A Passionate Endeavor

RITA Award Winner – Best Regency Romance of
2005

Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Award
Winner

A PASSIONATE ENDEAVOR

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 by Sophia Nash

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* * *

This is a work of fiction. With the exception
of real historical figures and events that may be mentioned, all
names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead,
is entirely coincidental. For further information, email
[email protected]

* * *

Cover art: Cover art: ‘Le Parapluie
Officieux’ Le Bon Genre No 40 Print, circa 1820, Private
Collection. Courtesy of Frederica Cards Ltd. Bath Copyright design
C143. Visit www.fredericacards.co.uk

To

Madeleine & Grayson

“
Nobody who has not been in the interior
of a

family can say what the difficulties of
any

individual of that family may be
.”

—Emma

Wiltshire, England—April 1814

“SIR, wake up!” The young boy shook the broad
shoulders of the gaunt man beside him on the landau’s perch. The
vehicle swayed as the gentleman regained his faculties.

“Blast it all, I am awake—now, at least.”
Rain sluiced down the back of Lord Huntington’s hat between his
greatcoat and neck cloth, drenching the last bit of dryness on his
person. “We’ll be at Wyndhurst before dawn, barring any further
disaster,” he said, trying to calm the boy by making light of the
matter.

“Yes, sir. Shall I keep readin’ the signposts
to you, then?”

“That’s the most important part of your job,
Charley. And poke this infernal leg of mine from time to time.
That’ll keep my wits about me.” He wondered if his mind was going
off-kilter as the droplets falling on his face seemed to sizzle and
turn to steam amid the blanket of darkness. A fresh wave of pain
seized his leg and he shivered uncontrollably.

“Perhaps you will let me take the ribbons,
sir,” said the boy.

Nicholas looked down at the all too serious
eyes of Charley Picket, whose innocence was lost too early. “Nay,
son. These post horses have mouths of lead. It’s just a few more
miles…” A rush of wind sent a heavy downpour from the leaves of the
branches arching overhead as a nocturnal creature scurried across
the road. One horse whinnied its displeasure at the mysteries of
the night.

If not for himself, he must try to focus on
the road for his small companion. Time seemed suspended as the
horses splashed mud in every direction. Finally, the almost
forgotten form of the stone gatekeeper’s house loomed ahead. Dim
candlelight flickered in a distant window—the only sign of welcome
he would encounter.

The darkness started to close in on his mind
once more as the unbearable cold turned hotter than Hades. A
throbbing seared his leg and hip as the sweet calm of
unconsciousness flooded his being. He tried to hold onto the young
voice calling to him, but he could not. The warm dark world was too
inviting.

A feminine voice was like a pinprick of light
in the dark abyss. Nicholas shivered as he grasped the slippery
world of the conscious, floating above what looked like the acrid
smoke of the battlefield. He slipped away from the haunting halls
of his mind and focused on the calming voice amid the babble of
hushed murmurs.

“Lord Huntington? Sir, you must awake,” the
voice insisted. Coolness bathed his face. He opened his eyes and
encountered two blurry, small faces staring at him.

“Lord Nick, I’m ‘ere. Don’t you worry, sir.”
Charley brushed past hands trying to move him away. “There be not a
sawbones in sight ‘ere. Won’t leave your side, like promised.”

A man with a nightcap askew moved into sight.
“My lord, the doctor has been sent for, despite this pip’s
impudence. But Miss Kittridge is the good doctor’s daughter.
Perhaps she can ease some of your suffering until her father
arrives,” said a man whose bearing suggested a butler’s command of
the household.

“Stevens, is that you, man?” Nicholas peered
around his bedchamber of old.

“Yes, my lord.” The elderly retainer
responded with a slight smile.

“It is good to see you,” Nicholas said,
trying to keep the wobbling in his voice at bay. “No need for the
doctor. Charley Picket will provide all the doctoring I need,” he
said, nodding toward his young charge.

Charley puffed out his chest with pride. “I
tolds you. They daren’t listen, sir.” The thin boy reached for
Nicholas’s hand. “I won’t leave, sir, without a fight.”

Nicholas coughed, his throat parched.
Immediately, a cool hand slipped under his neck and raised his head
to meet a glass of water. As he gulped the liquid, he looked at the
huge gray eyes in a diminutive girl’s face, the visage of the
person who supported him. Her mouth was very odd-shaped; small,
full-lipped, but with a slightly puffier top lip. Almost a doll’s
mouth. She looked away when he continued to stare at her. They were
employing very young maids at the abbey.

