Brighton Road
By Susan Carroll
Copyright 2013 Susan Carroll
Smashwords Edition
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Chapter One
Out of the mists he came—his windswept hair darker than a raven's wing, the pulse at the base of his throat throbbing with all the fury of the passionate blood coursing through his veins. His scarlet-lined black cape swirled about his broad shoulders as he reached out his arms to her. Even though the castle ruins loomed behind him, even though its sinister shadow cast a blot upon the bright beauty of the moon, Gwenda felt safe as she hurled herself into his strong embrace.
Lost in the depths of her dream, Miss Gwenda Mary Vickers stirred upon the hard wooden settle in one of the White Hart's private parlors. Her chestnut curls tumbled over her spencer, the folds of the rose-colored jacket scrunched up to form a pillow. Gwenda clasped to her bosom the heavy volume she had been attempting to read when she had fallen asleep. Hugging the book tenderly, she mumbled, "Oh, Roderigo. Roderigo, my love."
His fingers, warm and rugged, crooked beneath her chin, forcing Gwenda to look up at him. Even as she did so, his features blurred, becoming obscured by the mists, but she sensed the full curve of his lips drawing closer to her own.
With a low groan, Gwenda rolled over, still clutching the book. Balanced precariously on the settle's edge, she moistened her lips in eager anticipation of her dream lover's kiss.
His arms tightened about her. He pulled her closer, ever closer. She could feel the heat of his breath. His mouth was but a whisper away—
Thud! Gwenda tumbled off the edge of the bench, landing hard upon the inn's polished wooden floor. The fall jarred her instantly awake. Gwenda sat bolt upright, shoving aside the heavy book that had somehow landed on top of her. Before she could so much as draw breath, she heard a low whine, and then a warm, rough tongue shot out, bathing the side of her face with affectionate concern.
"Down, Bertie," Gwenda commanded firmly, thrusting aside a large, lean dog, his glossy white coat spotted with black. She rubbed her bruised hip and blinked, trying to get her bearings.
Her gaze traveled upward along the coaching prints set upon stout oak walls, the fireplace swept clean of ash for the summer, the mantel laden with plates and mugs of gleaming copper and pewter. From outside the open window she could hear the clatter of iron-rimmed wheels and horses' hooves announcing more arrivals and departures from the bustling inn yard.
She was in a private parlor of the White Hart. On the floor, to be precise. She had been cooling her heels here for the past three hours, ever since her carriage had snapped a brace a few miles outside the village of Godstone Green. The Hart's congenial landlord had very kindly offered her a book with which to pass the time. What was it now? Gwenda consulted the book's title page. Daniell's travelogue, Views of the East. Mr. Leatherbury's tastes in literature did not quite match her own. Small wonder that she-had fallen asleep. Then she had begun to dream, only to fall off the high-backed settle just as ...
Gwenda's green eyes darkened; her usually good-humored countenance tensed into a scowl. Fending off further attempts of her dog to console her, she heaved herself to her feet and plunked back down upon the settle.
"Damn!" she muttered. Her brother, the most holy Reverend Thorne Vickers, would have blanched with horror if he had heard her, but Spotted Bert was far more forgiving of her vagaries. The dog merely cocked his head to one side, arching a disreputable-looking ear that was much the worse from too many encounters with ill-mannered cats.
"It is too provoking to be endured, Bertie," she said. Bert emitted a sympathetic bark and thrust his head upon her lap. Gwenda absently scratched him behind the ear. "I could have been in the throes of the most hideous nightmare and I might have slumbered through the day undisturbed. But let me be caught up in the most delicious of dreams and it never fails. I always wake up at the best part."
Her hand stilled, coming to rest upon the dog's head. She sighed, feeling bereft, as though she truly had been deprived of Count de Fiorelli's kiss Although she could never bring his features clearly into focus, she knew his name well. The Italian nobleman had appeared in far too many of her fantasies, both sleeping and waking, besides having emerged as a character in many of the novels she wrote for Minerva Press. He might have borne a different name and title in both The Mysteries of Montesadoria and The Dark Hand at Midnight, but he was still, as ever, her Roderigo: brooding, passionate, and courageous.
