The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance (11 page)

A quick glance at the countryside showed that there were no barns or stables in sight.

Annabelle said, “We must just go on and hope the rain lets up. It is only a shower, no doubt, and the sun will soon be out again.”

The English weather answered this optimism with its usual reply, and no sooner had Annabelle finished speaking than the sky clouded over threateningly and transformed itself from blue to grey. The horses became skittish, and when a flash of lightning sent them rearing, it took all of Annabelle’s skill to hold them.

“It is no good, we cannot go on,” said Annabelle, shouting to make herself heard above the thunder.

“Look ahead! There!” said Caroline, who had been looking about them. She pointed through the pouring rain, which had rendered the summer afternoon as dark as night. “I can see a light!”

Annabelle saw an orange glow shining through the blackness and, hunching her shoulders against the rain, drove the horses cautiously onwards. They did not like the weather any more than she did. They tried to turn their heads against the wind but she held them true to their course.

To make matters worse, the road was slick with mud, and the curricle slid from side to side. She saw Caroline gripping her seat tightly with her hands.

“Don’t worry, I won’t overset you,” she said.

The glow became clearer as they moved forwards. To her relief, Annabelle saw that it was attached to an inn. The hostelry looked well cared for, with white walls showing up brightly against dark oak beams. It had a pretty thatched roof. A freshly painted sign proclaiming it to be the White Hart swung in the wind.

Annabelle guided the horses carefully into the yard. She gave a sigh of relief as she brought the curricle to a halt, for if they had been forced to go any further she was sure they would have had an accident.

The thunder rumbled overhead, making the horses dance, and a minute later the ostlers appeared and hurriedly took the horses out of the traces. Assuring Annabelle they would be well cared for, the ostlers led the horses off to the stables.

Another flash of lightning sent Annabelle and Caroline hurrying towards the door, whilst the rain jumped in the puddles all around them, splashing up against their ankles and soaking their stockings. They gained the door and went in, to find themselves in a cheerful corridor with wild flowers in jars on the deep window ledges. In front of them were two bedraggled ladies, one with a sodden hat whose plume sagged over her eyes, and the other with water streaming down her face from her high-crowned bonnet. It took Annabelle a moment to realize that the two ladies were herself and Caroline, and that she was looking in a mirror. Caroline realized it at the same time and they both laughed to see themselves in such a state.

The landlord hurried forwards to greet them. “A terrible day,” he said sympathetically. “We haven’t seen a storm like this in years. What can I do for you, ladies?”

“I think we had better have a room, landlord, if you please,” said Annabelle. “We cannot go on today.”

“Shocking this weather is,” he agreed. “I said to my wife this morning, as soon as I saw the sky, ‘Depend upon it, we will have rain.’ ‘Aye,’ she said, ‘and a storm, by the look of things.’ But don’t you worry, we have a fine room here, I’m sure you’ll be very comfortable,” he continued, as he led them upstairs.

Along the corridor they went, with its oak beams and its white walls, and then through an oak door and into a very pleasant chamber. The windows were latticed, but large enough to let in what little light the storm allowed, and the room was clean and spacious. A large bed was set in the centre, with a smaller one pushed to the side, and both were covered with clean counterpanes. Rustic pictures hung on the walls, and a brightly coloured rug lay on the floor. The grate was empty, but the landlord told them that there was a fire in the parlour.

“It’s a private room, just right for you ladies,” he said.

“Thank you, that will be most welcome,” said Annabelle, looking down at her sodden clothing.

He offered to light a fire in the room as well, but Annabelle declined the offer. It was not cold and she did not want to put him to any trouble.

“I am sure the fire in the parlour will suffice,” she said.

He bowed his way out of the room.

“Thank goodness I brought some extra clothes!” said Caroline, who had snatched her portmanteau and hatbox from the curricle before it was taken away. “I am longing to get out of these wet things. I would lend you one of my dresses, but I am afraid they will be too small,” she added in dismay, looking at Annabelle.

