A Lady Compromised (The Ladies)

A Lady Compromised

Chapter One

Just Outside London 1811

Mason Broadstone, Fourth Marquess of Durham,
cursed loudly at the sound of a grinding crunch. Subsequent accompanying shrieks emanated from the carriage that he turned around to see, perched at a precarious angle on the edge of the roadway. He swung a muscled and fashionably dressed leg over his chestnut stallion and led the horse back fifteen yards to where the footmen were already bent over the wheel. His sapphire-blue cape swirled around his broad shoulders and he gave the reins of his own stallion to the driver of the coach to examine the broken carriage wheel. Acknowledging the footmen’s insistences that they had inspected the coach prior to departure with a nod, he frowned as he bent closer. Running a gloved finger along the twisted wood, his closer inspection suggested that the wheel had been tampered with; the wooden spokes bore the unmistakable marks of a file. The Marquess swore again, this time under his breath, sighed, and stood up. 

He shook his head when one of his more responsible footmen made to speak up. There was no sense in discussing the incident now. He would, he thought grimly, have plenty of time for that later. This unfortunate turn of events meant that he would be forced to take the ladies in the carriage that he was escorting from London, a Mrs. Smythe-Dunston
and her very marriageable daughter, Daphne, to the closest available inn or estate while they had the wheel repaired. With a wry frown, Mason wondered if the ladies hadn’t hired one of their own footmen to damage the wheel, in a witless scheme to force the Marquess to spend large amounts of very intimate time with the pretty Miss Daphne Smythe-Dunston.

“Durham!”
Mrs. Smythe-Dunston shrieked out the window and waving a handkerchief at him, “My lord, whatever could be the problem? We felt a quite dreadful jolt and then our progress was arrested entirely! My sweet Daphne is in shock. I am afraid it must be something terribly serious!” 

“You have a broken wheel, ma’am,” Durham replied with patience, noting the horrified shock on the lady’s round, pink face. “You will be able to travel no further today in this carriage.”

“Good heavens! My poor Daphne! She is so frightened! Darling, do step out of the carriage and get some air,” the lady called loudly to her daughter, despite the fact that the girl was only in the carriage seat opposite her mother, seated next to her maid.

Out of the carriage tripped poor Daphne, a slim young woman with shimmery golden curls that framed her large brown eyes and perpetually pouting mouth. Miss Smythe-Dunston took one look at the broken carriage wheel and rolled her eyes heavenward. She stepped backward and threatened to faint dead away, in the direction of the Marquess.

“Durham! My poor delicate Daphne is quite undone! See to her, dear boy, while I direct Hill in what to pack for the night. Lord! We shall have to walk to the nearest estate and throw ourselves on the mercy of its master. I must pray he is a gentleman…my poor Daphne! Hurry to her, Durham! Daphne has delicate sensibilities!” The Marquess took two steps toward the young lady in question and she proceeded to faint neatly into his arms. Grimacing inwardly, he carried her to a soft spot on the grass and gently lay her down. As his arms released her, Daphne immediately fluttered her eyelashes. The poor girl, Durham thought, had been bullied her entire life by an overbearing mama and was perfectly trained in the art of catching a husband. It was unfortunate, he thought, that she—and so many other young ladies—had been raised to be such unbearable company. He smiled down at her as politely as he could and advised her to rest as he went for help.   

Durham stood and returned to the carriage where Mrs. Smythe-Dunston was loading two footmen with as much of she and Miss Smythe-Dunston’s bare necessities as possible. Snippets of lace escaped from boxes improperly tied and the
lady was turning in circles as new and more essential boxes kept appearing from the harried maid. She turned up her hands in overwhelmed exasperation and then clasped them to her bosom as if praying the Lord to send three additional footmen to carry the trunks she could not seem to do without.