Gwenda smiled at her own nonsense, ignoring Spotted Bert as he nudged her hand with his cold nose, indicating his earnest desire that she resume the scratching. Although she had been writing Gothic tales of love and terror for the past three years, she would have stoutly denied she was a romantic. Confirmed spinsters of one and twenty years were not supposed to give rein to flights of fancy. But there was always one foolish corner of her heart urging her to allow the bright colors of her imagination to splash over drab reality. Even now she was tempted to stretch back out upon the bench, shut her eyes tight and seek to recapture the dream. But experience had taught her that that never worked. It was possible to drift, right back into nightmares, but never dreams. She would have to content herself with falling back upon her imagination.
But that was the difficulty Her imagination never balked at conjuring what it would be like to have one's side skewered by a villain's sword, but that soul-searing kiss always eluded her. Despite two broken engagements, she had never experienced anything like it. Both Sir Jasper Pryor and Marlon Lambert had been content to kiss her hand. Perhaps that was why she had never married either one of them.
Only once had she ever been kissed upon the mouth by a man, and that had been by her cousin Wilfred, the Christmastime she was fifteen. For a wager, her youngest brother, Jack, had made Wilfred do it by holding a sword to his back. With Wilfred's mouth so cold with fear, his hands clammy, his embrace had reminded Gwenda of a dead mackerel.
She could have used that dream kiss to bring greater authenticity to the romantic scenes in her books. But she could not spend the rest of the day bemoaning it. She reached down to pat Bert but found him gone. The animal's attention had been claimed by something he had spied through the window. His entire body taut with anticipation, a low, joyous growl erupted from Bert's throat. Gwenda recognized the sound only too well. It was a warning the dog reserved especially for his feline enemies.
"Bert!" she said, attempting to collar the dog. But it was too late. With a bunching of his powerful hindquarters, Spotted Bert cleared the sill and bounded outside. Gwenda reached the window in time to see a barking flash of black and white tearing between horses' legs in hot pursuit of a caterwauling fluff of gray.
She started to shout but immediately recognized the futility of the effort. Bert would not pay her the least heed. He would return when he was ready, to lament fresh scratches or with his tail wagging with victory at having forced his opponent to take refuge in a tree.
Gwenda scanned the crowded inn yard, hoping for some glimpse of her own coachman bringing her the welcome intelligence that the carriage would be ready soon for her to continue her trip to Brighton. Her family would be expecting her by five at the house Papa had rented in the Royal Crescent, and as matters now stood, it would be long after dark before she arrived, especially since she saw no sign of Fitch or her footman.
The inn yard appeared i
n more of a state of confusion than usual. A stage from London had just arrived, letting down its passengers for their twenty minutes of rest and refreshment. Just behind them an elderly gentleman was demanding a mug of ale and a change of horses for his post chaise. But most of the uproar stemmed from a large party that had just rattled into the yard, consisting of several carriages, a low perch phaeton, and some young bucks on horseback, all obviously traveling together on some sort of excursion. As the ladies were handed down from the coaches, waiters, ostlers, and postboys flew in all directions to provide the Hart's customary lightning service.
Even the host himself appeared harried. Mr. Leatherbury combined the mannerisms of a jolly country squire with a brisk efficiency in dealing with his guests. He mopped his cherubic countenance with a large kerchief as he bent his rotund frame into a bow to a tall man wearing a curly-brimmed beaver who alighted from the phaeton.
In the midst of such bustle, Gwenda feared that the landlord had forgotten about the lady he had ushered into the private parlor hours before. She thought of sending her maid to make inquiries about the progress of repairs to her carriage, but as usual the pert French girl was nowhere to be found. Colette was likely off flirting with one of the handsome young waiters again.
Gwenda drew back from the window, eyeing with little enthusiasm the book that lay discarded upon the floor. If she didn't want to spend the rest of her afternoon absorbing more details about Indian mosques, perhaps she had best go to check on the carriage herself.
