Chapter 1
Lincolnshire
James Alexander Delaney took a deep breath of the cold crisp air into his lungs, a tight band of sorrow clutching at his throat. Everything seemed to be observed through clouds or as if he were swimming underwater at the lake in Derbyshire, and he had opened his eyes in its murky depth.
The heavy rumble of thunder and the rattle of the carriage traveling on the rutted country road was a distant hum in the backdrop of his grief. One of his very best friends, Mr. Richard Ashford, was interred a few hours before. It was by chance James had been notified of the funeral, and though he’d traveled with all haste down from London, he had missed it.
“Two years,” James murmured. “My very best friend, but I’ve not seen you in two years.” He wanted to roar his anguish, but he ruthlessly composed himself and quieted the raw emotions raging through his heart. “I am so damned sorry, Richard. So damn sorry.”
Turning to face the modest but well-maintained manor in the distance, James wondered if he should traverse inside to see the family. What could he say to them? He had never met Richard’s family. He only knew them through amusing and sometimes wry anecdotes. It had been Richard’s eldest sister, Poppy, who had surprisingly sent James a letter, which had reached him in London, informing James of Richard’s passing.
He alighted from his carriage along the driveway, hoping the trek to the house would aid him in gaining his composure. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the sky, which had appeared overcast, finally opened with a torrential burst of downpour. Being a man who believed in preparation for all eventualities, he’d taken his umbrella from the carriage. With efficient motions, he opened the large umbrella and held it above his head. A few people who’d been walking sedately toward the manor’s entrance burst into hurried movements.
“Lord Kingsley,” his valet, Timothy, called, hurrying over to his side. “Will you go inside, milord? It is raining awfully hard.”
Lord Kingsley. There were times it jolted James to be referred to as the Earl of Kingsley despite occupying the role for a little over two years. “No. I am not staying. We’ll return to the village’s inn and then back to Town tomorrow.”
His valet’s face creased into mild surprise but wisely made no reply.
“I will walk back to the inn. Order the carriage to depart.”
“It is raining heavily, my lord!”
“I am aware of that, Timothy.”
“Your gloves, my lord. Shall I fetch them from—”
“No.” James wanted to feel the bite of the cold against his knuckles, feel the handle of the umbrella in his palm.
His valet looked like he wanted to protest but bowed and scampered away. James did not see the point of going inside the house and invading the family’s grief. He was a stranger to them, and now was not the time to introduce himself and explain the connection he had with Richard. James knew the pain they currently endured. He too had suffered a similar misfortune.
His beloved brother, the previous earl, had suffered a stroke some two years ago. The pain of it had cut their family deeply, and James had immersed himself in taking up the mantle his brother had died for—working tirelessly to save their family from penury.
It had consumed him so much he hadn’t found the time to visit Richard, and now regret, so much regret sat heavy in his bones. James was the one responsible for his best friend’s death. It was James who had been restless and chomping at the bit as the second son, bored with the constant pursuit of debauchery and frivolity, and wanted to forge his own path swathed in honor and glory. And that path had been purchasing a commission. It had been very stupid of him because he’d since learned there was no honor and glory in war and carnage.
Richard had been determined to follow James, and how merry they had been. Laughing and singing raunchy ballads while marching to get their papers. Jesus. James raked his fingers through his rain-dampened hair. He had made Captain, but Richard’s army career had ended quite prematurely after picking up a ball in his knee. He had returned to his home with an amputated limb and a disheartened spirit.
Richard had not recovered well, and James had not been there for him. Even though they had exchanged letters, and Richard had assured him all was well, James should have made a trip down and seen for himself.
Now I will be forever late to see you one last time, my friend.
How many blows could one endure before crumbling? James shifted the umbrella and lifted his face to the sky, accepting the icy sting of the rain pelting his forehead. Many. I am now the earl with immeasurable responsibilities. I will bear and shoulder a thousand blows if necessary.
Heavy grief weighing on his shoulders, holding the umbrella firmly, James made his way over to the small bridge leading from the main estate to the village. There was a private pathway, and he made use of it, walking steadily. The mud sucked at his boots, and the stinging rain blew beneath the shelter of the umbrella and slapped at his face. Yet he did not allow it to bother him. He spied an overflowing brook through the sleeting rain in the distance with some stone benches arranged beside it. There he would sit, watch the swollen brook, and perhaps say a few words to Richard.
If there was an afterlife, perhaps his friend would hear him.
Picking up his pace, a few moments later, James stopped in his tracks. A young lady garbed in a bright green dress sat on one of the stone benches, uncaring of the downpour. Her attire did not indicate a member of the family. Everyone earlier had been swathed in black. She was soaked, and a mass of vibrant black hair clung in limp curls over her forehead, shoulders and back. And the most heartbreaking sounds sawed from her throat.
This grief was intimate and tugged at the aching regret and pain lingering inside his heart. Feeling as if he violated her privacy, he turned around only to falter. The girl would catch her death should she allow the rain to pummel her so. At the very least, he could offer her shelter under his umbrella. James turned around and walked over to her. Unexpectedly her head snapped up, and he met her wide-eyed stare.
She had the prettiest silver-grey eyes he had ever seen. They were bright and glossy with tears and reminded him of a spark of lightning in the dark. She was younger than he had first assumed, perhaps a lady of about twenty years, and the beauty of her eyes and hair seemed to be the only things remarkable about her. She looked like a little cat on the verge of drowning.
She returned her regard to the large stone protruding from the brook as if his sudden appearance were inconsequential. James understood. This lady had escaped here to be alone. He had chosen to walk in the miserable cold, back to the inn some five miles away, because he wanted to be alone.
James strolled over and sat, much closer than he would have if the situation were different. When the rain disappeared from her, she glanced up at his umbrella. She did not profess any gratitude, but when her eyes, filled with tears and misery, settled on his face, James felt the touch of them deep inside his body. It was irrational and nonsensical to think it, but the sensations were profound and inescapable.
Without speaking, she shifted her eyes back to the brook. James respected her silence and made no effort to speak. He then noted the toad, trying valiantly to fight against the churning water to perch onto the boulder. Each time it found some purchase, it slid back down into the water, perhaps onto another piece of boulder under the surface. A jump was attempted, and once again, the toad was at the bottom. They watched the toad in silence until it was successful in reaching atop the large stone. There it sat, staring out into the lush green forestry of the surrounding, uncaring of the relentless rain.