Chapter One
Frederick pushed his mount to a canter. The woodland flowed by in a series of sun-blessed greens. The path was wide here and well-worn from the long grass that grew beneath the trees. For a moment he allowed himself the simple pleasure of enjoying the breeze that kissed his face.
How long since I did nothing except ride? And when I have ridden, how long has it been since that ride was for no purpose other than enjoying the countryside?
The answer was too long. Too long spent administering the business of his estates. Too long spent amid his easels and paints.
A man should take some time for himself.
The woods petered out at the brow of a hill. Before him stretched the countryside of East Sussex. He was looking south, towards the distant coast. Somewhere to his left would be Pevensey Bay, further left still, along the coast would be Hastings and his own estate of Valhurst. He reined the horse in and sat for a moment, looking out over the quiet, checkered landscape of fields, meadows, and woods, taking a deep breath of air.
His thoughts strayed to the work that needed to be done at Valhurst. The urge to paint, to produce something of value. Recreation was not something Frederick found easy. He sighed.
That is the burden of a Dukedom. To be a good Duke, one must give oneself to the people and the land. I am a conservator, just as my father taught me. Even the art is something of an indulgence.
Something caught his eye, moving quickly across a meadow below. He shaded the sun from his eyes and realized that he was looking at a woman riding. Oddly, she seemed to be riding astride her mount, not side-saddle as women were supposed to. As he watched, the animal leaped an obstacle and the woman let out a whoop. Dark brown hair streamed behind her and she seemed to be wearing breeches.
Upon my soul. I do believe that is exactly what she’s wearing. Not a dress but a man’s attire. Now there’s a hell of a thing.
Intrigued, he nudged his mount to a walk, calculating a route that appeared to intercept the woman’s path. She was riding up a slope now towards him. Frederick came to a stone wall, bordering the field at its highest point. He followed it to a three-bar wooden gate, weather-marked and aged. He waited there as the woman angled her steed for the same spot. As she reached the gate, he dismounted and untied the thick rope that had been used to hold the gate shut.
“Good afternoon!” the woman said, red-cheeked and bright-eyed. “And thank you.”
She had a tumble of dark hair, flowing loosely to her shoulders in bouncing curls. Her eyes were hazel. Frederick noted a stray leaf wedged between the buttons of her coat, another in the curls of her hair. A smudge of bark or moss adhered to a freckled cheek just beneath her left eye.
“You are welcome, madame,” Frederick said. “And a good afternoon to you too. That was a fine jump.”
“Oh, that was all Hettie here.” The woman smiled, patting her horse’s neck. “We came to a ditch and Hettie decided she could clear it.”
“And clearly outran your companions,” Frederick said as he closed and retied the gate, the woman having ridden through.
“What companions?” she said.
“You are surely not out riding alone?” Frederick asked, genuinely surprised.
“I surely am, though I am returning home if that makes you feel better.”
It was said with a mischievous smile that Frederick found himself returning. It was impossible not to.
“Do you disapprove?” she asked.
“It is not for me to approve or disapprove of your actions,” Frederick said. “I think merely of the safety of a young woman, riding alone in the middle of the countryside.”
“This is Sussex,” the woman replied with a grin. “How dangerous can it be?”
Frederick did not like the casual attitude.
Doesn’t she know there could be brigands, former soldiers, or other vagrants on these roads? Perhaps she genuinely does not. If so, it is my duty to be her escort.
“For you, any potential danger is magnified because of your sex. May I ask where home is?”
“Perhaps I should not say, as you are a stranger and as you have just been warning me of the perils for a lone female.”
There was a playful smile on the young woman’s face which told Frederick that she wasn’t taking him seriously. He returned the smile thinly, gritting his teeth but hiding the fact behind closed lips.
“Quite right. I am Frederick Smith, Thirteenth Duke of Valhurst. That is some dozen miles or so to the east of here. And yourself?”
