“Do take the traveling coach, dear. Just send it back once you arrive. If it should rain or snow, Mother and I will wait a few more days, leave as soon as it clears enough to travel. That should give you plenty of time to put things in order.”
“I am certain it will.” Lily walked over to the gilt and ivory dresser and began to sort through Jocelyn’s night-wear, choosing what to include in her trunks. “I heard the duke’s aunt Agatha will be there to act as hostess for our visit.”
“So I gather. I’ve never met her. Apparently, she rarely comes to London.”
“Nor does your duke.”
Jo sniffed as if the thought was entirely repugnant. “I am certain, once we are wed, that will change.”
Lily just smiled and pulled out a soft cotton nightgown with roses embroidered around the ruffled neckline. “They say your duke is quite something—tall and well built, with hair the color of ancient gold. I’ve heard he is incredibly handsome.”
One of Jocelyn’s dark eyebrows went up. “He had better be. I shan’t marry him if he is unpleasant to look at—even if he is a duke.” 11
But Lily imagined that Jo would marry the man no matter what he looked like. She wanted to be a duchess. She wanted to continue the lavish lifestyle she was used to, wanted the attention and high-ranking social position that came with the title. In truth, Jocelyn wanted everything.
And thanks to a father who spoiled her no end, she usually got what she wanted.
“You are leaving, Your Grace?” The butler, Jeremy Greaves, hurried forward as Royal strode across the entry toward the door. “If I may be so bold, Your Grace, your visitors are expected to arrive at any moment. What will your betrothed think if you are not here to greet her?”
What indeed? “I remind you, Greaves, we are not yet officially betrothed.”
“I understand, sir. Still, she will expect you to properly welcome her to Bransford Castle.”
Undoubtedly. It was the height of bad manners to be gone from the house when the lady and her mother arrived. He glanced at his butler, a gray-haired old man with watery blue eyes, and kept walking. It occurred to him that few servants would be bold enough to gainsay a duke, but that didn’t stop Greaves or Middleton, who had lived at Bransford since before Royal was born.
“If she gets here before my return,” he said, “tell her I was called out unexpectedly. Tell her I will be back very shortly.”
“But, sir—”
Pulling on his kidskin gloves, Royal continued toward the heavy wooden door. Greaves scurried ahead and pulled it open, and Royal strode outside.
A storm had blown in last night, but instead of raining, it had snowed. He paused at the top of the wide stone steps to survey the beauty of the frozen landscape, the sun shining down through the clouds, making the countryside glisten. The circular drive in front of the house was covered by several inches of snow and the naked branches of the trees along the lane glittered with a sparkling layer of gleaming white.
Royal took a deep breath of the clean, crisp air and descended the steps. One of the grooms had his gray stallion, Jupiter, saddled and waiting. Fortunately, his father hadn’t had the heart to sell Royal’s favorite horse. Dressed in riding breeches, a dark blue tailcoat and high black boots, he vaulted into the saddle, his heavy scarlet cloak swirling out around him.
He whirled the stallion, nudged the animal into a trot, then a canter, the sound of hoofbeats muffled by the thick layer of snow. As Jupiter carried him down the road, he cast a last glance at poor old Greaves, who stared worriedly from the porch.
He would be back at the house before Jocelyn arrived, he told himself. In the meanwhile, he needed a little time to prepare. The fact he’d had more than a year to ready himself for this meeting seemed inconsequential. He simply wasn’t yet ready for marriage and certainly not to a woman he had never met.
Still, he would keep his word.
Royal urged the stallion into a gallop and turned off on a narrow dirt road that bordered the fields surrounding the house. It was white for as far as he could see, the trees twinkling in the sunshine as if they’d been sprayed with starlight.
Twelve thousand acres surrounded Bransford Castle. That much land meant dozens of tenants, all of whom looked to him to make important decisions. The acreage was entailed with the title, or much of it would probably have been sold.
Royal shifted in the saddle. He didn’t want to think of his duties now. He simply wanted to clear his head and prepare himself to meet the woman who would share his future.
He rode for a while, took several different lanes and crossed a half-dozen fields. It was time he returned to the house, time to accept what could not be changed.
He took a different route home, skirting a dense grove of yew trees and eventually winding up on the road leading from the village to the castle. As he rounded a bend in the lane, something glinted off the snow up ahead. With the sun reflecting off the ice, it was incredibly bright. Royal squinted and tried to make out what it was.
Urging the horse from a walk to a canter, he rode closer, began to hear an odd, creaking sound in the light breeze blowing off the fields. All of a sudden, the images all came together, a carriage lying on its side, one of the wheels spinning whenever the breeze pushed it. In the field to the left, the carriage horses, still in their traces, stood huddled together as if awaiting further instruction.
Royal spotted the coachman lying next to the road. He urged the stallion closer, rode up beside him and swung down from the saddle. Kneeling next to the driver who lay unconscious in the snow, he checked for cuts or broken bones. A nasty gash on the head seemed the man’s only injury. Royal made a quick survey of the area, searching for anyone who might have been in the carriage and been thrown from the coach. He climbed up and looked through the open door, but saw no one and returned to the man on the ground.
Apparently sensing Royal’s presence, the coachman groaned and began to awaken.
“Take it easy, friend. There’s been an accident. Don’t try to move too swiftly.”
The beefy man swallowed, moving his Adam’s apple up and down. “The lady …? Is she … is she all right?”
Worry gripped him. A woman had been in the carriage. Royal glanced back at the overturned conveyance, noticing for the first time the opulence of the gleaming black coach. His gaze shot to the four blooded bay horses in the field, animals of the finest caliber, and a chill went down his spine.
“Jocelyn …” Rising swiftly to his feet, he began a second search of the area around the coach. Vast fields of white blinded him and for a moment, he couldn’t see. A further search and he spotted her, lying like a broken doll in the thick layer of white covering the field. She was dressed in a modestly cut gown of rose velvet, her fur-lined cloak bunched beneath her still figure.
Royal hurried toward her, knelt at her side. He checked for a pulse and felt a strong, steady throbbing beneath the soft skin at the base of her throat. She was unconscious, but he saw no blood or other obvious injuries. He gently checked her limbs for broken bones but discovered none that he could see. He prayed her injuries were not internal and that she would soon recover.
When a soft moan slipped from her lips, he took her cold hand and rubbed it between his gloved fingers, hoping to warm her, hoping she would awaken. “It is all right,” he soothed. “I’m the Duke of Bransford and I’m going to take you home.” He was hesitant to move her, but when her eyes fluttered, lifting long golden lashes away from her pale cheeks, he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Your … Grace,” she whispered.
“Just lie still. There was an accident. You’re safe now