Chapter One

Blythe

Wrexford Park

Early Summer 1812

Growing up, becoming a functioning human being in an altogether relentless and trying world, is just as much a choice as it is a process. And the last time I saw Briggs Goswick, he was well on his way to becoming a certified man-child.

I can only assume that in the four years that have since passed, he has achieved that status. He must be someone unimaginably intolerable—certainly not the kind of gentleman who warrants my entire family contemplating what kind of pudding to serve at the sure-to-be-insufferable dinner party being held in his honor.

I have been sitting in Uncle Henry’s lavender drawing room at Wrexford Park for thirty-three minutes— thirty-three minutes —listening to my uncle and cousin Charlotte debate the merits of chocolate or the downfalls of boysenberry. Briggs Goswick has been in London for several months, apparently, settling his late father’s estate, and now we must celebrate his homecoming to Brumbury as the master of Mistlethrush Hall with nothing less than the perfect dinner party.

He arrives tomorrow.

Hooray.

Apparently, I am the only one dreading his return. My mother makes spirited menu suggestions to Charlotte from across the room. My sister, Amy, asks a multitude of questions about what Mr. Goswick has been up to since last we saw him. My other cousin, Julian, discusses the flower arrangements with Mrs. Sullivan, the housekeeper, and I can tell she’s impressed with his ample knowledge of flora.

He offers me an exaggerated eye roll once Mrs. Sullivan turns her back, as if to suggest her taste in floral arrangements leaves much to be desired, but I know he loves coming to Wrexford Park more than Amy does, even. It’s a pleasant distraction from everything that troubles us at home at Awendown House.

I wish that Papa would have joined us rather than stay behind worrying about the debts that accrue seemingly overnight.

“What about a trifle?” Charlotte suggests. The room all nods, murmuring their absolute delight at the prospect of trifle. But what flavor? What indeed ?

I cannot indulge in this for one more second.

I rise slowly, so as not to draw attention to my eventual retreat, but the eyes of all my Barlow ancestors seem to tsk-tsk at me from their gilded frames.

Eat a bad prawn, Great Aunt Frances?

Charlotte turns to me. “Blythe, do you like trifle?”

“As much as I love trifle,” I reply, slowly backing toward the door and pretending to admire the many portraits of ancestors who have passed, “the real question you should be asking is whether or not Mr. Goswick likes trifle. Moreover, is he sick of trifle? What if all he’s had in London is trifle, and he wishes for a change of dessert as well as a change of scenery? Then what, I ask?”

“Oh, Blythe, you are so astute!” exclaims Charlotte, shaking her head. “Father, we never even considered Mr. Goswick’s preferences, and it’s his party. How thoughtless of us.”

“How will we know what he’s had in London?” Uncle Henry asks, a tinge of panic in his voice. “How will we ascertain that information? Is it too late? I told you we should have started to plan sooner, Charlotte. I knew this would all be in vain!”

I step backward, slowly, quietly, and reach my right hand out for my book on the sideboard. In the great hall, I make a dash across the black-and-white tile floor for the kitchens, sneak one of the apples that Cook planned to bake this evening, and with a quick whiff of cinnamon and sugar, I burst from the confines of Wrexford Park and out into the glorious summer sunshine. I close my eyes, grinning up at the clear blue summer sky. Freedom, finally.

Weaving my way through the paths of the formal gardens, I break from the pruned hedges, over the green hills, and through the horse pasture, my skirts becoming tangled in the tall, tall grass.

Several of Uncle Henry’s bays roam the fields, looking up briefly from their cropping of the grass and allowing me to make myself comfortable below the shade of the ancient oak. I open my book right to where I left off last night, spreading it across my lap, my back propped against the broad trunk of the tree, and read in blissful silence.

Charlotte suggested this book. Said she couldn’t put it down while on her trip to the seaside, and it is just the sort of read that Charlotte would find enthralling. Handsome knights on stallions, roaming over hill and moor on dark and stormy nights, all to avenge the honor of their fair maiden. Of course, I do love it, too, though I’d never admit that to my cousin. I’d never admit that to anyone , actually. While romance may have bloomed in me as a lovestruck adolescent, I’ve been pricked by its underlying thorns before. Better to read about romance in private than allow anyone to think I’m still enthralled by its appeal in real life.

I take a bite of my crisp apple and sigh. At least I have Sir Garrett to woo me for the afternoon, and he certainly comes with significantly fewer complications than any real gentleman I’ve ever met. Like the kind Briggs Goswick brings with him. Lord, I cannot believe that upon my first trip to Wrexford Park in almost a year, he of all people has to show up. But I cannot let his looming return ruin my day. I’ll deal with his presence when I’m forced to.

For a few minutes, I take in the serenity of my current setting, the chirping birds darting from the oak tree above me to the forest line just a few yards away, the snuffle of the companionable horses, and the rustling of the leaves as the breeze sifts through the branches. All my concerns over the return of my nemesis and my father’s financial woes melt away as I find myself sucked into the story. If I didn’t know any better, I would swear I could hear the thundering of Sir Garrett’s noble steed.

I glance up at my equine companions, but they still munch peaceably on the grass, occasionally offering me a contented snort.

But still, the clamor of hooves grows closer. I place my book, face flat, on the ground beside me, then brush the dirt and dust off my skirts and shade my eyes with my hand to see more clearly. Becoming larger with every moment, a beautiful, dappled gray horse gallops toward the wooden slat fence that separates the pastures. Its rider is certain, leaning forward, calling out encouragingly, but once the creature reaches the divider, it skids to a sudden stop—and the rider goes flying over its head.

“Oh!” I cry, my heart pounding as I gather my skirts and race to where the gentleman lies sprawled out on my side of the fence. I kneel down beside him, skirts billowing in my haste. “Are you all right? Can you hear me?” I’m too afraid to touch him. What if he’s seriously hurt?

He doesn’t move. His eyes are pressed closed, his full lips parted, and his chest heaves with exertion. He has serious brows and dramatic cheekbones, a determined chin, and the slope of his eyes is gentle and smooth. A single lock of thick, mahogany hair falls down along his forehead. Clothing, impeccable. Boots, tall and shiny.

He is, quite certainly, the most handsome gentleman I have ever seen in my entire life, and conversely, he is, quite certainly, Briggs Goswick.