Ann Lethbridge

An Excerpt…..

April 1812 Dorset

Florence marched across the field behind her house. With each step, her gown’s hem became heavier with moisture from yesterday’s rain. Thank goodness she had decided to wear boots beneath her summer dress or her feet would also have been soaked.

Sitting in the church hall discussing lack of funds for the church roof with freezing-cold feet was not a prospect to fill one with joy. Not an enticing prospect even if one’s feet were dry. She pushed her grumpy thoughts aside. Besides, if she had gone by way of the road that ran in front of her house like a proper lady, instead of cutting across the field like a hoyden, she would have been late. And then Mrs Pole, the vicar’s wife, would give her a dressing down as if she were still a schoolroom miss, instead of a woman of twenty-four. Of course, she would get a lot more respect from the other women in the village if she was a married lady, instead of a spinster. And if Mrs Pole wasn’t the mother of her best friend, Lilian.

The stile cut into the bank and hedge, giving access to the lane beyond the field which was terribly overgrown, with grass almost to her waist and blackberry-laden brambles snaking overhead ready to snatch at the bonnet of the unwary. Holding the thorny canes back with one arm, and clinging to the post with her other hand, she climbed over the stile and jumped down.

A ripping sound made her wince. Bother; one of the brambles had torn the flounce at her hem. She fished around in her reticule and pulled out a paper of pins. It was the best she could do until she reached home again.

At this rate, she was going to be very late indeed. She pinned the wet fabric and picked up her pace. The lane meandered between banks and hedges on each side and would eventually join the road to the village of Stoor.

She heard the hoofbeats of an approaching horse and scurried to the verge. A large puddle spread across the lane gave her pause. She began to back up. A large black horse pulling a curricle raced around the corner and thundered past her, spraying water and mud in every direction. Clods of wet mud slapped Florence in the face and chest.

She gasped. Her feet slipped and she landed on her derriere. Frozen in shock, she sat there, eyes closed.

The hoofbeats ceased. Large hands, warm hands, grasped her upper arms and lifted her to her feet as if she weighed no more than a pullet. She lifted her gaze and encountered a chiselled jawline shadowed by stubble, an aristocratic nose and a pair of chocolate-brown eyes regarding her from beneath an elegant top hat.

Never in her life had she seen such a handsome man. She couldn’t breathe. The feel of his grip around her upper arms, firm yet gentle, sent tingles racing through her blood. Her stomach fluttered wildly. The urge to touch him, to assure herself he was mortal, weakened her knees.

He released her, and she wobbled, not quite stable. His expression showed concern, and he grabbed her around the waist, steadying her once more. Those dark eyes regarded her intently, for what felt like minutes, but surely could only have been seconds. The urge to lean against him, to accept his strength and support, was almost overwhelming.

Almost. She jerked back, breathing hard. He glared as if it was her fault she was covered from head to toe in filth. While he…he looked as if he had stepped out of a country girl’s dream of a handsome English gentleman riding to the rescue.

‘Good God, girl, what the devil are you doing here?’

Ugh, how could she be so foolish as to admire his looks?

Shaking with fury, at his words and at her reaction to his touch, she gripped her reticule in both hands and scowled up at him. ‘I might ask you the same, sir, hurtling around the countryside with no thought of anyone else who might be using the lane.’

His eyebrows lowered—the most perfect eyebrows she had ever seen, not bushy or craggy, masculine but finely drawn. ‘You are the first person I have come across on this lane since I have been using it for the past year. Hardly surprising—since the only place this lane leads to is my house.’

The last words were delivered so dangerously, quietly, they were almost a shout.

‘I will have you know I and my family have been using this lane as a shortcut— Your house?’ Her voice rose to a squeak. The wind went quite out of her sails. Oh! This was the owner of Blackdown Hall? This youngish, handsome, glaring aristocrat? The man the whole village had been agog to set eyes on since the moment the builders had begun renovating the Hall, which had been unoccupied for more than ten years?

Everyone in the village had seen it as a sign of better times to come. A sign that the lord of the manor would once more take an interest in this Dorset backwater. And, if rumours were true, that he intended to entertain at Blackdown Hall, and it might present opportunities for the local girls of marriageable age, such as her sisters.

‘Um…’ she said. ‘Our house is the other side of that field. It is quicker to cut across and—’

‘A field that also belongs to me.’

Her mouth dropped open at the arrogance in his tone. ‘According to my father, it ours,’ she muttered.

He gave her a quizzical look, as if he wasn’t sure what she had said.

A blob of mud slid off her hat and onto her cheek. Cold water trickled down her neck. She shivered and fished in her reticule for a handkerchief, a scrap of lawn and lace that did little to alleviate her plight.

His frown deepened. He pulled a large linen square from somewhere inside his caped riding coat. ‘Use this.’

She ignored him.

With a sound of exasperation, he put a knuckle under her chin and swiped at her cheek. The leather of his glove was cold against her skin, yet it sent heat rushing upwards to her face. She grabbed the handkerchief. ‘I can do it.’ She wiped her face and down the front of her cloak.

He took a deep breath. ‘I apologise, madam, that I did not see you in time to avoid that puddle.’

Madam. First. he called her girl, and now, on closer inspection he called her madam. Oh, how she wished she’d worn something a little finer than her oldest cloak today. And that her hem was not hanging in tatters. And her bonnet not so old-fashioned

Dash it all. She would not let him make her feel like a dowd. ‘I apologise for my temerity in crossing your field and using your lane.’ She could not keep the tartness from her voice. ‘I will return your handkerchief at the earliest opportunity.’

‘I believe your regret,’ he said. ‘But your apology I very much doubt. Do not worry about the handkerchief; I have many more.’

Of course he had. And all the finest linen. ‘Good day to you, my lord.’ She dipped the briefest of curtseys.

He looked ready to turn away, but hesitated. He glanced up at the sky. ‘May I offer a ride to your destination?’

Surprised, she stared at him. She had not expected such a gentlemanly offer, not from an arrogant Ingram to a woman he so obviously considered beneath him. And what…was she thinking to accept? Of course not, even if he was the most gorgeous man she had ever set eyes on. Besides, the likes of him were not for the likes of her, no matter how much she might regret it.

‘Thank you for your kind offer, but I prefer to walk.’ She turned and strode for the village. The back of her neck prickled with the odd sensation of being watched. But no; the jingle of the harness of the departing carriage set her mind at rest. Or it should have. He was an absolutely ghastly man. He could have, she should have… Perhaps the best she could hope for was that he would forget their encounter.

Dash it all. She was going to be late. She picked up her skirts and ran.