M&B / Harlequin Historical
Extract..........
CHAPTER ONE
The drawing room of Knightscote Lodge was considered by many to be
the ideal room for a cold winter's night, the beamed ceiling and polished oak
panelling being declared perfect by the romantically minded. Certainly with a
cheerful blaze in the huge fireplace and the golden glow of the candles, the
room looked warm and welcoming. However,
its present occupant was sunk low in his armchair, his booted feet resting on
the hearth as he stared moodily into the fire, a half-filled wineglass held casually
between the long, lean fingers of one hand.
It had started to snow earlier in the day and now it was swirling
against the tiny diamond panes of the windows, driven by the howling wind. Sir Lawrence Daunton raised his head as a
particularly fierce gust rattled the casements. It occurred to him that if the
blizzard continued no-one would be able to get along the lane for days.
'Good.'
He muttered the word aloud as
he drained his glass.
It was Christmas Eve and when he had ridden down to his hunting lodge
on the edge of Exmoor a few days' earlier he had two objects in mind. The first was to
avoid all company during the festive season; the other was to get very, very
drunk. With the second of these worthy aims in mind, he reached for the bottle
standing on the table at his elbow. It was empty and he was making his way to
the servants' quarters in search of another when he heard a loud hammering at
the door. Lawrence stopped.
'Who the hell can that be?'
With great deliberation he put down the empty bottle and picked up a
lantern. His footsteps rang on the flagstones as he walked to the door. It took
him a moment to wrestle with the locks and the catch but at last he flung the
door open.
A blast of icy air took his breath away.
As did the vision standing in the shelter of the porch.
Before him was a young woman enveloped in a powder-blue velvet
travelling cloak. The hood was edged in white fur that framed a pale, delicate
face with a straight nose, generous mouth and a pair of blue-grey eyes fringed
with dark lashes.
All this Lawrence took in immediately, but even as he blinked to see if the vision
would disappear, she stepped quickly into the hall, saying, 'Do not keep me
standing in the snow! Pray tell your mistress that Mrs Westerhill would like to
see her. Immediately.' This last word she added a little sharply, for Lawrence was still
staring at her. She continued, 'And my groom is outside with the horses. Perhaps before you shut the door you could
direct him to the stables.'
Lawrence blinked. A
gust of wind sent another flurry of snow into the hall where it fell gently
onto the dark flags and dissolved.
'Yes. Excuse me.' Quickly he stepped outside, pulling the door
closed behind him, and ran across to where the hapless groom was holding the
reins of two horses. A few words of
instruction and Lawrence hurried back into the house.
The hall was empty, but a trail of wet footprints led off towards the
drawing room, where he found the lady warming her hands by the fire. She had discarded
her cloak to reveal a high-necked gown of deep blue wool, unrelieved by any
ornament save a small edging of white lace at her throat and wrists. The
severity of the gown was alleviated by her abundant honey-brown hair, which
fell in soft ringlets to her shoulders.
'Well? Have you told Mrs
Anstey that I am here?'
'Er…no.'
She straightened, fixing him with a frowning look.
'This is Knightshill
Hall?'
'Alas no,' he replied. 'This is Knightscote Lodge. Knightshill is on the Stoke Pero road.'
'Oh heavens. Then this is not
Mrs Anstey's House.'
'No. You must have missed the turning.'
Lawrence watched as
her small white teeth momentarily gripped a bottom lip that was as full and red
as a ripe cherry. Her eyes travelled about the room and for the first time she
seemed aware of its untidy state.
'Is there a mistress in this house?'
Lawrence's eyes
danced. 'Not at the moment.'
'Then perhaps you would inform your master…' she trailed off as she
looked up and read the merriment in his face. 'Oh heavens.' Her hands came up
to her mouth and her eyes with those ridiculously long lashes stared at him in
horror. 'Oh, pray do not tell me you
are master here.'
'Very well,' he said promptly, 'I won't.'
Her eyes twinkled but she said severely, 'Pray do not be
absurd. If you are the master, then tell
me your name.'
'You do not know?'
She shook her head.
'I must appear dreadfully ignorant, sir, but I do not venture abroad
often: we keep very much to ourselves.'
'I am Daunton,' he announced, watching her closely. 'Lawrence Daunton.'
Immediately the humour left her face and she retreated a step.
'Rake Daunton?'
He grinned, saying with some satisfaction. 'So you do know me.'