LITMIR.BIZ

       Prologue

      Early October 1811

      Nathaniel Pembroke, Marquess of Ravenwell, threw a saddle on Zephyr’s back, mounted up, and pointed the black stallion’s head towards the fell, the words of the letter searing his brain and his heart. As Zephyr’s hooves flashed across the ground the tears spilling from Nathaniel’s eyes evaporated in the wind and his roar of rage was heard by no man. The fells above Shiverstone Hall were avoided by local villagers and farmers alike, and that was precisely how Nathaniel liked it.

      The great black’s pace flagged and, reluctantly, Nathaniel steadied him to a trot. The anger and the grief burning his chest had not eased—the hollow place where his shrivelled heart had struggled to survive this past nine years was still there, only now it was cavernous...a vast, stygian void. He should know by now grief could never be outrun. It cleaved to you like lichen clung to the rocks that strewed the dale below.

      Hannah. Tears again clouded his vision and he blinked furiously, gazing hopelessly at the gunmetal grey of the sky. Dead. Never again to see his beloved sister’s face, or to hear her laugh, or to feel the rare human contact of her arms around him, hugging, reassuring. And David, Hannah’s husband of eight years and Nathaniel’s loyal and steadfast friend...his only friend. Also gone.

      The raw lump in Nathaniel’s throat ached unbearably as the words of his mother’s letter—delivered as he had broken his fast that morning—reverberated through his brain: a carriage accident; Hannah and David both killed outright; little Clara, their two-year-old daughter, the only survivor.

      You are named as Guardian to the child, my son. If I can help you, you know that I will, but I cannot, at my age, shoulder all responsibility for her upbringing. Neither will I live in that Godforsaken place you please to call home in order to help you with the task.

      I urge you to come home to Ravenwell and we shall raise Clara together. It is time you took your place in the world again.

      If you choose not to, however, then you must come and collect your ward. It is your duty and you owe it to your poor, dear sister to take charge of and care for the child she loved more than life itself.

      Your loving

      Mother

      Nathaniel turned Zephyr for home, the realities of his dilemma bearing down on him. He could not deny the truth of Mother’s words—she was getting no younger and she would never be happy living at Shiverstone Hall—his cadet estate near the border between the North Riding of Yorkshire and Westmorland—nor would it be healthy for her. She lived most of the year at Ravenwell Manor, his main estate in the far more civilised countryside that surrounded the town of Harrogate, on the far side of the Dales.

      But...he considered those alternatives, neither of which appealed. Go home to Ravenwell? He shook his head in dumb denial. Never. He could tolerate neither the memories nor the looks of sympathy from those who had known him before. Still less could he stomach the recoil of strangers at the sight of him.

      By the time he rode into the yard behind Shiverstone Hall, his decision was made. He had one choice, and one choice only. He must fetch Clara and bring her to Shiverstone to live with him. His courage almost failed at the thought—what did he know about children, particularly one as young as Clara?

      * * *

      ‘You have responsibilities, Nathaniel. You cannot continue to hide away. How are you ever to produce an heir otherwise? Not every woman will react like Miss Havers.’

      Nathaniel bit back a growl at the reminder of Miss Havers. He had suspected how that would end as soon as his mother had told him of the woman who had agreed to a marriage of convenience. Even the lure of his wealth and title was not enough to compensate for his scars. Miss Havers changed her mind after one meeting and Nathaniel had retreated to Shiverstone Hall, resolving to live a solitary life. She hadn’t been the first woman to react to his altered appearance with horror: Lady Sarah Reece—with whom he’d had an understanding before he was injured—had lost no time in accepting another man’s proposal.

      He did not miss his former carefree life as one of society’s most eligible bachelors: such frivolous pleasures no longer held any allure for him. Nor did he miss his erstwhile friends. He would never forget the shock on their faces, nor the speed with which they had turned their backs on him after the fire.

      He was happy with his life, dammit. He had his animals and his hawks—they did not judge him by how he looked.

      His mother forked a morsel of roast grouse into her mouth and then placed her knife and fork on to her plate whilst she chewed, watching Nathaniel expectantly.

      ‘I am but thirty, Mother. There is more than enough time to produce an heir.’

      ‘Would you pour me another glass of wine, please, Nathaniel?’

      He obliged. They were dining alone in the dining room at Ravenwell Manor, the servants having been dismissed by Lady Ravenwell as soon as the dishes had been served. That had prompted Nathaniel to suspect their conversation would prove uncomfortable and his defences were already well and truly in place.

      ‘Thank you.’ His mother sipped her wine, then placed her glass on the finely embroidered tablecloth. ‘Do not think I am ignorant of your plan, son,’ she said. ‘You arrive here after dark, at a time you know Clara will already be asleep. What is your intention? To snatch her from her bed before dawn and be away before you need to see anyone, or be seen?’

      He hated the sympathy in her eyes but he also knew that behind that sympathy there existed a steely belief in duty. His duty: to the estate, to his family, to the memory of his father, and to the future of the marquessate. Her jibe about snatching Clara from her bed sailed too close to the truth.

      ‘I came as soon as I could after reading your letter, Mother. My late arrival was because I did not want to wait until tomorrow to travel, but I am afraid I must return in the morning.’

      ‘Must?’

      ‘It will not do to expect a two-year-old child

Скачать книгу