“Never mind, I will go down to the parlour and dry myself by the fire,” said Annabelle. She removed her gloves, bonnet and pelisse, and set them down on the window ledge, then tidied her hair as best she could.

“I will join you as soon as I have changed,” said Caroline, stripping off her wet clothes.

“Would you like me to help you?”

“No, thank you, I believe I can manage, and if not, I will ring for the landlord’s wife. Do not let me delay you, Aunt Annabelle, I will never forgive myself if you catch cold.”

Satisfied that Caroline could not get up to any mischief in such a short space of time, in a respectable inn, Annabelle went down to the parlour.

She opened the door … and then hesitated, because the parlour was already occupied. A gentleman was seated by the fire. Steam was rising from his clothes, showing that he too had been caught in the downpour.

She was just about to apologise for intruding when he stood up and turned towards her, and the words died on her lips.

“Annabelle!” he said in surprise, adding more formally, “That is, Miss Langley.”

“Daniel!” she said.

And indeed it was he, as handsome as ever, with his dark hair arranged à la Brutus, his brown eyes, his aquiline nose and his full mouth. His figure was hardened by exercise and his height topped her by six inches: no mean feat, as she herself was five feet eight inches tall.

Memories came rushing back: a house party the previous summer, where she had danced with him, finding him the most amusing partner she had ever had.

She remembered her delight when she had found herself alone with him in a rowing boat the following day, and how they had both laughed when a frog leaped into the boat.

And she remembered the way in which he had taught her to drive, taking her out in the country lanes, where he had shown her how to control his horses and how to guide his carriage. When he had put his arms around her in order to show her how to hold the reins, she had started to tingle. It had been the most delicious sensation, and she had turned her face up to his in surprise and delight. He had seized the moment and kissed her, and it had been quite magical.

Then other, less welcome memories returned: that he had been called away by the death of his brother and that, once the mourning period was over, he had not sought her out as she had expected him to do.

She had been forced to realize that, whilst she had been falling in love with him, he had been indulging in nothing more than a mild flirtation.

And now here he was again, standing before her.

“What a surprise. I did not expect to meet you here,” he said.

“Nor I you. I am just passing through. But I must not disturb you …” she said, feeling suddenly awkward.

“Not at all, it is I who should vacate the parlour and leave it to you.”

“There really is no need …” she said.

There was a silence, and then they both laughed.

“We are talking to each other like strangers!” he said. “There is no need for either of us to retreat. We can be comfortable here together, can we not? But you are wet,” he said. “Will you not sit by the fire?”

She took the seat he held out for her gladly, for her damp clothes were starting to make her feel cold, then he sat down opposite her.

“You are just passing through, you say?”

“Yes. We are on our way to stay with friends.”

“We?”

“My niece and I. She is upstairs at the moment, changing her dress. We were caught unawares by the rain, and as we were travelling in my curricle we were soon drenched.”

“Ah, yes, your curricle. I am glad you have continued with your driving, and put your inheritance to such good use. I should have congratulated you on your good fortune, but I have not spoken to you since the lucky day.”

“Thank you. It was totally unexpected. Great-aunt Matilda had always declared her intention of leaving everything to my brother, but when he married he displeased her and she changed her will and left everything to me. It was no loss to Alistair, as he already had a fortune, and it was a great piece of good luck for me. Although if I had not inherited it,” she added ruefully, “I would not have bought such a dashing carriage, and I would probably have been travelling in a sedate coach and be perfectly dry now!”

He laughed. “You cut quite a figure.”

She looked at him enquiringly.

“I saw you once, in town. You handled your cattle very well,” he said admiringly.

She warmed at his praise. “I was taught by an expert,” she replied.

“Those were good days,” he said. “And what does your niece think of her dashing aunt?”

“She likes me well enough at the moment, for I have promised to teach her to drive.”

