Chapter One

In Which the Sunshine and Beauty of the Forest Reveals more than Birds’ Nests…

Miss Cherry Trease took a deep breath of the fresh, clean morning air, and sent a heartfelt prayer of thanks to the skies above. She was no longer in London.

No clatter of carriages, shouting of vendors, calls of newsboys, or hustle and bustle of street traffic in general, disturbed her present tranquillity. She could breathe deeply without inhaling the distinct stench of the Metropolis, which had turned her stomach a time or two.

And wasn’t that fresh air just wonderful?

Certainly her Mama was disappointed that she’d shown no interest in the city, or any of its residents. Those she’d met were mostly acceptable, although some of her contemporaries were distressingly giggly, always fluttering their eyelashes at any gentleman they considered eligible.

Cherry privately thought they looked more like they had something in their eyes. How could such twitches be considered attractively flirtatious? She’d done her best to ignore it, except for the time she had offered a handkerchief to one young lady at a ball, with the blunt comment that perhaps it might help remove whatever was making it itch.

Not the sort of remark to endear her to the girl in question, or her companions.

No, London wasn’t the right place for Cherry, and her Mama was sensible enough to see it. With her oldest brother Ashe now happily engaged to the adorable Miss Florinda Boothe, Lady Hazel had been able to pack up their bags and remove them from town. Ashe would stay in a smaller lodging for a while, doing all sorts of engaged things with his fiancée, and preparing for their future. Soon they’d set a date, and then there would be even more things to do, none of which appealed to her. She’d be better off out of the way, and her future sister-in-law would probably appreciate that sentiment, being a practical sort herself.

Cherry liked Florinda, sensing a determination in her that closely matched her own. She’d welcome her when the time came, but hoped it would be many years before Ashe stepped into their Papa’s role as Viscount.

By then, she would have her own future settled, she hoped.

Not that anyone at Forest Grange knew that Miss Cherry Trease had already planned out her life in great detail, of course, because if a hint of her goals reached either of her parents? Well, they’d not be best pleased.

Her Mama was convinced that a good marriage was the foundation for happiness and success in life. A logical assumption, since that was exactly the route her own life had taken.

She was settled, clearly very fond of her husband (and he of her), had a family that mostly liked each other, and a beautiful home in the country. The Treases were good landowners, always had been. So the estate was in good shape, both financially and agriculturally.

All nice and comfortable.

But not Miss Cherry Trease’s cup of tea at all.

But then again, nothing was. To the shock and profound astonishment of the entire family, Cherry announced that she would prefer coffee to tea in the mornings. And after lunch, in the middle of the afternoon, and even after dinner.

This, as one might imagine, threw panic and horror into the entire household at Forest Grange, and it had taken more than a month for her to persuade everyone that she had not lost her mind in London.

Now, at last, the cook knew how to prepare a pot for her, and isinglass chips had been added to the Viscount’s pantry specifically for his daughter. Coffee beans and their grinder regularly filled the kitchen with a not unpleasant fragrance, and before too long, what had been shock and disbelief had turned to an odd sort of pride.

Miss Cherry, ’twas said, was a unique young lady with tastes of her own. A fact which raised her above the tea-drinking ordinary-ness of the hoi polloi , in the opinion of the staff of Forest Grange.

Not that anyone really noticed, since the house itself was tucked neatly away from too many well-travelled roads. But still, it gave the housekeeper an elite edge over her nearest contemporary, Mrs Smythee, who ran Myrtle Manor for the Chalmers family.

A much smaller establishment than Forest Grange, of course, the manor was mostly used as a hunting box, or sometimes as a refuge for anyone desiring a bit of peace and quiet. It was rumoured to be haunted, but then again, most small, out of the way, buildings that had few occupants and a long history, were credited with some sort of ghost.

It made for more interesting conversations than the likely presence of woodworm in the skirting boards.

Cherry could see it sometimes, especially in the winter when the bare trees extended the vistas surrounding the grange, but mostly it was tucked on the far side of the woods, and only the odd curl of smoke in the sky would alert the Trease family to residents at Myrtle Manor.

It wasn’t visible now, nor was it in her mind as she strolled happily down the paths between thick trunks and masses of greenery that welcomed her with hushed whispers of affection.

She’d always felt an affinity with the forest, from the tiny curled newborn ferns to the largest and sturdiest oaks and pines. It offered solace, peace, and beauty; a far cry from the dust and dirt of London.

