LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter Two

      Nicholas Hawken, Marquis of Kirkham, set several small stones upon a wall of rock. Then he picked up his whip and walked twenty paces away.

      Snapping the lethal strip of leather several times in quick succession, he hit each rock separately, without touching its neighbor, and knocked every piece down.

      At one time he’d have thought it quite an accomplishment. Now ’twas just another idle pastime.

      Nicholas was restless. At the rate he and his companions were traveling, ’twould take another two days to reach Kirkham. That is, if the men didn’t decide to stay here at the Tusk and Ale Inn, where the serving wenches were uncommonly pretty and more than accommodating.

      Mayhap he would avail himself of their services later, but for now, this exacting exercise would work to dissipate his foul and melancholy mood. For it had been on this day, exactly twelve years before, that his brother, Edmund, was slain on a blood-soaked battlefield in France.

      The two brothers had fought side by side under King Henry himself, proud and happy to be part of the conquest of France. They’d been determined to distinguish themselves on the field and achieve glory for the Hawken name.

      Nick lined up the stones again and once more whipped each one off with the precision he’d learned from an Italian nobleman.

      So many years, so many regrets.

      ’Twas his own fault Edmund had been killed before his twentieth year. Had Nicholas not persuaded his brother to accompany him to France, Edmund would be firmly ensconced as marquis at Kirkham, with Lady Alyce Palton as his wife.

      Instead, poor Alyce had wept herself into an early grave over Edmund’s loss, and Nicholas himself had become the heir, a man as unworthy as any could be.

      He turned and, with a flick of his wrist, viciously whipped the long, narrow strip of leather around the trunk of a nearby tree. Would the icy grip of guilt ever let him free?

      Nick didn’t think so. He could not imagine living without it.

      “There you are!”

      Nicholas turned to see two of his traveling companions crossing the narrow field to approach him. The two intruders retained their cheerful demeanors in spite of Nick’s scowling face.

      “Lofton sent us in search of you, Kirkham,” one man announced.

      “He said to tell you he saved the frisky one for you,” the other added.

      “Frisky what?” Nick asked, winding his whip into a neat loop.

      “Frisky blond wench!” the man said with a hearty slap on his back. “Knows you’re partial to ’em!”

      Blond or bald, it hardly mattered. Oblivion was all Nicholas sought. He raised an eyebrow and gave a good impression of a knavish grin, then started the walk back to the inn.

      Oblivion.

      Ria wondered why, after so many years, anyone bothered about Sarah Morley’s—no, Sarah Burton’s—child. No one had thought of her since her birth twenty-two years before. What did they want with her now?

      Rarely did she think of herself as Sarah’s daughter, or even as Olivia’s niece. Ria was no one, had never been anyone. At least, not since the death of her nursemaid, Tilda, the old woman who’d brought her here to Alderton Keep when her mother had died.

      Tilda was the one who’d started calling her Ria, a pet name, really. But when Tilda died, it had become something less. It was no longer a name, but merely a sound people barked when they wanted something.

      Happily, that was about to change. No longer would she be the no-name girl of Alderton. She was Maria Elizabeth Burton, a legitimately born person of consequence.

      And if she were legitimate, it meant she had a father.

      Ria stopped in her tracks when that thought dawned on her. The man in Aunt Olivia’s solar had referred to her mother as Sarah Burton, Duchess of Sterlyng. That would make Ria’s father a duke—the Duke of Sterlyng.

      Ria scrubbed the soiled linens in the washtub, wrung them out and hung every piece on the line that was strung across the bailey. She frowned and wondered what all this meant, reminding herself she could very well have been mistaken about what she’d heard. Why had she never heard of the Duke of Sterlyng before? Why hadn’t her aunt and uncle known of Sarah’s marriage to this duke?

      Or had they known, and chosen to keep Ria from her inheritance…and possibly, from her father?

      She picked up the empty basket and walked around to the kitchen, where she set it in a corner. When she noticed that there was too little firewood stacked by the hearth, she picked up the heavy canvas cloth and went outside to retrieve more before Cook had yet another reason to cuff her.

      Soon, Ria thought…soon she would be known as the daughter of a duke. She shook her head, dislodging more unkempt tendrils from her braid. ’Twas all beyond any of her wildest imaginings.

      She stacked the wood outside the kitchen. Though it was still early afternoon, Ria began to worry. She had hoped to be summoned sooner rather than later, but the gentleman in Aunt Olivia’s solar had not yet called for her. Was it possible she had entirely misunderstood what had been said?

      Nay, she assured herself, ’twas not conceivable. Ria was Sarah’s daughter—no one had ever denied that. Her mother had been despised by the Morleys when she’d gone with King Henry. They’d been firm supporters of King Richard, and Sarah’s defection had caused a terrible rift in the family.

      But now Ria knew her mother had wed a duke. She’d been a duchess with an estate of her own. A place called Rockbury. There was no mistake about the name. Ria had heard it clearly.

      Feeling more optimistic again, she decided to go to her little nook beneath the back stairs and pack her belongings. Not that she owned very much, but all that she had was precious to her, though her most valuable possession—her locket—was never far from her person.

      Tamping down her growing excitement at the prospect of leaving Morley, Ria thought of her journey ahead. How far was Rockbury? she wondered. In Staffordshire, she’d heard the man say, but she did not even know where that was. Would she have to travel for days, or merely hours to get there? And what would they think of her once she arrived?

      Would her father be there, or was he long dead, just like her mother?

      The idea of a father was compelling. Ria could hardly imagine how it would be to have someone who cared, someone who would champion her and protect her from all who would harm her.

      Ria looked down at her clothes. Better to turn up at Rockbury wearing her own modest, rough kirtle, she decided, than Cecilia’s cast-off gown with its low-riding neckline and too-long hem. It only emphasized her short stature and too-full figure.

      She entered her tiny chamber and lit a tallow candle, since there was no window to provide light. The dark, cramped room contained only a narrow pallet on which she slept, and a stand that she’d fashioned out of stones from the fields. A threadbare kirtle and a dingy linen underkirtle lay neatly folded on the end of the bed.

      After peeling off the shawl that covered her bodice,

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