Secluded with the Rogue

1. Jack Frost Nipping

Jack Frost Nipping

“B ut I thought this was Old St. Vincentshire!” Delia Somerset’s heart fell. “I never would have gotten off the mail coach otherwise.”

The distracted innkeeper pushed his spectacles up to the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “Terribly sorry, Miss. You got off one stop too soon. This is Half-Moon Village. Would you care to rent a room for the night? I’ve only one left, and I doubt that’ll be the case much longer. Storm’s on the horizon, just in time for the holidays.”

But Delia had expected to arrive at her new employer’s estate today. Thinking she was near the end of her journey, she’d spent her last half guinea on a pair of gloves in the most adorable shop earlier that morning. All she had left were three shillings.

“How much for the room?”

“Seven shillings.” The man raised his brows. “Do you want it?”

She’d been a fool to spend so much on something so impractical. But the gloves were made of the most beautiful fawn-colored leather, and they had… called out to her.

“I’ve three shillings. Could I possibly impose on you?—”

“I’m afraid not, Miss. Not when the next traveler who stops will give me ten.”

Delia adjusted her spectacles and glanced around at the taproom’s patrons. Not a single respectable lady in sight. And although none of the men appeared to be outright scoundrels, Delia was also painfully aware that none of them appeared to be proper gentlemen.

The trouble was, even if the innkeeper were willing to rent her a cot or small room for her three shillings, she would not have the money to purchase another ticket for tomorrow’s mail coach.

“How much farther to Old St. Vincentshire?” she asked.

“Half a day’s walk. If you hurry, you ought to make it before dark. But I wouldn’t recommend a lady such as yourself go alone.” He pushed up his glasses a second time from where they’d slid to the tip of his bulbous nose, disapproval evident in his stare. Delia thought she might have even spied a hint of concern.

She loosened her reticule and pulled out the very last of her monies. “I’m expected at Thorncliffe Abbey to take up my position as the Countess’s companion. If you’d be so kind as to credit me the difference, I’ll send the balance as soon as I arrive.” Indeed, Lady St. Vincent ought to be willing to advance her a portion of her salary under such dire circumstances.

Oughtn’t she?

A cold rush of air swept behind her when the door opened to allow two more men to stomp across to address the innkeeper. “Any rooms available?” They didn’t bother to wait for Delia to step aside but simply spoke over her.

Which wasn’t an unusual occurrence for her. She’d become quite used to being considered unimportant… invisible.

“The last one.” The man behind the desk dismissed Delia in turn as he directed his attention toward the new arrivals.

“We’ll take it.”

Watching one of the newcomers reach into his pocket, Delia resigned herself to walking the remaining distance that afternoon. She had short legs, but she could move quickly. She would hurry. She would enjoy spending time outside rather than inside a stuffy old coach.

She hefted her valise again and then quickly ducked outside into the brisk wind. When she tipped her head back to look at the sky, a single snowflake swirled and landed on her cheek.

Less than ten minutes later, as she marched up the road in the direction the mail coach had departed, flurries swirled all around her.

Delia consoled herself that at least she had a decent pair of gloves to wear—even if they weren’t all that practical.

The snow would pass quickly. England rarely had a decent wintery storm around Christmas. Some cold rain perhaps, and a few brisk days, but nothing more.

She buried her chin in her cloak and, marching along, watched as the snowflakes dusted the dirt road an icy white. She should have taken her chances at the inn.

She should not have bought her gloves.

After slipping twice, nearly landing on her bum, she had no choice but to slow her pace considerably. But the crusty layer of snow was just thick enough to be treacherous.

Which meant she’d arrive in Old St. Vincentshire all that much later.

Trudging along in the cold with nothing but her thoughts for company, Delia contemplated this new chapter of her life—which so far was not proving nearly as easy as the first had been.

There would be no more balls.

No new gowns. No garden parties or musicales. Not as an invited guest, anyhow. Perhaps by default, she would attend as an older woman’s companion, but it was time she gave up her hopes of finding a husband and having a home and family of her own.

She huffed and then most unfortunately, when her foot next landed, it shot right out from under her. With a most unladylike squeal, arms swinging wildly in the air, she sent her valise flying and then landed hard on the road—her backside stinging as a result.

The dirt wasn’t quite frozen, and when she went to push herself up, her beautiful new gloves sank into the mud.

If she weren’t the perpetual good girl, she’d be cursing up a storm. “Drat,” she huffed instead. And then, “Fiddlesticks!”