On this particular morning, she was going to see how her newly planted wildflowers were doing.

There had been some damage to the bank of one of the streams when an ancient willow had sadly succumbed to a heavy snowfall last winter. Now the tree was gone, but the bank was scarred, and would take a few years to resettle into its new configuration. Cherry had concluded that some yellow flag irises might help with the restoration of the site. They liked getting their feet wet, and would help other plants get a foothold.

Even though she knew her destination, she walked slowly, enjoying the sights and sounds of her beloved forest and woodland. Buttercups were everywhere, and she didn’t hesitate to pick a handful, holding their glorious blooms to her nose and inhaling the soft fragrance.

If she was better at distilling, she’d make her own perfume using them, but that wasn’t one of her skills, unfortunately.

She had tried with bluebells one spring. The result? Tully, the head gardener, had banned her from the small shed for life, after complaining that it had taken him a month to rid the place of insects and wasps, not to mention the stench of rotting plants.

A bitter blow at the time, but now just a sad memory. So on this particular morning, Cherry simply enjoyed the gentle scent of the miniature bouquet, especially when she discovered a few honeysuckle blooms on the vine clambering around some old bushes and added a sprig to her handful of flowers.

The sun peeked through the branches, warm on her shoulders, and she could not restrain the smile that curved her lips, even as her dark hair tangled a little under the passing tugs of a mischievous breeze.

How much more preferable a pastime this was than something useless she’d have been forced to do in London. Certainly there were parks, and many were quite lovely. But the formality of them disturbed her, as did the many other humans who chose to admire them in what to her seemed like huge crowds.

Breathing fresh air, stretching her legs, admiring the natural world around her—all these things were impossible in town, and for the umpteenth time she wondered why someone would choose to spend time in such a place, when nature offered perfection only a few miles away.

It was, to her, an unanswerable mystery.

The riverbank came into view, thrilling her with the tiny glimpses of yellow amongst the sharp tall leaves. The flags had taken, and from the looks of things, they were quite happy to be where they were. She paused, her heart happy, her mind content knowing that she’d made a tiny difference that would benefit her favourite place—her woods.

But after a few moments of appreciation, the music of the birds above her head encouraged her to move along, her steps accompanied by the delightful rustle of branches and leaves.

There was a spot she had found many years ago—she would rest there for a bit and let her thoughts run free.

A slight rise followed by a gentle dip lay tucked just off the path and in just the right place to catch the sun as it shone between two grand old oak trees. Surrounded by wild azaleas, it was private, beautiful, and the grass was softer here than anywhere else she knew.

She’d discovered it several years ago and knew it to be the perfect location for a few hours spent lazing with a book, or napping, or just spending time alone and thinking.

Cherry liked to think, which separated her from most of the other young women her age. But today those girls were the furthest thing from her mind.

She had the latest novel from an unknown author, “A Lady”, tucked under her arm. The first one she’d read had fascinated and intrigued her, offering a sharp, amusing, and accurate glimpse of society’s foibles. She was so looking forward to this newest one, hoping that it would meet or exceed the delights of the first one, titled “Sense and Sensibility.”

So, with a sense of eagerness, she strode up the path to the rise. And with a sudden chilling shock, found it already occupied.

There was a man lying on the grass, his eyes closed, his body unmoving.

Dear God. Was he dead ?

*~~*~~*

The sun was warm, the grass soft beneath him, and if he could have just twisted the throats of a few noisy birds to shut them up, the day would have been perfect.

Even his headache was receding, although he decided that actually opening his eyes to the bright sky above might not be the best of ideas quite yet.

Why, oh why, had he so horribly over-indulged the night before? And what on earth had possessed him to leave Myrtle Manor and toddle off into the woods just as the dawn broke?

God, he hadn’t been that drunk in Lord knows how many years. And he swore, at this moment, he’d never drink again.

But something had roused him—a touch, perhaps?

“ Ouch …” A foot. A foot was kicking him in the arm.

“You’re alive.”

“Of course I’m alive,” he grunted. “Stop bloody kicking at me.”

“You looked as if you could be dead, and don’t swear.”

A woman, naturally. Who the hell else would completely fail to respect the recovery phase of a true hangover?

He risked opening an eye, got half-blinded by the sun, and shut it again quickly. “Who are you?”

“More to the point, who are you and what are you doing sleeping in my private spot?”