Returning to the settle, she retrieved the spencer that had served as her pillow and attempted to smooth out the rose velvet garment whose pile had been sadly crushed. She shrugged herself into the short-waisted jacket, then eased it over her traveling gown of dove-gray jaconet. She buttoned the frog enclosure, noting with a grimace how the spencer appeared to band tightly over the curve of her bosom, as all her apparel did.
Gwenda had oft heard herself described as "a handsome figure of a lady." She had always supposed that meant she had a chin a little too forthright for her to be considered beautiful, was too tall, and had full breasts. Her mother was forever reminding her not to hunch her shoulders forward. It was an old habit that had evolved from her youthful self-consciousness over being buxom when her friends yet appeared boyishly slender. Her mama had tried in vain to help Gwenda correct her posture.
"A general's granddaughter should always maintain a proud military bearing," Prudence Vickers would remind her sternly. But Mama, not quite so amply endowed, had no notion of how self-conscious one felt. Those high-waisted clinging gowns that were now the fashion made Gwenda feel like the figurehead on the prow of a ship.
Remembering her mother's admonishment, however, Gwenda did try to straighten a little. Without benefit of a mirror, she attempted to fluff some order into her wayward mass of curls, then headed for the door.
But she had not taken two steps when she realized she had forgotten something. Rather guiltily, she glanced down to where her stockinged toes peeked out from beneath the hem of her gown. It was another of her bad habits: forever discarding her shoes, then forgetting where she had put them.
In the sparsely furnished inn parlor, it took her little time to locate one of her Roman sandals by the settle. She sat down, then slipped her foot into the soft blue leather, quickly crisscrossing the lacing up her calf and tying it into a neat bow.
But the second sandal proved more elusive. She finally found it dropped behind the fireplace andirons as though someone had sought to hide it. She could well believe that someone had. Gwenda pursed her lips as she examined her footgear. The leather bore signs of many teeth markings, and the damp, frayed lacing was nigh chewed through. Now she knew how Spotted Bert had whiled away his time when she was napping.
"Blast you, Bertie," she muttered as she sank down on the settle, trying to figure out how she was going to wear the mangled sandal. She had hoped the dog had finally outgrown his penchant for gnawing on any unguarded shoes he could find. When the lacing broke off in her hand, she stifled an oath of vexation just as she heard the parlor door open behind her.
Gwenda hoped it would prove to be the errant Colette. Knowing that because of the settle's high back she could not be seen from the door, she started to peer around the wooden side to make her presence known. But instead of her maid it was the plump landlord who bustled in, saying, "Right this way, Lord Ravenel, and I shall have some refreshments sent in immediately."
To Gwenda's embarrassment, Mr. Leatherbury ushered in a strange gentleman who was so tall he had to duck to avoid banging his head on the oak lintel of the door. She shrank back behind the settle, quickly pulling her skirts down.
Thus composed, she prepared to call out and alert the host to his mistake: that this parlor was already occupied.
Before she could do so, she heard the man who had been addressed as Lord Ravenel say, "Refreshments will not be necessary. I only require the use of this room for but a few moments."
Gwenda heard Mr. Leatherbury's puzzled "Oh," then could imagine his shrug as he added, "Very good, my lord." He bustled out again, doubtless relieved to be able to attend to his more demanding guests.
As the door clicked shut, Gwenda realized she had been left alone with the stranger. She regarded with little relish the prospect of limping out half-shod to announce her presence. But she was consumed with curiosity as well. Why on earth would someone desire the use of a private parlor for only a few moments? Before revealing herself, she cautiously risked a peek at Lord Ravenel, who stood just inside the door, briskly stripping off his gloves like a man marshaling himself for some grim and difficult task.