She didn’t answer but instead sat her horse, gazing out over the spread of countryside before them. She was quite exquisitely pretty, with round cheeks that held a rosy hue and eyes that seemed to sparkle. Rosebud lips seemed to adopt a smile as their natural expression. Frederick looked away when he caught himself staring. The breeches she wore ended at tall riding boots which showed a well-shaped calf. Her garments were quite scandalous, showing off the shape of her legs.
“I came from all the way over there. Do you see the woods on the horizon at the foot of that hill? Came across country and at one point was chased by a man I believe mistook me for a poacher.”
She laughed but Frederick was shocked.
“It was quite the chase for a time. I was forced to cut right across country.”
“Did he catch you? Is that why you look so…”
He tailed off realizing there was no polite way of finishing the sentence. But he was genuinely concerned. Game keepers could be brutal to those they believed were intending to poach.
“Like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backward?” the woman laughed. “No, he did not catch me. But, yes, the chase is the reason. Ah well, one does not ride in the country and expect to look ready for a ball. More like a bath!”
“That is why England possesses roads, madame,” Frederick said. “So that gentlemen and women do not need to appear disheveled. You are lucky to have escaped, nonetheless.”
“Not luck, Your Grace. I was the better horseman, horsewoman I should say.”
In Frederick’s experience, that was an unusual thing. He did not know any woman who would not take a carriage rather than a horse. Men were far more common as riders than women and even then, women rode side-saddle to accommodate their clothing, a significant hindrance.
“I note you do not ride side-saddle. That will have helped you to outrun a man on horseback, certainly.”
“It helps, but I can beat any horsemen, even riding side-saddle as convention dictates I should.”
Her manner was almost confrontational, the sting taken out by her impish smile.
A very direct young lady indeed.
Frederick found himself warming to her. She was remarkably different from any woman of his association in the past. Certainly different to the women making up the Ton, who formed Frederick’s primary society.
Refreshingly different. Though reckless in the extreme.
“You do not believe me, Your Grace?” she asked.
“That you could out-ride a skilled horseman while riding side-saddle? No, frankly I do not,” Frederick said.
“Very well. Let us put it to the test. I propose a race. Through these woods to the Longbridge road on the other side. That is about a mile or so, I believe.”
Frederick had to stop himself from gaping. The young woman promptly swung a leg up and over the cantle of her saddle so that she was sitting side-saddle. The glimpse that briefly gave Frederick of her legs in a position that no man other than a husband should be allowed to see, took his breath away. He composed himself.
“I will not take advantage,” he demurred.
“Meaning you consider me to be boastful and foolish?” the woman challenged.
“Far from it. Mistaken is all,” Frederick replied.
“You’re on. Keep up, Your Grace, if you can.”
She flicked the reins and clicked her tongue. The horse responded immediately, taking a couple of steps before accelerating into a canter. Frederick whirled his own mount and dug in his heels. The horse leaped to a gallop and, after a quick look over her shoulder, the young woman urged her own steed to the same speed. The race was on.
Chapter Two
Jane looked back over her shoulder to see the handsome young Duke spurring his horse to follow her. On seeing him at the gate, his beauty had quite taken her breath away. Broad shoulders with black hair and shocking blue eyes.
The eyes of a hunter, sharp and alert. How thrilling!
Flustered by those piercing eyes, Jane had resorted to her usual defense, a cheeky disregard for convention and an irresistible urge to poke fun at pomposity.
Not that he seems entirely pompous. But any man who indulges in a ride through the countryside as well-attired as this man thinks altogether too highly of himself.
Jane had dressed herself in a coat reserved for the outdoors and a light blue and white dress that was not one of her best. And the only reason for that concession was that the lecture she would receive from Cousin Ernest, if she dirtied a good dress, would be more than she could bear.
There will be enough of a lecture as it is. I surely will not be able to get home from here for at least three hours. That means I will be late for dinner. Aunt Louisa will laugh if I tell her I was delayed while I raced a Duke. Ernest will have apoplexy. Botheration!