He groaned. One of those women. “You’ve got your hands on your hips, haven’t you?”

Silence, broken only by the soft rustle of fabric.

He knew it. She was standing over him with her hands on her hips, about to give him a dressing down for doing nothing more terrible than taking a nap on some lovely smooth grass.

“I have not,” she lied. “Anyway, even if I did, it would make not one jot of difference to the fact that you have no business being here. Now go away.”

“This is a forest, and as such open to anyone.” he huffed, turning slightly away from her. “And I’m trying to enjoy a quiet rest. Since I was here first, I think you should go away.”

“Hah.”

Garrett DeVarne sighed, sat up, and rubbed his hands over his face. God, he needed a shave.

Then he looked up. “Who the blazes are you? You’re not from the Manor…”

She was outlined by the sun, her features shadowed, but he could make out tumbled curls and a light gown, transparent muslin overdress, perhaps.

“You’re from Myrtle Manor?” Her question was sharp-edged, asked in a tone that was far from curious. More “i f you answer incorrectly, I’m quite capable of disposing of you with the large knife I am holding concealed within my skirts .”

He sighed, and struggled to his feet, happy to realise that his head was actually going to stay atop his neck, and the worst of the pounding headache that had sent him in search of silent solace had receded.

“Yes,” he answered, finally getting a look at his inquisitor. “I am presently staying at Myrtle Manor. Not that it’s any of your business, of course, but Sir Harry Chalmers is a close friend of mine and last time I looked, he owned it.”

She was facing him now, and he blinked as he saw her features clearly.

Beautiful blue eyes glared, her countenance betraying her irritation. Dark curls tumbled willy-nilly around a creamy neck, and that silken-looking skin led down to a pretty ruffle of ribbon and lace on her modest gown. It was stylish and elegant, even though clearly designed for casual daywear in the country. He had a good eye for fashion, though, thanks to his mother. And his inquisitor was wearing a very nice gown that had to have been designed just for her.

This was no country-miss, for certain.

His rapid appraisal had raised her chin, but before she could speak, he frowned. “Who, one might inquire in one’s turn, are you? And where the devil is your maid? You should not be tromping unescorted through the woods, young woman.”

Oh, that did it.

“How dare you, sir?” Her body straightened sharply, her expression cold.

He almost heard her teeth gnash together in temper. Delighted, he awaited the fury he could see brewing behind those lovely eyes.

“Let me inform you,” she began, “that you are addressing Miss Cherry Trease, of Forest Grange, daughter of Lord Hawthorn Trease, Viscount of Lesser Banthorpe. Our primary residence is less than a mile from here…” she tossed her head, “and this is our land.” Taunting him with narrowed eyes, she deliberately put her hands back on her hips. “So you , sir, are trespassing on Trease property.”

He bit his lip. He really fought for control to the point where he thought his ears might pop.

But to no avail.

His laugh rang out loudly across the little grassy space and into the thick woods surrounding them.

“Your name is Cherry Trease ?” He barely contained his chuckles. “Don’t tell me. It would complete my life if you have a brother named Fir…?”

It was no good. After his horrid hangover, his lovely nap in this bucolic garden of delights, and now a scolding from a beautiful young woman who bore the name of a tree…the absurdity of it all was all too much.

Ignoring her angry glare, he burst out laughing once more, shaking his head, and brushing tears of hilarity away from his face.

Finally, he calmed. “I do apologise, but you have to admit there’s a great deal of humour in this situation.”

Sadly, she didn’t seem to see any of it. Her gaze was frosty to the point where he wondered if his ears were icing over.

“You, sir, are an unpardonably rude wretch .” She gathered her skirts gracefully in one hand. “And you have completely spoiled what would have been a delightful morning. As it is, I shall no longer walk here until I have been assured you have left the area. So you may go ahead and sleep off whatever issues you had that brought you here in the first place.” She raised her chin even more. “I’ll wager they were caused by brandy.”

She spun on her heel, then paused and glanced scornfully back over her shoulder. “My oldest brother is named Ashe .”

With that parting shot, she strode away, leaving Garrett staring after her, wondering if he’d just been properly set-down by a Miss Cherry Trease who might or might not be a real person, or if he’d dreamed the entire episode.

If that was indeed the case, then he vowed to over-imbibe more often, since the vision he’d had was utterly charming, and he’d like more, especially if Miss Trease featured in ‘em…