Chapter One

A lady should always hold herself above scandal.

December 18, 1817

Near Windermere

Lake District, England

“Hold there!” The shout from one of the drivers preceded an ominous sharp snapping noise from the vicinity of the rear of the traveling coach. Followed by the even more concerning, “Hang on!”

Then a loud crack echoed through the silence. Seconds later, the traveling coach tilted drunkenly to the left, and she slid across the bench to slam against the side of the vehicle.

Lady Lydia Kingston—for that was part of the persona she’d fashioned for herself four years ago by necessity—braced herself, but when she tried to keep herself upright, the disabled coach lurched again, and this time she was thrown to the floorboards when it landed on its side. Clearly, something had gone terribly wrong. The intermittent snow and rain coupled with the rutted and oftentimes muddy roads, it wasn’t unexpected.

In all her eight and twenty years, she’d never had a carriage or coach disabled, but then, she wasn’t that seasoned of a traveler. In fact, the only place she had ever been was London. She was from the Lake District. Her father had been a hunting guide for highflyers in the beau monde . He used to take parties out into the Highlands during every hunting season, and thus there were weeks when he’d hardly been home. Her mother had been a Scottish baker in the town of Ambleside, and according to family lore, she’d enchanted Lydia’s father the second he’d laid eyes on her.

Of course, that was her real history, not the bit of fiction she’d wrapped around herself like a shield, in an effort to remain safe. Still, it was a story of love and romance she aspired to in her life, and it hadn’t yet happened for her.

Perhaps it never would at this rate, when she was essentially living in hiding.

Living in Town as an alleged lady of the beau monde had been a bit absurd, but it had always brought worry to her every time she went out into society. During that time, apparently no one had thought to check her history or her claims, but then, so many times, people were lazy and many believe what they had been told. Especially when the lies were given with such confidence there was no cause to doubt them.

For all intents and purposes, she’d still been married, bounder though he was, so she didn’t try to call attention to herself from the opposite sex. If a chap happened too close, she kept him at arm’s length. The last thing she’d wanted was another man, even if she’d been interested in an affair, but since her husband had soured her on trusting any of them, it was simply better to play up the story she’d put out of being an unwanted spinster.

Shouts from the drivers outside yanked Lydia from her thoughts. Fighting off the lap blanket and in a flurry of skirting, she awkwardly righted herself the best she could inside the sideways coach. “Someone help! I’m stuck inside!”

“Once we unhitch the horses, we’ll come for you, my lady!” the first driver called out.

She nodded though the men obviously couldn’t see the gesture. Her hair had come loose from some of their pins. Locks of the dark tresses tumbled down around her shoulders, but her fingers were too cold to try and restore her usually put together appearance. Long ago, her husband had said she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He’d plied her with compliments and endearments, showered her with gifts, all to ensnare her, but six months after they were wed, he changed, or rather, he’d returned to the horrid man he’d always been.

And she’d been too stupid to realize it.

Gathering her reticule from the upended floor, she wrapped the strings about her wrist. Because she was forever wary due to her past, some of her valuables had been sewn into the hem of the traveling dress she wore as well as the collar of her cloak. It had been one of the only ways to keep her meager pieces of jewelry or the coin she had away from her reprobate husband at the time.

Old habits died hard.

Not that she didn’t trust the drivers, but she didn’t know them. Seen them about Town, surely, for her finishing school was located in Mayfair, but she wasn’t acquainted personally with them, and why would she be? Daughters of earls didn’t hold court with coach drivers.

Long moments went by where she couldn’t hear much conversation between the two men. There were a few loud thumps from the rear of the disabled vehicle, some muffled directives she couldn’t hear properly, followed by the whinny of horses.

With a sigh, she attempted to glance out the window, but since the coach had tipped onto its side, the only thing she saw clearly was the overcast sky and a few winter-bare branches of trees at the roadside. Banging on the side wall, she called out again. “Please help me out!”

“In one moment, my lady,” the second driver responded.

Truly, these two were not very efficient. Since there was nothing to do except wait, Lydia retreated into her thoughts.

Over the handful of years that she’d run the finishing school, she’d comprised a list of twenty rules every young lady should learn before she graduated. The first being: a lady should always hold herself above scandal.

If there were ever a rule to break, she’d probably broken it—especially that one—but since she had never been a lady to begin with… No, society being what it was, rules were in place to control women. Of that she was certain. No matter what class males landed in, they could act as they pleased, indulge in whatever scandalous act or vice they wanted, and nothing was said, yet if a woman stumbled into trouble, she was immediately branded fast, loose, sullied, or a pariah, with all the punishments society could hand down.