The blue-eyed Duke was gaining on her. But she had not been bragging. To ride side-saddle at speed took exceptional balance and a strong relationship with the horse. Hettie responded to the reins as instinctively as most mounts did for the pressure of their rider’s knees. She also understood a range of voice commands.
I will show the pompous Duke how gender does not have a bearing on horsemanship.
The sound of thundering hooves was growing loud in her ears. Another glance back showed the Duke less than a horse-length behind her. He was standing in the saddle, revealing shapely legs. His face was set. It was strong with a firm jaw and flat planes of cheeks and slightly tilted cheekbones. There was something exotic in those features that spoke of origins beyond England.
Maybe he is descended from a gypsy prince. A King of the Romany. Or a rebellious Welsh prince.
A branch snatched at her hair, whipping past her as she veered too close to the trees that crowded to either side of the path. Jane shrieked at the sudden touch, more invigoration than genuine fear.
Time to concentrate, Jane Grant. My goodness, I did not even return the Duke the courtesy of my name. How rude he must think of me. Botheration!
Jane hunched forward as more limber branches slashed by. The Duke was close enough that Jane could hear the snorting breath of his horse. Its nose was level with Hettie’s croup now.
So, he is faster in a straight race. But how good is he in a steeplechase?
Seeing an opening in the trees to her left, Jane steered Hettie through it with a tug of the reins. The Duke almost missed the turn, but managed to stay with her. Jane grinned to herself, focusing her concentration on the terrain ahead. A small clearing had been formed by a fallen tree. Hettie leaped the log without breaking stride or balking. Jane instinctively shifted her position to brace for the landing. Then they were among the trees. Jane sought out a path between maples and birch. Here, Hettie’s nimble feet and her rider’s skill began to make the difference.
A quick look back over her shoulder was risked and Jane saw the gap widening.
Not doing so well when you can’t predict the path, handsome Duke.
His face was now a mask of determination, set as though from stone. Blue eyes were fixed on her and Jane resisted the urge to stick out her tongue.
That would be going too far. I must maintain some decorum or even Aunt Louisa will have words for me. But, by God, this is fun!
Hettie was beginning to tire, Jane could tell. If her sturdy mount was flagging, then her pursuer must also be tired. Jane looked back once more to see that the Duke was almost out of sight. Across the uneven and unpredictable terrain of the deep woods, he had been unable to keep up with her. For herself, these woods were not as familiar as the Ashdown Forest which had been her playground since she could walk, but still, those childhood experiences had stood her in good stead.
Seeing a dip in the land ahead, she steered Hettie into it and, when she thought she must be lost to the sight of the Duke, doubled back. She ensured that thick undergrowth was kept between her and her opponent in this steeplechase, walking Hettie until she heard him thundering by, screened from her by a tangle of hawthorn and briars. Smiling to herself, she let Hettie find her own pace, confident that the Duke had lost her in the woods.
What a lovely day it has been. A visit to see Mary Jones’ new baby over at Cookham Farm, then a pleasant ramble across the country to work up an appetite.
Ernest’s dour, disapproving face loomed in her mind and she sighed. She wished that her circumstances were such that she could ignore Cousin Ernest and his disapproval. She wished to be free, as her parents had been, unshackled by the expectations of society. Louisa, the Dowager Marchioness and Ernest’s mother, was free, caring little for the opinions of her peers and indulging in her passion for the arts. But, the house belonged to Ernest. He was Earl and, while Louisa was protected by the fact that he was her son, Jane’s familial connection was weaker.
And so I must bow my head and look contrite when Ernest summons me to his study like a wayward child. It is all very well for Aunt Louisa to keep company with artists, poets, and actors. He can’t control her, so doubles his efforts to control me.
She had left the house in a respectable dress, changing at Cookham into the more practical breeches and boots that she now wore.
It would serve Ernest right if I marched into Welterham in my breeches and boots. See how he likes that.
It would not happen, however. Jane could not provoke him too much. Not until she had contrived a way that she might live on her own, out from under Ernest’s thumb. The living left to her by her father was insufficient to rent a house of her own, however. She tried to put her circumstances from her mind.
