Yorkshire, England
November 1815
"Lawks, Wilson! Why'd ye go an' do that?"
The carriage jolted to a sudden halt, sending a basketof
raspberry jam crashing to the floor. In alarm, Arabella
Hadley threw open the carriage door and peered through the
night gloom. "Ned? What's happened?"
"Come quick, Miss Hadley!" the stable hand called. A
stout, simple lad of seventeen, he also served as footman,
errand boy, cook's assistant, and did every other odd job
Arabella could not afford to hire out. "Wilson's done it
agin."
The old groom's voice lifted in protest. "Hush your
blatherin, boy! There's no need to call the missus."
Arabella stepped across the spilled jam and clambered out
of the carriage. She only hoped Wilson hadn't run over
another hapless pig. Lord Harlbrook still hadn't recovered
from the loss of his prize livestock from last month. She
halted when she came to the front of the carriage. "Why
have we stopped?"
Ned pointed to Wilson, who stood muttering to one side of
the coach. "He was drivin' the coach like a madman agin,
and --"
"I was not," Wilson protested.
"Were, too. As we came. round the comer, it musta
frightened the man's horse cause it jus' bolted up and --"
"What man?" Arabella interrupted.
Wilson pointed with a grubby hand to the side of the road.
Arabella turned with apprehension. In the dim light, she
could just make out the form of a large man lying prone in
the dirt. Her heart sank when she noted his multicaped
coat and the unmistakable gleam of a costly pair of
Hessians, shined to mirrored perfection.
"Heavens!" she managed in a faint voice. "Ishe...dead?"
"Lawks, no." Willson jerked his thumb toward a fat,
craggy tree. "He jus' smacked his head on that branchwhen
his horse reared."
The low-slung limb quivered as if still recoiling from the
blow. Thank God Wilson hadn't run over the poor man; the
last thing she needed was the attention of the local
constabulary.
The old groom poked at the man with the tip of his worn
boot. "Must not have much of a seat, to lose controlof his
mount."
"A green 'un'" agreed Ned. "Pity his horse ran off. Master
Robert would have liked such a prime goer."
"The last thing my brother needs is a horse that rears at
the slightest provocation," Arabella said in a dry tone.
"Give me the lantern. I must see how badly this poor man
is injured."
"Don't get too close," warned Wilson from a safe
distance. "He might come awake and be none too happy to
find hisself a-lyin' on the ground."
"If he lunges at me, I give you full perrnission to shoot
him." Arabella bent to examine the man by the lantern's
light. "Judging by the quality of his clothing, he must be
a gentleman of some means."
Wilson snorted. "He may look a gent, but ye ne'er know.
Don't get any closer, Miss Arabella. Lady Durham and Lady
Melwin would never forgive us if anything happened to you."
Arabella thought her aunts would be more upset that they
had not been present for such an exciting episode. Aunt
Emma and Aunt Jane were both addicted to flights of
romantic fancy. Fortunately, life had cured Arabella of
that fault long, long ago.
She bent closer to the fallen man. He lay on his side, his
broad shoulders rising and falling in a reassuringly
steady rhythm. Black as midnight, his hair fell across a
large purple lump on his brow, while the rest of his face
remained obscured by the folds of a woolen muffler.
The wind rose, carrying with it the faintest taste of
snow. Arabella shivered and tugged her cloak closer. She
had little choice but to take their guest back to
Rosemont. Her aunts would look after him until the doctor
could be sent for.
As Arabella was turning away from the fallen man,
something caught the light. A gold signet ring set with a
huge square-cut emerald glittered on the stranger's
shapely hand. Hardly aware of what she was doing, she set
the lantern on the frozen road and sank to her knees.
Sweet heaven, it can't be. Every thought in her mind froze.
"Look at that gewgaw!" Wilson said, awed. "Must be a
nabob, to have a ring like that." His brow creased. "Ye
don't think he'll be angry at me fer scarin' his horse, do
ye?"
Her heart pounding in her ears, Arabella barely heard the
groom's words. She reached for the muffler, numbed as if
she were in a dream. Just as her fingers closed over the
wool, a powerful hand enclosed her wrist like a band of
warmed steel. The man's eyes opened and met hers.
Slumberous and seductive, his gaze held her prisoner.
Framed by thick curling lashes, his green eyes were as
beautiful as an angel's.
She knew those eyes. Knew them better, perhaps, than her
own. She knew, too, what she would see beneath the
muffler: golden skin and a bold, patrician nose over a
sensuous mouth designed for forbidden pleasures.
"Lucien. " The forgotten feel of his name whispered across
her stiff lips. Though his hand still gripped her wrist,
she pulled the muffler free, her knuckles brushing against
his stubbled jaw. A bolt of raw heat lanced through her
fingers and settled in her breasts, then slid lower.
Arabella hunched her shoulders at the strength of her
reactions, panic rising. God help her, but she was still
under his spell. With a strength she didn't know she
possessed, she yanked her hand free, cradling it to her
chest as if burned.
His gaze flickered and his mouth curved in a lazy smile.
But Arabella refused to respond. Whatever she may be, she
was no longer an inexperienced miss of sixteen. "Damn you,
Lucien. Why did you come back...
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