Page 41 of It's a British Christmas

Papa shook his head, and pointed to the door. Although she was not surprised at his words, it still annoyed her, since even though she was an unmarried miss, there wasn’t anything untoward about a man’s chest. But then, again, she would have no way of knowing that since, as the local rector’s daughter, her upbringing had been scrupulous. She and her elder sister, Angeline, had been well supervised, and reminded endlessly, that as representatives of their papa, they must always conduct themselves in a proper and appropriate manner, lest any aspersion be cast on their reputations.

Angeline was now happily married to a watchmaker, residing in London, and the mother of two lively boys. Evelyn loved her nephews and wished she could spend more time with them, which wasn’t possible, given their distance. Angeline’s husband, Mr. Saxon, was a pleasant man, twelve or so years older than her sister. They seemed happy, but Evelyn wanted so much more when she married. From the time she was a little girl, she dreamed of finding a man with whom she would share undying love. She often chastised herself for her foolishness, but the dream had never faded.

To occupy herself while her parents worked on the gentleman’s injuries, she wandered to the kitchen and dished up a bowl of stew bubbling over the fire. She sliced a wide chunk of freshly made bread and sat at the comfortable wooden table to enjoy her meal.

As she ate, she considered what she wanted in a husband. So far, she had not found it in any of the young men in her village. There were several who had asked permission to pay her court, but after one or two outings, she’d done what was necessary to discourage them.

Thanks to her papa, Eve was a smart, well-educated woman, since he felt both girls and boys should receive proper schooling. Eve believed if she married a man who only conversed about grain prices and the local weather, she would shrivel up inside and die.

She had read all the books in Papa’s library, and was always eager to find something new. She made occasional visits to the small bookstore in the village, and once a year Papa took her to London to visit Angeline, and while they were there, they stopped at the bookstore where she was permitted to purchase one book. The pages of most of her books were worn thin from many readings.

The sound of her parents’ low murmurs was interrupted by a loud shout, followed by a low groan, obviously coming from their patient. Hopefully Mama had extracted the bullet, and the poor man could rest now.

The warm room, her full belly, and the glass of ale she’d drank with her dinner all worked to make it difficult to keep her eyes open. She wanted to make sure she was here when Mama was finished, so she could attend the man. For now, however, she laid her cheek on her folded hands, and closed her eyes.

Only for a minute.

Adam, the Duke of Manchester, let out a scream as the pain in his shoulder erupted into body-burning agony. He hoped the sucking sound he’d heard was the removal of the bullet. Sweat poured down his face as the woman hovering over him, said, “We got it, Papa.”

He frowned. The woman’s voice was different, deeper, and older than the woman who’d found him on the road and dragged him to her wagon. She’d been a pretty little thing, something he’d noticed even though he was fighting unconsciousness and excruciating pain at the time. He opened his eyes, and in the dim light focused on an older woman leaning over him. In some way, she resembled how he remembered the girl. Her mother, perhaps?

An older man held a candle up and looked at him. “Now you lie still, my lord. Mama will sew you up, and you’ll be able to rest. She’s done this many times before.” The man had a pleasant, soothing face, which helped to calm him.

Adam had no idea where he was. From what he remembered, he’d been returning home to his London townhouse after negotiating marriage contracts with his soon-to-be bride’s father, Lord Fenster, when he’d been accosted by highwaymen. He’d fought as best he could, but there were simply too many of them, and after one shot to his shoulder, he was down. The men took everything on him, his money pouch, timepiece, and even the ring his mother had removed from her husband’s hand before he’d been buried. After slapping his horse, Dionysius, the highwaymen all took off, leaving him to bleed to death on the road.

Then the angel happened by. At least that was how he remembered her. Pale, creamy skin, with a light dusting of freckles over her nose, silky light brown hair tucked up into a straw bonnet, and hazel eyes that viewed him with concern and caring. So incredibly different from how women normally viewed him. Power and title. Avarice and desire. Not passion for him as a person, but for what he could do for them.

Inside the bedroom and out.

At nine and twenty he had finally reconciled himself to having a marriage befitting his station. He’d already dismissed all the women his mother had presented to him, save Lady Ann Benson, who he would make an offer for once the contracts were signed.

For years, he’d been subjected to one giggling, conniving, speculating debutante after another, along with their scheming mamas. The lonesome widows and bored matrons eyed him with a different sort of speculation, but he’d always depended on a mistress for his needs. No other men’s wives, no messy entanglements, and no tears and hysteria when he gave them their final piece of jewelry and moved on.

On the other hand, as far as prospective brides went, he’d found Lady Ann at least tolerable. She was sweet, quiet, and skilled in manners, dancing, music, and would make an excellent duchess. That she didn’t stir his blood was a concern, but he would not find it a chore to bed her often enough to secure heirs.

So went the life of the nobility.

“My lord, if I can just move you a bit, now that the sewing is done, I need to bind your wound.” The older woman put some type of salve on a clean piece of fabric, that she gently placed against the wound, and then wrapped it around his chest, her husband shifting him slightly to assist her.

Once they finished, the man drew up a sheet to cover his chest. “My daughter will be wanting to check on you, and bring you some broth. She’s a maiden, so you must remain covered.”

“I apologize for my lack of manners. May I ask who you are? I am very grateful to your daughter, and both of you, for taking care of me.”

“It is what is expected, my lord.” The man smoothed out the sheet. “I am Reverend Joshua Allen, rector of Trinity Church here in this village in Worcestershire. This is my wife, Mrs. Allen, and our daughter, Miss Eve Allen is the one who brought you here.”

Despite his pain, he grinned. Adam and Eve? He shook his head. No, it meant nothing. He did not believe in fate.

They obviously recognized him as a peer since they continued to address him as ‘my lord’. He had no desire to correct them, and have them fawning all over him if they knew he was a duke. Instead, he said, “I am Lord Manchester. I was traveling to my townhouse in London when I was set upon by highwaymen.”

Rarely did residents of small villages travel more than twenty miles from their home their entire lives and had very little reason to study Debrett’s Peerage. With that in mind, there was no more than a slight chance these good people would recognize him as the Duke of Manchester.

“I will send my daughter in now to tend to you, my lord.”

The couple gathered up bloody cloths, bowls, and instruments Mrs. Allen had used to remove the bullet. Adam watched them leave, wishing he could sleep to alleviate the pain. No sooner had he closed his eyes than the door opened again and the angel stepped through.

She carried a candle, a bowl, and tucked under her arm, a small brown bottle. Even though she offered no smile as she approached him, he enjoyed watching her, the slight blush to her cheeks, the way she raised her chin. “Good evening, my lord. I hope now that the worst is over, you might take a bit of broth? I also have some laudanum to help with the pain.” Despite the pleasant words, her eyes were cool.

He’d never been in a position like this, lying in a bed with a lovely woman hovering over him, and unable to pull her down, remove her clothing, and kiss every inch of her body. Of course, in addition to excruciating pain and him being almost betrothed, she was the daughter of the Reverend Allen. Not someone to dally with, even if she wasn’t a lady of his class.