Chapter One

Staffordshire, England

October 1815

Nick Forester loved a good adventure as much as the next man, but despite Miss Barton's thrilled insistence that they were bound to be set upon by a highwayman, he hardly considered waiting on the edge of the road an adventure. Nearly an hour in and they still hadn't managed to get the coach unstuck from the mud.

He was tired, thirsty, and covered in mud, and the blasted woman had been talking almost nonstop since leaving London. It was enough to make him consider remaining a bachelor for the whole of his life. Surely not every woman in the world was like Miss Barton; otherwise, he would most certainly remain single for lack of a worthy partner. True, he had been searching for a wife for years, and the unending loneliness of being on his own wasn't something he wished on his worst enemy. But at least on his own he could hear himself think.

Unlike now.

"Can't you just picture him riding in from the woods there?" Miss Barton said, pointing with a flourish to a tiny copse of bare trees that hardly offered an ounce of shade, let alone enough cover for a bandit. The landscape was wide and open, fields stretching out for miles beneath gray and gloomy skies.

"Doubtful," Nick said. He stretched his legs out where he sat on a fallen log, hoping his curt response would end her fantasy.

She was not dissuaded from continuing. "On his black horse, of course."

"Of course," he grumbled.

"With his pistols blazing."

"I do not think you understand how pistols work, Miss Barton."

"Oh, hush." She giggled, batting her eyes at him. "Would you rescue me, Mr. Forester?"

Nick knew she was testing him, trying to see how far she could push the lines before he finally gave in to her temptations. He had considered it once, but this journey from London had been enough to prove how incompatible the two of them truly were. She was beautiful and moderately wealthy, with a good name and family behind her, but if he tried to picture the rest of his life with Catherine Barton at his side, the whole scenario made him shudder in horror and consider hopping onto a ship to the Americas. He could start a new life on a farm, and all his problems would be solved.

He grimaced. If he thought he was lonely now...

Gritting his teeth, he tried not to sound at all interested in Miss Barton as he said, "If the occasion called for rescue, I suppose I would."

"You are a gentleman through and through, I see! It is a wonder you haven't married long before now. Has no lady taken your fancy, sir?" She batted her eyelashes again, as if her simpering smile would be enough to induce him to propose right there on the spot.

Rather than giving in to her obvious wishes, Nick stood in order to put some distance between them.

He had done his best to ignore the other passengers of the coach, a Mr. and Mrs. Franks, who were neighbors of Miss Barton and acting as her escorts. They had been happy to accompany her for propriety's sake, as her parents were required to return to their home in Suffolk instead of traveling with her to her cousin's. But now the Frankses were both watching Nick with uncertainty as they huddled together for warmth inside the coach with Miss Barton's maid. The weather had taken a definite turn since they'd left London, the skies threatening more rain after a night of downpour, and Nick was rather convinced that the only reason Miss Barton was not shivering like the rest was because her fast tongue kept her warm.

Still, if the expressions of the Frankses were to be believed, both of them considered Nick's indifference to be quite appalling. He would need to do something with Miss Barton, whether to encourage her or tell her he was not interested and likely never would be. As if that might persuade her to stop her pursuit.

"Miss Barton," he said with a sigh.

"Oh look! I do believe our driver is returning!" Miss Barton waved to the approaching wagon, where the coach's driver sat among several large men from the town a few miles up the road.

"Thank the heavens," Nick muttered.

Mr. Franks had complained of a poor back, and Nick and the coachman alone had been unable to push the coach free after it had stuck itself deep in the mud. The driver had offered to walk to the town in search of help, leaving Nick with the incorrigible Miss Barton and a pair of scandalized onlookers. He should have gone with the coachman, but he had realized as much too late.

"Everybody out, please," the coachman said as he hopped down from the wagon, and he offered his hand for Mrs. Franks and Miss Barton's maid.

Within five minutes Nick and the four townsmen managed to free the coach and get it back onto solid ground, and everyone clambered back inside the coach in the hopes of finding some warmth from the chill autumn air.

