Chapter One
Yorkshire
February 1845
They were noticeablesimply by their presence on this deserted stretch of moorland. A distant dark figure astride an equally dark horse, standing motionless, like some obscure statue in a London park. Louisa gave them but a fleeting glimpse, due to the fact she had her own horse, Byron, hurtling along at a fine gallop. She didn’t even slow when the wind snatched the hat from her head and whisked it away, pheasant feathers and all. Instead, she let out a shriek of laughter quite unbecoming a well-bred young lady. But then, propriety had little significance out here, where earth and sky met without the hindrance of man-made horizons. And this particular day, blessed by watery sunshine and a mild breeze that hinted at spring, was meant to be savored.
Which was why, despite strange men and airborne hats, the solid thud of Byron’s powerful hooves continued unabated. Only when they reached the crest of Monk’s Tor did Louisa finally rein her chestnut gelding to a halt, simultaneously parting with another unladylike whoop of delight. The mad dash had lit a fire in her cheeks and tugged several curls loose from their pins. And, since losing the veiled hat, she’d probably collected a muddy freckle or two, adding to those naturally bestowed.
Not that she much cared.
She leaned forward and gave Byron a few solid pats on his glossy brown neck. “Good boy,” she said, chest heaving. “That was tremendous fun. You enjoyed it too, didn’t you?” The gelding, withers trembling and damp with sweat, snorted a response.
Louisa lifted her face to the sky and filled her nostrils with the heady scent of marsh and meadow. “Magnificent,” she muttered, shading her eyes with a gloved hand as her gaze roved over the wilderness. At best, it was a majestic but unforgiving landscape that mocked many an unwary traveler. At worst, it was… another word slid into her mind.
Bleak.
Especially now, at the tail end of winter.
A thick carpet of heather, bare and bedraggled, covered much of the firmer ground. Prickly tangles of gorse and rusty stands of bracken occupied the grassy, open spaces. Slender cotton-grass and heath-rushes served to warn travelers of boggy areas, where man and beast, if not heedful, might find themselves well and truly mired. Thickets of hawthorn, sculpted into bizarre shapes by the prevailing winds, might offer a small measure of shelter to those seeking it.
Bleak, indeed. But magnificent, nonetheless. Louisa’s passion for these northern lands flowed through her veins as hotly as her blood.
Her gaze shifted to the big house nestling sedately, and in isolation, at the foot of the Tor. Northcott Manor belonged to her father, inherited from his Godfather, whose soul had departed the world nearly two decades before. The manor had since been leased out a number of times to a variety of well-shod tenants. The most recent of these had been a reclusive Tuscan aristocrat who, defeated by the Yorkshire climate, had returned to warmer climes the previous winter.
Consequently, for the last ten months, the manor had stood in empty silence with only a minimum of staff keeping the place in readiness while awaiting a new principal occupant. Louisa shifted in the saddle and considered heading down there to have a chat with Reuben Thornthwaite, the old gardener. She’d known him all her life and, in her eyes, he’d been forever ancient, with his weather-worn face and frosty-white curls poking out from beneath his cap. A natural storyteller, he was always willing to share tales of his life and experiences. Louisa could listen to him all day.
But even as she considered her visit, the breeze blew a little stronger, drawing her attention to an ominous gathering of clouds in the west. It did not do to be caught on the open moor when the rains came down, though she had hoped for a little more time. She patted Byron’s neck again as she eyed the threatening skies. “I think we’d best be on our way back, boy.”
The return journey began at a more sedate pace. An unwelcome awareness of the inevitable had replaced Louisa’s euphoria. After this week, it would be a good while before she’d be able to ride out alone again, or to be overly concerned about her appearance or composure. This time next week, she’d be well on her way to London to commence her second Season, and another half-hearted search for a husband.
Half-hearted on her part, anyway.
She’d gazed upon a fair amount of handsome and not-so-handsome faces during her last Season as she’d been whisked around a variety of dance floors. She’d even enjoyed some appropriately pleasant interludes with several potential admirers, three of whom had hinted at marriage.
Their hints had been brushed respectfully aside.
She’dlikedall of them, but only as much as one might like an inanimate object or a decorative piece. The thought of spending the rest of her life with any of them left her void of feeling. Shehad yet to meet a man who stirred her soul and made her heart quicken, someone who could addle her brain with a flattering comment or raise color to her cheeks with a simple smile. What if such a man didn’t exist? Or worse, what if he did, but they were destined never to cross paths? Perhaps settling was something she’d have to consider. Maybe love would grow from like. But what if it didn’t?
Perhaps she expected too much.
It didn’t help, of course, that she’d been raised by parents whose love for each other formed the basis of legend. She knew, too, that she’d never be forced into an unwanted marriage. But she also knew her parents—and especially her mother—were keen to see their eldest daughter taken down from the proverbial shelf, settled and happy.
She heaved a sigh.
Byron, undoubtedly sensing his mistress’s deflated mood, chomped at his bit and shook his head, apparently asking a silent question.
What are we waiting for?
Louisa shrugged off her apathy and trained her gaze on the distant horizon, where a solitary majestic oak stood beside a derelict medieval watchtower. Two ancient signposts pointed the way to Louisa’s home and birthplace.
Highfield Hall.
She tugged Byron to a halt and leaned forward. “Ready for some more, my beauty?” she murmured, feeling the horse tremble beneath her. “Then let’s go.”
The beast needed no further encouragement, and Louisa parted with another whoop of delight as he surged forward. A mile or so later, chest heaving anew, she reined in beneath the oak and dismounted. She gazed up at the gnarled branches that were already tipped with buds. By the time she returned from London, they would all be in full leaf.
Clouds, skittering across the sky, created an illusion that the tree was toppling over. Giddy, Louisa stepped back, clutching at the stirrup leather to steady herself. On the opposite side of the track stood the medieval watchtower, its tumbledown roof partially open to the elements. As a child, Louisa had hidden her eyes rather than look at the ruin, convinced something evil lurked behind its bricked-up doorway. The childhood fear had long since surrendered to reason. Yet, even now, the blackness on the other side of the tower’s narrow windows sent a prickle across the back of her neck.