I do not know what the future will bring or when Ernest will next allow me to spend the day out on my own like this. I must not waste a minute in a brown study.
Her thoughts returned to the pompous, but handsome, Duke. Jane glanced over her shoulder as though he might be there following. Part of her hoped he would be, though she knew he was left a long way behind.
And undoubtedly is no tracker. Not a man who goes riding in a silk waistcoat and a fine royal blue coat. Mary Jones and her husband could live for a year on the cost of that wardrobe.
But such an interesting face. Austere, as was his manner to a degree. Strong and unyielding in a way that inspired attraction but also a thrill of fear.
The face of a barbarian raider. Had he caught me, he is probably strong enough to do with me as he wishes.
The thought sent a tingle of excitement through her and a flush of color to her cheeks. Jane smiled to herself and shook her head at the wanton thoughts. If ever she saw him again, she would be scarlet. Still, it was not as though she would ever see him again, so that was a remote risk. Ahead, the woodland was becoming sparse and long grass swayed in the gentle breeze between slender boles. A few sheep were munching their way through it, some looked up as Hettie walked by but most ignored her.
Jane looked out to the horizon. Somewhere beyond that lay the English Channel. Beyond that was France and then, if you kept on, the Mediterranean and Africa.
Papa has traveled that road, to Africa and beyond even that. I wonder if I will ever get to tread in his footsteps. See Cairo, or Madrid perhaps. And what of Delhi and Calcutta? One day, Jane, one day.
Chapter Three
Fiery gold still clung to the western sky when Frederick arrived within sight of Valhurst Abbey. The sunset was behind him, while ahead, purple shaded to black and the first stars were becoming visible in a cloudless sky. The road wound around an outcrop of woods and then through the tall, white gateposts that marked the entrance to Valhurst’s park. From there it crossed the open expanse of long grass, dotted with trees, and roamed by deer. Once it had been the fields of the abbey that the house had once been. Now it was purely ornamental, a setting for the jewel that was the house itself.
Valhurst stood dark against the deeper dark of the night sky. It rambled, stretching out its wings in seemingly random directions, the product of past Dukes deciding to build and extend without any real thought of future need. It had two ruined towers, their tops unfinished and jagged, crenelated rooftops and brick walls that stood cheek by jowl with the stone blocks and primitive mortar of the middle ages.
He was proud of his home. It was a testament to the durability of the English aristocracy and a symbol of his main duty, to preserve these lands for future generations.
A duty I have neglected today. For what purpose? Recreation and a frankly reckless race through the woods after a rather wild young woman. Utter foolishness.
Frederick kicked his horse to a trot, wanting to be home as quickly as possible to make up for the time he had lost. The sight of the ruined north and south towers irked him, as they always did. It was an imperfection that he longed to either rebuild or demolish entirely. The house was hardly symmetrical anyway but it could be brought more into order. Except that would go against the duty, solemnly inherited from his father, to preserve and protect. At least the grounds and gardens were ordered. A veritable army of groundskeepers was employed to ensure that Valhurst Abbey was famous throughout England for its neat, ordered, and controlled gardens.
After handing the reins of his mount to a stable hand, he hurried inside. A servant took his coat, folding it carefully over one arm. Frederick paused, picking a stray piece of lint from the man’s lapel, then holding it up so the servant could see it. No words were necessary. A gloved hand took the lint and pocketed it. Frederick cast a cursory glance over the man’s uniform, then nodded.
I shall have to speak to Hawley about that. The household should be paying close attention to detail when it comes to their attire.
The hall was of stone and lit by chandeliers high above, hanging from an impressively arched roof. Framed paintings by acknowledged masters hung in neat lines that led the eye to a central staircase, broken only by the doors leading to the ballroom on one side and a reception room, drawing room and library on the other.
“Lord Ashwick arrived thirty-three minutes ago, Your Grace,” the servant informed him. “He awaits you in the Garden Library.”