Everyone except Nick. And, of course, Miss Barton.

"Oh, do help me, Mr. Forester," she said, gesturing to the minuscule amount of mud still underfoot. "I would hate to dirty my hem before we arrive at Harstone Court."

Why Lord Harstone had thought to invite Miss Barton for a visit, Nick would never know. Nor would he ever comprehend his own decision to accompany her to Staffordshire, where his old friend lived, rather than making the journey on his own. The thought of sharing the fare had been far too tempting, and he was too poor a rider to risk taking a horse on his own. But surely he had not been so blind as to think a journey of this sort would make him like Miss Barton more after her many attempts to convince him they would make a good match.

Nick cursed himself as he considered that thought. Of course he was blind. His entire future rested on securing himself a wife, and he rejected more and more prospects every week. His options were running thin, and Miss Barton was one of the few he hadn't yet rejected outright, despite having met her several years ago.

She knew this as well as he did, which explained her tenacity.

"Miss Barton," he said with a slight bow of his head, then offered his arm. When she didn't move beyond widening her grin, he gritted his teeth and reminded himself that she was as much a guest of Lord Harstone as he would be, and it would hardly do to make her an enemy before they even arrived at their destination. That would certainly make the next few weeks unbearable, far from what he hoped for.

This visit was supposed to give him some moments of peace, away from the pressures of London Society, where everyone knew he was on the hunt for a wife.

"If you'll allow me," he growled, then slid a hand behind Miss Barton's back. She responded in turn and wrapped both arms around his neck so he could lift and carry her to the waiting coach.

"Oh, you are too kind," she whispered in his ear, sending a shudder down his back that had nothing to do with the October chill.

Miss Barton was going to be the death of him, he was sure. As he settled into his seat next to her, he closed his eyes so he would not have to endure her sickeningly sweet smiles and batting eyelashes. He could survive a few days with her if it meant he could be away from the rest of London. Compared to some of the husband hunters who had attacked him over the last couple of Seasons, Miss Barton was as tame as a lamb.

The woman did not stop talking for the next two hours, however, and even Mrs. Franks was grimacing as if she thought walking would be an agreeable alternative to being trapped in the coach with Miss Barton. Somehow Mr. Franks had managed to fall asleep just like Miss Barton's maid, who must have grown accustomed to her lady's unstoppable tongue, and Nick envied the pair of them.

He would never sleep with Miss Barton prattling on like this.

"And do you remember at Lord and Lady Lucas's ball?" Miss Barton said, though the only reason Nick even comprehended her words was because she'd touched his arm and made him flinch.

"I do not believe I attended that one," he said. That was a lie. He had attended every event since returning to London in June. It was the only way he might find a suitable wife.

"Nonsense," Miss Barton replied.

Well, he had tried, but she was more intelligent than most of the ton and would not be so easily deceived. There was one point in her favor.

"You danced with Miss Newman twice that night."

And more observant as well, apparently.

If Mrs. Franks had fallen asleep like her husband had, Nick might have been a little harsher with Miss Barton, but their aging witness being very much awake meant he had to remain civil.

"Perhaps you are right, Miss Barton," he grumbled. "You seem to have a far better memory than I do."

Miss Newman had been quiet but charming, and Nick had looked at her more closely than he generally allowed himself. But, like so many others, she had fallen prey to the gossip that surrounded him and focused on the parts that were the most untrue. Namely, that he was wildly wealthy and influential. Two things he most certainly wasn't. Plus, she had somehow found out about the fortune he was set to inherit from an old friend of his father's. The unentailed lands had been promised to him years ago, as the man who owned them had no male relations to leave them to.

Nick clenched his jaw. Without that inheritance, he was lost. But without a wife, the inheritance would be lost. The whole thing was impossible.

"But surely you remember what happened with Sir Edgar," the incessant woman continued. "You know, when he challenged Mr. Platt to a duel?"