“Indeed? You must think a great deal of her then.”

“I do. I like her very much. She is a good girl, for all her headstrong ways, and she will make a fine woman when she is fully grown. But that is not why I made her the offer.”

“No?”

“No. You see, it was the only way I could take her thoughts from an unsuitable attachment.”

“Ah. That would never do. Attachments must be suitable, must they not?”

There was something in the way he said it that made her feel it was more than a general comment.

Daniel came from an old and well-respected family, whilst her family engaged in trade.

So that is why he found it so easy to forget me, she thought.

She felt downcast, but her pride came to her aid and she said, lightly, “Of course.” Then, changing the painful subject, she said, “I was sorry to hear about your brother’s death. He was too young to die.”

“He was.”

The subject had been badly chosen and the atmosphere became sombre. They fell silent until they were interrupted by the landlord.

On seeing them together, he apologised profusely for having recommended the parlour to Annabelle when his wife, unbeknownst to him, had recommended it to the gentleman. He gratefully accepted their assurance that they were already acquainted, and that they did not object to sharing.

He asked them if they would be dining.

“Yes, indeed. Both my niece and I would like a hot meal,” said Annabelle.

“The ordinary is very good, but maybe you would like something else?” the innkeeper asked.

“What is the ordinary?” asked Annabelle.

“Steak pie with minted peas and tender potatoes, followed by plum tart and cream,” said the landlord.

“That sounds very good. I’m sure my niece will like it, too,” said Annabelle.

“Three ordinaries, then, landlord, if you please,” said Daniel.

The atmosphere had warmed again and despite herself Annabelle was looking forward to further conversation with Daniel. But no sooner had the landlord left the room than Caroline entered it. She was dressed in a startling gown of green silk, which was suitable for a woman twice her age

“Goodness!” said Annabelle, gazing at the vision which was Caroline, and thinking that her niece looked as though she had raided the dressing-up box and put on one of her mama’s old gowns. She did not say so, however, but gravely introduced her, saying, “May I present my niece?”

“Charmed,” said Daniel, rising and bowing.

Caroline glowed, and dropped a small curtsey.

“Caroline, this is Lord Arundel,” said Annabelle. “We are old … acquaintances.”

“Really, Aunt Annabelle, you never told me you knew such fascinating people,” said Caroline.

Annabelle turned her laugh into a cough, for Caroline’s attempt at coquetry had all the sophistication of a newborn colt’s attempts to walk. However, she thought that Caroline could do worse than to try her newly discovered feminine charms on Daniel, for he was a gentleman and she would come to no harm with him.

Caroline was invited to sit by the fire.

“Thank you,” she said charmingly to Daniel, with a dimple.

She swept her gown beneath her, producing a wonderful rustling noise, but unfortunately she spoiled the effect by knocking over a stool in the process. However, Daniel picked it up without comment and Caroline seated herself by the fire. Then she began to fascinate him with her conversation.

“Tell me, Lord Arundel, have you ever met Lord Byron?” she asked.

“I have not had that honour,” he said.

“They say he is a terrible man, and yet I cannot believe it. If he were truly so terrible he would not have chosen to write a poem about an innocent little child.”

“Ah. You are talking of his renowned work
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage?”
he asked.

“I am,” she said graciously.

Daniel’s eyes twinkled, but he kindly refrained from saying that
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
was definitely not about an innocent little child. He managed to retain a straight face, whilst Annabelle sighed in silent exasperation at her niece’s ignorance.

Caroline was saved from further blunders by the arrival of dinner.

The food was good and the hot meal was welcome. Whilst they ate the plum tart, Annabelle could not help thinking of the previous summer, of eating plums on a picnic and afterwards going to a ball and dancing with Daniel, of being in his arms …

And then she was forced to pay attention, for they were talking of the London galleries, and her opinion was being sought. The conversation moved on to the theatres, until at last Annabelle said, “I believe we must retire.”