Chapter Two
The carriage lurched forward and,with it, my stomach. Oh no. Not again. I quickly parted the curtain and let down the side glass. Fresh country air rushed into the interior, and I breathed deeply. Nausea or no, I was relieved to be free of London’s constant olfactory assaults.
“Almost there, miss.” Nora patted my arm.
“Only a few miles more,” Papa added reassuringly.
I forced a smile and returned my gaze outside. I was glad Papa had insisted on escorting me to the country. Though he would only stay a few short days before returning to London to attend to his parishioners, his presence was comforting.
Every year of my childhood, when Lord Winfield sat in parliament, Mama and I traveled to the country to spend our days at Summerhaven. But when Mama became sick and took to her sickbed, my visits to the country had ended. I was now relieved to not have to travel to Summerhaven alone.
I shifted in my seat, trying to get comfortable. Lady Winfield had insisted we use her private carriage, and I was grateful for her kindness; the conveyance was well-sprung and far nicer than any we could have hired. But after two tumultuous days of traveling, my stomach was in knots, and my body ached. I was more than ready for our journey to end.
But try as I might to wish away the miles, the carriage only continued clattering down the lane. I closed my eyes and tried to distract myself with happy memories of Ollie. Running through the garden hedgerows. Skipping rocks on the river. Him kissing my cheek and hand under the old oak tree. We had so many magical memories together, and I could not wait to make more.
I could hardly wait to see the man he’d become. Yes. All this bumping about would be worth it when at last I saw his smiling face.
But I hoped his hateful older brother would not be in residence.
Damon had been so cruel the last time I’d visited—placing frogs in my drinking glass, locking me in a traveling trunk, and worst of all, cutting my hair in the dead of night—that his father, Lord Winfield, had banished him to Eton. Damon was distraught at having to go away. Ollie tried to console him, but Damon was so angry that he punched Ollie’s nose.
Although many years had passed since that summer, Ollie’s letters made it obvious the brothers had not reconciled.
The horse’s hooves suddenly beat a brightclip clop, clip clop, clip clopas they came into contact with the stone bridge—a sure sign that our journey was almost at an end.
And then in the distance, beyond a sloping green hill, was Summerhaven.
With twisted chimneys, ornamental parapets, and mullioned windows, the estate was even more beautiful than I’d remembered. Ivy grew in thick veins up the symmetrical stone wings, and white roses decorated the base of the central volume. Somehow, the grand house appeared even larger than when I was a child. Though Summerhaven was not my home and never would be—Damon was the eldest son and heir, not Ollie—it still felt as if I were coming home.
Gravel crunched beneath the wheels as we traveled down the aspen-lined drive. And when at last we came to the circular fountain, the carriage slowed, then swayed, and finally stopped in front of the stairs.
A long row of servants dressed in green livery stood stiffly as if ready to greet the prince regent himself. Though servants were not generally called upon to leave their work and greet guests—especially guests of our station—this formal demonstration of respect for Papa pleased me.
As a clergyman, Papa was in the business of making saints out of scoundrels, gentlemen out of men. And although he often dealt with the peerage, and he was even considered a gentleman himself, Papa often felt like a visitor to the group, not a member.
The butler parted the doors and stepped aside to allow Lord and Lady Winfield to exit, and together, they descended the stairs. Behind them, a man with broad shoulders, dark hair, and a handsome face emerged from the manor.
At first, I supposed him to be their solicitor or a steward because of the way he trailed behind them. But no. The cut of his coat was far too fine, his breeches too exquisitely tailored, and the polish of his Hessian boots—well, I’d never seen such a shine.
Yet it was his bearing, the confidence with which he held himself, that gave him away; only a man with an overdeveloped sense of his own worth could achieve that level of grace and poise and arrogance.
Damon.
His stormy blue eyes lifted to the carriage and caught my gaze. Instead of giving me a polite nod or a gentlemanly bow, he stood straight and still, mouth quirked in a devilish grin.
Purposefully ignoring him, I craned my neck to see around him and view the open, and noticeablyempty, doorway.
Where was Ollie? We hadn’t corresponded in some time—several months, sadly—but he had to be aware of my arrival today.
A footman opened the carriage door. The conveyance bounced as Papa alighted, the jolt renewing my nausea. I moaned.
“Are you all right, miss?” Nora asked.
“I will be now that the carriage has stopped.” I smoothed my skirts, hoping the small effort would make me look better than I felt.
Papa handed me down from the carriage, and securing my hand in the crook of his arm, we walked toward the family.
“Welcome,” Lord Winfield bellowed as we neared. His deep baritone had frightened me as a young girl. I’d often hid behind Mama when he entered a room, and I found the inclination had not changed.