“My lord, Charley is your stalwart champion,
I know. However, you are very ill,” she paused. “Might I, at the
very least, unwrap your leg to see if we can lessen your pain?”

He tried to fathom why a young maid would ask
such a thing.

She became defensive. “I am my father’s
assistant.”

“And who might your father be?”

Stevens interrupted before the girl could
speak. “This is the Miss Kittridge I spoke of. She is a nurse and
the daughter of His Grace’s doctor, recently arrived from London.
She was watching over your father tonight when you arrived.”

“Well, you may return to your post, Miss
Kittridge,” Nicholas said, as the pounding in his head returned
with a vengeance. “And tell your father I have no need of his
tinctures and leeches. Charley will do just fine.”

A cool, damp cloth replaced the hot one on
his forehead. The gray eyes met his again. He was sure she would
insist. Doctors and others of learned professions never failed to
press ministrations on their victims.

She said not a word. Gentle concern etched
the corners of her eyes. Eyes, like Charley’s, that had seen too
much of the world at too young an age. She turned to glance toward
his lower legs encased in muddy boots. Her gaze then moved to
Charley, who instantly sprang toward the end of the bed.

“I’s going to leave off your boots, sir.”
Charley grasped the tight top of the boot and heel then pulled.
Excruciating threads of light flooded Nicholas’s brain, and he
tried to cling to reality.

“Sorry, sir.”

“It’s all right, Charley,” he bit out as he
closed his eyes against the pain.

Gentle touches relieved the pressure on his
injury. He opened his eyes to find Charley and the girl removing
the long, blood-encrusted pieces of cloth from his thigh. Blood had
turned parts of his dark-green 95th Rifleman’s uniform a muddy
brown.

“I told you to leave me be,” he said.

The two young people continued to unwind the
cloth. Miss Kittridge refused to meet his gaze. “Yes, my lord.”

“I am not in the habit of being
disobeyed.”

“I am sorry to displease.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, Mr. Stevens said
we could ‘ave new bandages if that’s to your way of thinkin’,” said
Charley.

Nicholas kept his eyes trained on the small,
untrustworthy frame of Miss Kittridge, but aimed his question to
the lad. “Is it bleeding?”

Charley peered at the thigh wound then
wrinkled his upturned nose. “Nay. But it don’t look so good,
sir.”

“Leave it be, then. We’ll bind it later,” he
said, reaching for the water glass again.

Miss Kittridge handed it to him. “Is a ball
lodged in it, my lord?”

“No.” He was sure her girlish curiosity would
force another query. Her damnably calm dark eyes peered at him. She
was not a pretty girl. Her homespun brown wool gown was the same
dull color as her hair pulled back into a severe knot. Not a
childish curl in sight. He was annoyed with himself for not being
able to find pity or at least kindness in his heart for this young
creature forced into night duty.

“Then my father still lives, I take it?” he
asked. “I feared I would not make it in time.”

Stevens stepped forward. “You arrived much
earlier than expected. His Grace has taken a turn for the better
since Dr. Kittridge’s ministrations this past fortnight, my
lord.”

“I see you have been taken in by the good
doctor’s luck, Stevens.” He glanced at Miss Kittridge, sure that
the jab would let loose a torrent of familial defense.

But Miss Kittridge merely glanced toward the
pile of dirty bandages. A slight flush appeared on her cheeks as
she began gathering the cloth.

“You are to be commended on your fortitude
and patient character, Miss Kittridge.” Stevens gave Nicholas a
dark look—a look not seen since his prank-filled youth. “The master
here knows not of your father’s excellent work.”

“You needn’t show concern, Mr. Stevens. From
what I have heard of the butchers on the battlefields, I am quite
sure I would have formed an ill opinion of surgeons, as well, had I
been wounded.”

And now he had nothing to feel but heartily
ashamed of his antagonism toward this kind yet plain young
nurse.

“However, Lord Huntington, most learned
gentlemen know there are exceptions to every rule,” she said.

“Perhaps I’m not a learned. “

“As you are in great pain, I shall not argue
the point. I would, however, ask your forbearance and courage in a
short meeting with my father. Surely a man of your great heroism
could endure that much?” she asked, finally displaying some
emotion, which allowed Nicholas to lessen his guilt.

“I shan’t allow you to bully me, Miss
Kittridge.”

Nicholas noticed Charley tugging on Miss
Kittridge’s gown. She turned her ear to his dirty, cupped hand. A
smile creased the corners of her mouth before she hid it with her
hand.