bow. "And who are you? A lady based on the cut and style of your garments. A milkmaid based on your muddy hem and mussed hair. I must confess that I am intrigued?"

"What you are is intolerable," she seethed even as she noticed how strikingly handsome he was. "I will not allow you to insult me and waste my time. Either lend your help or be on your way."

"Ah, a lady it is." He grinned, his eyes seeming to lighten several shades as he studied her. "I would like to know exactly who I am lending my assistance to." He rocked back on his heels, then added, "If you would be so kind."

Wary of the entire situation, Celia surpassed her frustration and answered, "Very well. I am Lady Celia Kendal, sister to the Duke of Selkirk. Now come help us push." She pivoted back to the coach.

"Not a chance," Lord Crawford said.

Aghast, Celia spun back to him, her finger wagging at him as she yelled, "You scoundrel! You never intended to help. You no good?—"

"I have a better way," he said, interrupting her tirade. "A solution that will actually solve your problem."

"Out with it then," she snapped.

"My estate is just up the road. I shall take you there to freshen up and rest, then return with more men, shovels, and fresh horses. Before you know it, your coach will be free, and you will be on your way to…." He narrowed his eyes. "Where are you traveling to?"

"Selkirk Park, my brother's country estate, and I will not be leaving with you," she crossed her arms over her chest. "Not without my companion and outriders."

"So you do have a care for your reputation. How unfortunate, as I am certain we could have a great deal of fun together." He gave a rakish grin, sending a pleasant wave of shivers racing up her spine.

Before she could offer a retort, Lord Crawford turned to her servants and issued a string of orders. To Celia's amazement, they did his bidding, and fast.

Before she knew what had happened, the horses were untethered, and Rosie was seated before one outrider. The remaining outriders had trunks and valises resting across their thighs. She looked at Lord Crawford, and her mouth went dry. Surely the man did not expect her to ride with him.

"Come along," he said, taking her by the waist and lifting her onto his stallion.

She released an involuntary shriek at his heavy handedness. Celia pressed her lips together to stop herself from protesting further. As vexing as the man was, he could not be expected to walk. Nor could she ask him to act as a servant and haul luggage. If she left her belongings behind, highway men were likely to relieve her of them before anyone returned, and they did not have saddles for the coach horses. Even if they did, the beasts were exhausted.

Celia inhaled a deep breath and notched her chin up, holding her head high.

She could tolerate a brief ride in Lord Crawford's company. Indeed, she could. In fact, she may even enjoy it.

Not his company, for he was a foul man. But the idea of having his body close to hers was not all together unwelcome. After all, he was a prime specimen-broad and strong and handsome. Yes, she rather thought she might enjoy the experience, and so she did not fuss when he mounted behind her and wrapped one muscular arm about her waist.

Celia glanced back at the coach as they rode away. God willing, she would return to it before long. If she could make Yorkshire before Charles returned to London and discover her missing, she would win. Otherwise, he would catch her along the way and force her to return.

Once she made Yorkshire—she would be home, and nothing could force her back to London. Not even her brother, the all powerful duke, could force her hand. She let out a little sigh of contentment.

"Rest," Lord Crawford whispered near her ear.

Liquid fire spread through Celia as she sank against him and closed her eyes. His body pressed to hers, proving to feel every bit as wonderful as she'd suspected it might. Come what may, Charles could never find out about any of this. Agreeing with Rosie that Celia had gone too far this time, he would force Celia to marry or lock her away.

But what Charles did not know could not hurt her.

This would be her secret adventure. Innocent and somehow a little wicked at the same time.