He certainly had to be one of the largest gentlemen she had ever seen, and all of him solid muscle, she would have wagered. From the heels of his gleaming Hessians to the crown of his glossy ebony hair, he stood well over six feet. A navy-blue frock coat molded perfectly a most unyielding set of broad shoulders. The cut of his immaculate cream-colored breeches and waistcoat were plain, with nothing of the dandy about him; his neck was half strangled in a stiff collar and a cravat tied with mathematical precision. But the starched neckcloth appeared no more rigid than the cast of Ravenel's countenance. His features were rough hewn, from the square cut of his jaw to the harsh planes of his cheeks. Forbidding black eyebrows shadowed eyes as dark as the thick lashes framing them.
Not in the least shy or timid, Gwenda yet felt reluctant to point out to this formidable-looking man that the parlor was already occupied. Her hesitation proved costly. The next she knew, the door opened a second time. Her situation became more awkward when a waiter stood back to allow a lady to enter. Gwenda judged the lady to be not much older than herself, but far more elegantly gowned in corn-yellow satin, her fair ringlets wisping from beneath a poke bonnet. The waiter discreetly retired as the beautiful young lady regarded Ravenel through violet eyes gone wide with surprise.
"Lord Ravenel," she protested. "There was no need for you to bespeak a private parlor. We are all going to dine outside. The landlord has some tables arranged for our party beneath the trees. It will all be most charm—"
"I know that, Miss Carruthers," Ravenel said, sweeping her objections aside with a brusque motion of his hand. "But I wanted the favor of a few moments alone with you before we part."
Just the right amount of blush filtered into Miss Carruthers's cheeks to highlight her eyes. "That sounds most improper, my lord," she said, dimpling with a tiny smile. "Perhaps I had best summon my aunt."
No more improper than her own position, Gwenda thought, mentally cursing the folly that had caused her to delay in speaking up. It would be dreadfully embarrassing for her to pop out now, but she had no desire to witness whatever sort of tryst was about to take place. And yet Ravenel's dark eyes looked more impatient than amorous. Gwenda crouched farther back on the settle, hoping that the lady might persuade him to leave, but his lordship did not appear to be a persuadable sort of man.
"Of course I intend no impropriety," Ravenel said.
"And your aunt would be very much in the way. Now sit down. Please."
Even when Ravenel added "please," it still sounded like a command. Gwenda heard the scrape of a chair and then a rustling of silk, which told her that Miss Carruthers had complied.
"Oh, blast!" Gwenda whispered to herself. Now what was she going to do?
Miss Carruthers said, "Surely, Lord Ravenel, whatever you have to say to me could wait until we meet again in Brighton."
"No, it cannot. I feel I have waited too long already."
Miss Carruthers's heavy sigh carried clearly to Gwenda's ears. Squirming at the plight in which she found herself, Gwenda eyed the open window through which Spotted Bert had vanished and wondered what her chances were of clambering through it unnoticed. But after risking another peek around the settle, she quickly abandoned any such notion. Miss Carruthers's chair was drawn up in the far corner of the room, closest to the door. Although Ravenel loomed over her, he did not look at the young lady. Rather, he seemed to be staring out the window, an absent expression in his eyes as he mustered his thoughts. Despite the discomforts of her situation, Gwenda could not help being caught up by the picture that two of them made, somewhat like the hero and heroine of her latest novel—Miss Carruthers, so angelically fair; Ravenel, so dangerously dark. Except that the backdrop was all wrong. Gwenda would have opted for walls of stone with rich Italian tapestries and velvet curtains of royal purple fringed in gold. Miss Carruthers's blond hair should have cascaded down her back instead of being arranged a la Sappho, and Gwenda would have rounded her eyes, gotten rid of that catlike slant. As for Ravenel, he would appear to better advantage in a crimson doublet, with a sword buckled at his waist His hair should have flowed back from his brow in midnight waves rather than been cropped into the severe Brutus cut so popular among the gentlemen.
Linking his hands behind his back, Ravenel drew himself up to his full height. Gwenda thought her mama would greatly have approved of his lordship's posture. The man looked as though he had been born with a ramrod affixed to his spine. He said abruptly, "I see no reason to waste any more time, Miss Carruthers. I have your father's permission to address you, and I am sure you have been expecting me to do so."