All the genuinely offensive obscenities eluded her when she needed them most.

Turning carefully onto her knees, covered in sludge now, Delia managed to find her feet again. As she glanced around in search of her valise, a gust of wind lifted her bonnet, which must have come untied sometime between there and the inn.

Delia reached for it, but the cruel wintery gust was quicker than she, sending her bonnet soaring across the meadow, white ties floating behind like a kite in spring. It hovered, giving her pause to consider taking chase, but then disappeared over the trees.

Under any other circumstances she might have found the whimsical spectacle entertaining, but not today—not with the cold air biting at the tips of her ears and a snowy squall undoing her coiffure.

She closed her eyes. “One, two, three, four.” She didn’t want to be emotional about her predicament. It was her own fault, after all, for not paying close enough attention to the mail coach driver’s announcement, and also for spending most of her money on her new gloves.

Which were now covered with mud.

Delia brushed her hair away from her face, finding it hanging loose, and did her best to weave it into a single thick braid. If she allowed it to continue thrashing about her face like this, she’d never see where she was going.

And darkness wasn’t far off. Trying not to panic, Delia retrieved her belongings and redoubled her efforts along the road.

Should she turn back? But there was no guarantee the innkeeper would take pity on her this time. And since she couldn’t afford to pay, she continued.

Meanwhile, the wind increased and she was beginning to question if she was even walking in the right direction.

She should have turned back.

For as long as Delia remembered, she’d been an optimistic person. She’d hoped for the best, found silver linings in rain clouds.

And recently, upon hearing that her brother had squandered their family’s fortune, she’d determined to view her position as Lady St. Vincent’s companion to be no more than a new challenge.

Trudging through what was quickly turning into a blizzard, Delia felt her face turning numb while ice formed in her hair. And as if that wasn’t discouraging enough, her spectacles had fogged to the degree that she could barely make out where she was going.

Was this to be her life now?

If she were one of the heroines in the romance novels she enjoyed reading, right about now a handsome prince would drive up in a fantastic carriage. He would scoop her into his arms, place her inside of his luxurious conveyance, cover her with a quilt, and set her feet on his heated brick.

He would, of course, fall madly in love with her at first sight.

Because he wouldn’t notice the mud on her gown—nor would he notice that her hair was straggling down her back. And he would think that her spectacles were charming.

This honorable gentleman would see past her plain-looking nose and her too-rounded figure and recognize that she was beautiful inside.

And then he would take her to his castle on a hill, make her his princess, and eventually pay off all of her family’s debts. Although, Delia paused in her most delicious ponderings, her handsome prince would insist that Bartholomew, her brother, atone for having ruined their family so selfishly. Nothing too horrible, mind you. But Bartholomew would have to face some unpleasantness that would teach him a lesson.

Her prince would have golden hair and eyes the color of a summer sky. He would be charming to her mother and father and kind—but not overly so—to her sister Rachel.

Delia even allowed herself to imagine that her sister, who wasn’t always the most pleasant of persons, might find herself feeling slightly jealous of her younger sister.

Of whom she’d demeaned at least several times a day for as long as Delia could remember.

A biting gust whipped her out of the fantasy that had almost begun to warm her. And realizing that moisture had seeped through her well-worn half-boots, genuine fear struck her.

Her coat, although made of warm wool, hadn’t been designed to protect a lady from such dire conditions. And it didn’t help matters that she hadn’t thought to wear a scarf—or that she’d lost her bonnet.

Hopelessness swept through her. There was no silver lining in these predicaments.

This was to be Bartholomew’s punishment—the death of his youngest sister. Come springtime, a farmer tending his sheep would discover her decaying body.

No.

It would be frozen.

The cold winter temperatures would have preserved her flesh. She would be a lifeless but frozen beauty.

The local prince would insist she be laid out in his castle for all the locals to come and admire. Her family would hear of the frozen princess, and when they viewed her lifeless loveliness, they would break down weeping at the tragedy that had stolen her life.

Bartholomew would forever grieve for having given into his weakness for gambling. He would turn away from his vices and live out the remainder of his life…

In service to the church.

Yes.

Delia would have smiled at such a thought if her lips weren’t numb from the cold.

A garbled sob echoed, and Delia startled to realize it had come from her.

She was going to die. She was going to succumb to nature’s fury, and no one would care.

Not even her handsome prince.