It didn’t matter if said woman had done everything correctly within the bounds of those societal rules, they were still punished for those decisions. That was when she’d taken matters into her own hands. Fearing that she wouldn’t have the chance to meet any of her dreams, she’d left her abusive husband and had fled to London. Not once had she regretted that decision.

Until last week.

The only living soul she’d told of her new direction—one of her mother’s friends from the bakery—had written to her and enclosed a letter from a solicitor telling her that her reprobate husband had died and that the cottage they’d lived in had been left in her name though his brother was challenging that decision. He’d also said that if she wanted any of the personal belongings within the dwelling or if she wished to sell the property, she needed to return to the Lake District and at least sign paperwork that would give him permission to take care of that in her stead.

Though the last thing she wished to do was travel to the Cumbrian region of England during the Christmastide season, there was nothing for it. She’d closed the finishing school so her students could spend the next few weeks with their families, and since she wouldn’t be afforded another clear time on her schedule until the end of the next term, she was determined to finally close that chapter of her life.

Except there was every possibility she could be stranded in this forsaken stretch of country due to the disabled coach, and that meant her schedule would fall to pieces. That was unacceptable; she didn’t enjoy not being in control.

When the door above her head opened, she was once more thrust back into reality.

“Give me your hand, my lady.” The driver’s head appeared in the gap. “I’ll pull you out.”

“Thank you.” When she followed instructions, the driver grasped her glove-covered hand. With a grunt, he tugged her up and out of the coach then handed her down to the other driver who waited on the ground. At some point, the snow they’d started with had changed to a light rain, and coupled with the cold temperatures, it made for miserable moments outside of the protection of the coach. “Well, this isn’t exactly better, is it?” With a shiver, she pulled the folds of her cloak more tightly about her.

The driver wouldn’t look her in the eye as he jumped down from the tipped coach. “It’s horrid enough, and the nearest village is nigh onto five miles away, or so Sam tells me.”

“Ah.” It certainly wasn’t a hardship to walk that length, but in the rain and fighting with the mud in the road, it would prove a miserable trip. An unfortunate situation to fit the whole reason why she was traveling to the Lake District in the first place. As she glanced about, she saw her trunks and bags spilled out onto the road. What was more, they’d been opened, the contents rifled through, and others dumped out onto the ground. “What happened to my luggage?”

Sam, the second driver, joined them, and what was more, he had a pistol in his hand, trained on her. “Apologies, my lady, but since the axel is broken along with the wheel, we’ll lose our backs on this little venture, so we’re robbing you.”

The first driver nodded. “You made a mistake in traveling alone. Should have a man with you or at the least a maid.”

The second driver chuckled. “Not that we would have respected a maid either.”

“What?” Shock smacked into her chest as she bounced her gaze between the two of them, quickly followed by cold fear that twisted up her spine. “After everything you’ll rob me and leave me here?”

“Only way to recoup our losses,” the first driver said with a wry look. “Hand over your reticule, if you please.”

“What if I don’t please?” This was outside of enough, and exactly the reason she’d learned long ago to hide valuables in the hems of her clothes. Men were not to be trusted. Over the years since she’d fled from her bounder of a husband, she wondered if all men were reprobates or if she was just unlucky. Did she want another husband? That would largely depend on the man. When the drivers didn’t immediately answer her inquiry, she lifted an eyebrow. “Well?”

Sam gestured with the pistol. “I’m afraid it won’t be good.”

With a huff of annoyance, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts. Being bossed by men had grown tiring long ago. “The reticule is all I have.” Neither of them needed to know that was an untruth, yet there were still things inside it would pain her to lose.

“We can’t help that, my lady.” This from the first driver.

She stood her ground and huffed. “My answer is firmly no.”

The men looked at each other then shrugged.

It was Sam who answered. “We’ll take it by force.”

Everything happened quickly after that. The first driver—whose name she never knew—sprang at her. She fought against his hold, but Sam yanked the reticule from her wrist, which resulted in a scratch from the strings being tangled. Further struggling resulted in receiving more than a few bruises. Angry, she went after Sam. Unfortunately, that man was more cunning than his partner, for he lashed out with the pistol, caught the side of her head, the temple specifically, with the butt of the weapon.

Pain exploded inside her head. She stumbled backward, landing on her arse in the muddy road. Thank goodness for the cloak that kept the worst of the damp from her skirting. As she stared up at the two men, her vision wavered in and out as consciousness drifted.

“Stop. You can’t leave me here…” Alone and injured and completely without resources.