“I suppose I mustn’t give you anything essential to carry, since if my dear Daphne becomes tired, you shall be obliged to carry her, but in the event that her delicate constitution can hold up during this treacherously long walk, which I
highly
doubt, you may carry some bandboxes of mine. Inconsequential items, really, but it would be ever so convenient to have them with me, as I’m sure you’re aware, ladies are not so stoic and able to manage with nothing as gentleman. Your poor dear mother, I know—“ Durham steeled himself to hear what would doubtless progress into a lengthy and highly flattering account of the lady’s brief acquaintance with his now-deceased mother. 

The Marquess groaned inwardly at the thought of carrying the flighty Miss Smythe-Dunston any more than three steps but he held his tongue. He really had no one but himself to blame for agreeing to accompany the
ladies to visit their friends in the country. When Mrs. Smythe-Dunston’s original traveling companion had begged off due to a sick friend, an elderly Miss Bunbury, Durham had agreed to accompany them as far as Heppens Hall, their intended destination, and a mere two hours ride from his own seat, Evercrest Manor. Sir Roderick and Lady Heppens, of Heppens Hall, were two of the most unhappily married individuals since Zeus and Hera, and were known as the curmudgeons of the county. It seemed to Mason to be more likely that Lady Heppens had invited Mrs. Smythe-Dunston and Daphne without her husband’s knowledge. If this was the case, old Sir Roderick would likely take one of the chills to which he was so addicted, and the ladies Smythe-Dunston would be once again forced to apply to the kindness of a local gentleman. To wit: they would stay at the Marquess’ country estate while they rested sufficiently from their journey, probably for several weeks, to finally return to London after the pointless sojourn. It was all rather tiresome but the Marquess could think of nothing to be done in the way of avoiding the scheme.

Durham peered around the carriage to see that Miss Smythe-Dunston had recovered admirably from her faint and was bounding toward him with surprising vigor. Seeking an escape from an exhausting constitutional during which the
ladies threatened to faint at regular intervals, it occurred to him that his stallion was unharmed. He turned to Mrs. Smythe-Dunston, who was still directing Hill and the footmen in rearranging her belongings into what appeared to be the largest number of containers available.

“My dear lady,” he said with calculating obsequiousness, “May I suggest that, as I have my horse, which is yet to suffer any misfortune, that I will ride ahead to the nearest estate or inn and procure assistance? It is quite possible for me to ride quickly enough to obtain appropriate mares for you and Miss Smythe-Dunston within a short time. And I may bring a wheelwright to determine whether the carriage can be fixed up and brought in for repair and an additional carriage can be sent for your belongings. That would, of course, save you and Miss Smythe-Dunston the staggering exhaustion of walking. Or from having to do without any of your bandboxes.” Mrs. Smythe-Dunston’s smooth white forehead grew distinctly more wrinkled as her blond brows drew together.

“My dear Lord Durham! Are you quite certain you could return to us within a reasonable time? Ladies alone on a country road in the middle of England! It does give one pause. There are bandits, sir!” Mason did not remind the lady that the two footmen that she had insisted accompany them from London were more than adequate protection in broad daylight. Instead, he smiled a rakish smile and bowed over Mrs. Smythe-Dunston’s kid gloved hand.

“It should take no more than an hour, ma’am. This is not an ill-traveled road and I anticipate a prompt return.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose that would be best, if you quite insist. Very well. I trust we will not have to wait long for you to return. Do not tarry, Durham! I will attempt to keep Daphne comfortable, though this dreadful sun will quickly become quite a risk! Not that Daphne freckles, of course. Merely that bright direct sunlight is not good for young ladies’ complexions! Why, she may wrinkle or brown. And indeed, your mother used to say—” 

“Indeed! My mother was undeniably an excellent authority on young
ladies’ complexions. You are correct. Miss Daphne must not under any circumstances walk out of doors in this abominable brightness. I shall return shortly,” Mason said with a sweeping bow. Then the Marquess mounted his horse with alacrity and put as much distance between himself and the Smythe-Dunstons as was seemly as quickly as possible. 