Under different circumstances, Nick might have kept his mouth shut and let her keep talking as she had been, but his patience had been pushed to the limit. Mrs. Franks or no, he could no longer sit and listen to the gossip of Town when he had been the subject of it himself for the last three years. Could people not concern themselves with their own business instead of bothering with his?

"Ah," he said, feigning thoughtfulness. "I do believe I know why I do not remember that evening. That was the night I challenged a man to a duel myself, and I was a bit too preoccupied with that to pay attention to anything else that happened that evening."

Miss Barton's eyes went wide. "You did not," she gasped.

"I most certainly did. You can ask Mr. Mansfield."

"I do not know Mr. Mansfield."

Nick forced himself not to smile and kept his expression grave. "Of course, even if you did, it would be difficult to ask him now, seeing as I shot him."

Mrs. Franks let out a gasp of her own, and Miss Barton pressed her fingers to her mouth.

Perhaps Nick had pushed this one a bit too far. He would need to backtrack before all of London believed him a murderer. They had believed much more sensational falsehoods about him, and it wouldn't surprise him to find the ladies only found him more intriguing than before. Everyone loved a dangerous rogue.

He had decided last summer that he needed to stop perpetuating all the lies that surrounded him, but that was turning out to be more difficult than he had imagined. Clearly his lying had become a habit, and he knew deep down that it would take more than his own power to clear the air of all the falsehoods that had followed him the last three years.

Now that he had committed to this duel nonsense, he supposed he might as well make the most of it.

"Oh, but rest assured," he said, "I did not kill him. My aim is not that true, no matter what people say. He simply had to return to his country estate for a time to, ah, recover."

"Were you hurt, Nicholas?" Miss Barton whispered and took hold of his arm.

Nick stared at her fingers, more concerned by the notion that she did not seem to care about the fictional Mr. Mansfield than the fact that she had just used his given name in public company. She had spoken his name once or twice before, but only when they were out of earshot of others, something Nick had done his best to avoid lately.

"I was unharmed," he said slowly. Would she still pursue him if she thought he had killed a man? Perhaps he would need to make such a claim if she did not give up her pursuit before long.

"Whyever would you challenge someone?" Mrs. Franks said suddenly, and then she winced when she realized she had not said that quietly.

Miss Barton quickly scooted back to a respectable distance as she released Nick's arm, which must have meant she had forgotten they were not alone. It was impressive, given the volume of Mr. Franks's snores.

Nick only just managed to hold back a wry smile. "Because he insulted my cravat," he said as seriously as he could.

Mrs. Franks's eyes widened behind her spectacles, and she drew a little nearer to her husband.

He knew he was being unfair, both to Mrs. Franks and Miss Barton, but he had endured three years of everyone assuming they knew all they needed to know about him. That had apparently pushed him to a breaking point. Why should they care that he hoped for a love match, not simply a marriage of convenience, when he was set to inherit the whole of Mr. Mackenzie's property despite not being his blood relative? Why should they care that he hated being the center of attention when a failed engagement had forced him onto Society's stage? He was not nobility, nor was he as wealthy as everyone seemed to think he was, but since then he had become one of the most talked-about men in England.

He had enjoyed the attention once, but he had recently come to realize that all he truly wanted was a comfortable life with a woman he loved and children to adore. He hardly needed people to believe him to be both a rogue and a hero, and at this point he couldn't predict which fantastic rumors a person might believe about him, which made it deucedly difficult to navigate Society. What good was notoriety when he spent every night alone in an empty apartment?

Though the coach had been quiet for some time, which was a welcome relief, Nick could feel Miss Barton's eyes on him. Mrs. Franks finally seemed to be succumbing to the same sleepiness as her husband and the maid, and that would leave Nick and Miss Barton practically alone.

"You grow more and more interesting by the day, Nicholas," she whispered.

Nick kept his eyes locked on the window and prayed they were almost to Tutbury. He wasn't sure how much longer he would last.