Of course the drivers turned thieves didn’t heed the order. With a bulging pack slung over one of the horse’s backs, they never once looked at her. Not only had they stolen some of her personal things, but they’d also taken the coin she’d offered to drive her to the Lake District to begin with.

As the effort of remaining somewhat upright became too much for her jumbled sense, she tumbled to her side on the wet, muddy road. Reaction set in and made her stomach shiver with fear and alarm. Once again, the violent actions of a man put her in a vulnerable position. She couldn’t help but watch with darkening vision as the former drivers mounted the horses and then road off in the direction the coach had been heading, leaving her with the disabled coach that loomed like a giant dead beetle nearby.

Why did she have such trouble with men in her life, even on the periphery? Is it too much to ask that I meet a man who is the same as he portrays to the outside world? That he is as good and honorable as I have always dreamed?

Eventually, remaining conscious became too much, and with a pain-filled whimper, Lydia slipped into the void. At least there she wouldn’t feel the pain or the cold.

By the time she came to awareness again, it was to the feeling of rain on her face as well as the sensation of someone gently tapping her cheeks.

“Miss? Miss? Can you hear me?”

The deep, soothing timbre of a male voice rang in her ears, but there was enough residual pain banging around her head from being hit with the butt of her driver’s pistol that she couldn’t quite concentrate on what was happening.

When she opened her eyes and a face swam into vision, she couldn’t make sense of it. What was such a man doing here, in the middle of nowhere, kneeling on the muddy road next to her? For that matter, how had he even found her?

“Can you speak? Are you well?” Concern threaded through the cool, commanding tones as he continued to tap her cheek with gloved fingers. Then his features became clearer, and she couldn’t help but stare. “How long have you been lying here?”

“I… I don’t know,” she finally managed to whisper, for all her concentration was focused on studying his face.

Dark brown hair, styled in a popular fashion, had the tendency to curl, making him all the more attractive. Intense blue eyes with a darker blue ring around the iris bored in hers with questions shadowing those cool depths. Sensual lips had downturned with a frown, but she had a feeling he was one of those men who could make brooding look attractive. Even though the light rain softly falling on her face was annoying and the smell of mud vomit-inducing, the faint scent of his shaving soap or cologne wafted to her nose from such close quarters, and she turned her head toward him to better get another whiff of that evergreen, mint, and snow aroma. The hint of dark stubble that clung to his cheeks and jaw fascinated her so much that she lifted a hand, hoping to feel that roughness, only to recall she wore gloves and have him catch that hand in his.

Remarkably, he chuckled, and the sound reverberated deep in her chest. “Was that answer in regard to how you feel or your current circumstances?” He traced her cheek and temple with a fingertip. “There is a bruise forming here and the skin has been broken slightly. The blood has already clotted, so you’ve been here at least a couple of hours.”

How dreadfully embarrassing to know that no one had come along this stretch of road in that long and that she’d laid here crumpled in a heap while it rained. Heat filled her cheeks. When she attempted to sit up, the world spun around her, and she groaned. “My head aches. So does my cheek. And there is a bit of dizziness.”

“I’ll wager it does.” He held her propped against his chest. “From the looks of the disabled coach over there and belongings strewn about, I’ll wager you were robbed.”

She snorted in derision, but that made her head ache all the more. “By my drivers. One pulled a pistol on me, and when I fought against having my reticule taken, he hit me.” She raised a hand to explore the tender area with her fingertips, but couldn’t feel anything through the gloves and the numbness. A shiver ripped down her spine. “I’m quite cold.”

“That settles it. You need to ride with me and my daughter.” Then the man grinned, and her world suddenly went topsy turvy, which had nothing to do with her head injury.

“I couldn’t possibly impose. Let me find my own way.”

“Alone?” He shook his head. “Come. Let me help you to stand. Once you are warm and settled, we will make plans.” Seconds after he struggled to his feet, he extended a hand to her.

Wary but bemused, Lydia slipped her fingers into his palm. In no time, she was pulled upright, but another round of lightheadedness assailed her, and she stumbled. “Oh, dear.” The feeling of falling fell over her, but before she could tumble back into the mud, he scooped her up in his arms, heedless of her dirty state that would soon mar the pristine condition of his dark gray greatcoat.

“You are in no condition to go anywhere, so I am making the decision to take you to wherever your destination lies. Or to the nearest posting inn so you can make other plans.” When his gaze crashed into hers, a powerful gale blew against the gates she’d built around herself for protection. “Consider it my gift to you this Christmastide. If you believe in such miracles.”

“Uh, I do not, but thank you for this boon. I was in need of a rescue.”

But could she trust him? Only time would tell.