There was, he believed, an estate not five miles up the road belonging to some reclusive peer or another whose name escaped Durham
at the moment, Everett, perhaps? Rowcester? He could not recall.

Chapter 2

              Washburn Court, Hertfordshire 

It was too hot to be
forced to wander about in the gardens, avoiding the advances of an annoying guardian, Lady Delia Ellsworth thought. Washburn Court was, after all,
her
home. Why she should have to slink about out of doors to avoid Mr. Rosewood was an infuriating inconvenience to her, yet she seemed quite powerless to do anything about it. Christopher Rosewood was her guardian and according to him, that couldn’t be changed, not that she had gone to far as to ask, only that Rosewood discussed with frequent vehemence the tremendous honor he felt the late Earl had bestowed upon him. This produced in his ward a hopelessness of changing the guardianship provisions, as she knew such a high honor could not easily be undone. Vaguely, Delia thought she ought to have spoken personally with a solicitor but Rosewood, after the reading of the will, at which she had been, due to grief, entirely absent, been markedly unencouraging of her questions. When her father had died those months before, his will was read and Rosewood had been appointed her guardian until she was twenty-five, which Delia considered to be an excessive amount of time, even for her conservative father.

Christopher Rosewood had quickly suggested that she call him by his Christian name as they were close in age and they would spend rather a lot of time together until she married. Delia wished now that she had refused. She would have preferred the small protection that any formality in their relationship could produce. She had tried once recently to call him Mr. Rosewood, but he had only sneered at her with his smirking, irritating smile.
A bit late for that, don’t you think,
he had remarked condescendingly. 

Rosewood had also been of late frustratingly effective at cutting off most of her options for avoiding him. Riding her beloved Daisy was now a chore, thanks to his insistence on her taking at least two grooms with her at all times. She could no longer ride into town without him being firmly set on accompanying her due to a nonexistent threat of highwaymen and bandits. Rosewood had replaced her own head groom while she was mourning her father, resulting in her inability to ride anywhere without observation and her guardian’s disturbingly quiet and nosy valet, Phipps, reported any movement she made indoors at Washburn Court.

Pressing herself against the high stone wall of oldest part of the garden, she held her breath as two of his servants passed. She had discovered them following her on the first day that she had taken to the gardens to avoid Rosewood’s advances, when she had finally given up on trying to ride or escape into town. He had not yet been able to track her down once she escaped to the outside; she knew the grounds too well. 

Delia had surmised that her guardian’s attentions to her father had not been entirely altruistic, but she had discovered this too late. When he had arrived, she was in a fog of grief knowing her father’s illness was too severe for him to recover. After the Earl’s death and the will reading, it was past the point where she could undo the damage.
Rosewood wanted her fortune. He had at first suggested he would permit her to marry a man of her own choosing. By dangling his permission over her head, he could extort money from her legacy and as long as she remained unmarried, his control of the household purse strings would be complete. She knew that his current machinations were to first ensure, and then demonstrate, his complete control of her. She wasn’t stupid about the draw of the estate, nor was she naïve about the allure of her dowry. Since Rosewood was in control of all of her assets and she had to have permission from him to spend even her own money, she knew he thought he could force her hand.

But what he seemed to be most interested in lately was her body. She was beginning to think that he had plans to marry her himself, rather than merely select a meek and pliable husband for her, or extract a hefty sum in exchange for being permitted to chose her own mate. She had felt his eyes on her and it began to make her skin crawl. About a week before, he had cornered her alone in the library. He had told her that he had seen her looking at him. Said that he returned her interest… and then he had kissed her. It had been a wet kiss on her tightly closed mouth and she had pushed him away firmly. His presumptuousness had enraged her and she knew he had invented the stories about her behavior. After pushing him away, Rosewood, his eyes raking Delia’s slender figure, had laughed and strode confidently from the room. She had begun to despise him from that moment on. 