The Garden Library was the name given to the public room overlooking a walled garden on the west side of the house. Frederick’s own private study and library, known as the Abbot’s Library, was upstairs forming part of his personal suite. Frederick took out a gold and silver chased pocket watch, flipped the cover open, and regarded the face for a moment.
“He is twelve minutes late, I see. Very well. Dismissed.”
The servant bowed and turned to walk away while Frederick headed for the third door on the right of the hall. Opening it, he saw a young man with fiery red-gold hair, standing before the fire with a clay pipe in one hand. He was looking at a watercolor above the mantle.
“This one of yours Freddie?” he asked.
“It is one of mine, Edmund. Do you like it?” Frederick said, closing the door behind him.
A decanter of brandy stood on a polished table beside an armchair. Edmund had poured two drinks. Frederick took one, inhaling appreciatively over it.
“How you can smoke that thing I do not understand. You look like a farm hand,” Frederick said.
“A relic from my past. I found it easier to carry a pipe like this when I was on campaign than a humidor of cigars. Frightfully inconvenient on the battlefield, eh?” Edmund grinned around his battered and scratched pipe.
“I wouldn’t know old chap.”
“And in answer to your question. I haven’t the foggiest notion. Paint is paint. I can’t tell good from bad. Knowing you though, I am sure it is excellent,” Edmund replied.
“It is passable,” Frederick said modestly. “By the way, I must apologize for not being here to greet you. I fully expected to be but was delayed.”
“I hadn’t even thought about it, old man,” Edmund said breezily.
An entirely true statement too. Edmund does not pay much mind to punctuality.
“What delayed you?” Edmund asked. “Any bother?”
He took one of the armchairs, collecting his brandy on the way and practically flopping into the chair, putting a booted foot casually onto a footrest. Frederick tried not to wince at the sight of shod feet on furniture, making a mental note to ensure the maids were aware.
“A waste of time. I should have been here, not gallivanting about the countryside,” Frederick grumbled as he took his own seat, sipping from his brandy before replacing it on the table precisely where it had been.
“Gallivanting? You? Pray tell, this is a new development,” Edmund said teasingly.
Frederick grimaced. “I decided to take a ride. I have estate ledgers to check and correspondence to catch up on, not to mention an unfinished landscape. But, I decided to indulge…”
“Hear hear,” Edmund interrupted, raising his glass in toast.
“The peculiar event that delayed me though was a young woman I encountered. She was out somewhere above Pevensey, entirely on her own, riding across country and looking like she had just climbed out of a haystack!”
Edmund leaned forward with interest. “That is more the sort of adventure I find myself having, old chap. What happened?”
“Hardly an adventure. I stopped to talk to her, I felt it my duty to point out that it simply isn’t safe for a young lady to roam the countryside alone. She did not heed my advice however and actually challenged me to a race if you can believe it!”
“A race!” Edmund exclaimed. “By Jove. And did you accept the challenge? More importantly, speaking as a sportsman, did you win?”
“I did not. She was quite magnificent…” Frederick looked up and saw the gleam in his friend’s eye. “That is to say she was a fine horsewoman. I would have won had we stuck to the path but she veered off into the trees and it began a steeplechase. She vanished like a ghost.”
Edmund chortled. “I’d like to meet this spirit of the woods. Sounds like quite the girl. What’s her name?”
“That’s the damnable thing. She never gave me her name. Had the appearance of a well-bred young woman from her voice. Sussex native from the accent. Certainly not a commoner I would say. But, no name given.”
“A rebel against social conformity too. I’m in love,” Edmund said, taking a healthy swallow of brandy.
“Really, Edmund. Be serious. It’s all very modern for a young woman to be independent but hardly practical to be so…so…”
“Free?” Edmund arched an eyebrow.
“Wild,” Frederick finished. “Order is important. For the gentry more than anyone. Where would the country be if we all said hang the rules and did whatever we pleased?”
“Entertaining,” Edmund said after a moment’s thought.
“You’re impossible,” Frederick replied, though not without a wry smile. “Well, it was a diversion anyway. I shall never set eyes on the woman again.”
Look out for the full release on 26th of November!