Sighing with frustration and feeling peckish, Delia rounded the corner of the garden wall to go back in for tea and looked up to see her guardian’s smirking face. She jumped, much to her disgust. She didn’t want him to know how much he frightened her.

“Is this where you choose to hide from me, my dear?” Mr. Rosewood’s eyes narrowed as they fixed on her. Delia forced herself not to react.

“Hide from you?” she looked at him, hoping for an aloof and expressionless countenance. She continued, “You must know that I very much admire these gardens. Since you have effectively forbidden me from riding, I am forced to walk.” She forced her mouth into a tiny, tight, smile and she looked at him with what she hoped was contempt. He ignored her complaints about his behavior.

“Beautiful surroundings indeed, my lady Delia. They compliment you.” Rosewood’s eyes showed his admiration and she tried not to shudder. “My dear lady,” he whispered, reaching ever so gently for her arm, “Such a beautiful woman should not spend her days in mourning in an old castle! Why do you deny me? We must marry. There is no one else for me and I am convinced your poor dear father would have wished it. Why else would he have named me your guardian?” He smoothed her hair and his hand settled on the back of her neck. As she stood, shocked and afraid to move, he wound his fingers gently through her hair, disrupting number of pins that her
maid, Amelia, had most painstakingly placed that morning.

“Pray, do not touch me!” Delia said furiously, recovering her wits. Mr. Rosewood pulled the hand he had in her hair, pulling Delia’s head backwards and her eyes flew open wide. She was
entirely unable to run and somehow her guardian’s free arm had encircled her waist. He pulled down on her hair, exposing her neck and leaving her utterly incapable of movement. 

“Ahhh, but my love,” he murmured, stroking a finger down the side of her face and knocking her hand away as she tried to protest. “I fear you are afraid of me! But perhaps that is not always such a bad thing in a wife. Perhaps that’s even as it should be?” He traced the line of her cheek with his thin finger and while
his other hand remained twined in her hair. “I frightened you that first time, didn’t I? You are so innocent. You will begin to get used to me, but you will still be afraid. I want you always to fear me just a little bit. But you’ll come around, little Delia. You will.”

He grasped her free arm and twisted it behind her back before his mouth descended on the expanse of slender white neck exposed by his hand holding her head back. He kissed her neck, her ears and then her cheek. Delia raised her foot and tried to bring it down on his, but his boots were heavy and her efforts were in vain. She was afraid to shout—the humiliation of being caught by his servants was too fearsome to risk—and they certainly wouldn’t help her anyway.  

“You seek to hurt me, little one?” Rosewood asked with a chuckle, his lips against her neck again. 

“Let me go!” Delia growled as fiercely as she could, despite the fact that she couldn’t seem to move at all. 

“Ahhh, of course. I will.” His lips brushed her neck again, but then he kissed her hard on the mouth before releasing her. Delia jumped back as he released her, her eyes blazing furiously as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. 

“My dear ward, if you please, go back to the house now. You seem quite overwrought. Perhaps your
maid will bring you a soothing cup of tea. Think on our marriage,” he continued, his eyes on her flushed face. “For I do not believe you shall remain long in opposition to it. You will come to see how it is best, I believe. And I, as your guardian, do not intend to entertain any other offers. Do think on it, my dear?” 

“I shall certainly not think on any future course of action that involves my marrying you, Mr. Rosewood and any further requests on your behalf are out of the question. My mind is quite made up!” Delia retorted with measured but angry tones. She hoped he believed her and she felt some relief in spite of her fury as he chuckled easily and she stalked toward the manor. Tonight, she decided, she would speak with Amelia about what they must do to free themselves from Mr. Rosewood’s increasingly unpleasant attentions. 

“You’ll marry me, Lady Delia!” She heard her guardian call after her, too loudly for discretion and she recoiled with mortification and broke into a run.