Chapter 1 - The Crooked Hem and the Stranger in the Rain
At Thornwood Manor, poverty had learned to disguise itself as dignity.
From the road, the old Gloucestershire house still appeared respectable. Ivy covered the stone walls. Two chimneys rose above the slate roof. The iron gates still carried the Ashworth crest, though rust had eaten through half the family motto. But inside, damp crept beneath the wallpaper, curtains had been turned and patched until there was no good side left, and Aunt Beatrice counted coal as if each black lump were a sovereign.
Cordelia Ashworth sat beside the drawing-room window with a faded green dress spread across her knees.
She was twenty-six, penniless, unmarried, and—according to Aunt Beatrice—possessed of nearly every quality a woman ought not possess.
Her hem was crooked.
Cordelia knew it.
She also knew her fingers were too numb to make it straight.
The fire across the room consisted of three grudging coals, and Beatrice had already warned the maid not to add another before supper.
“You cannot attend Mrs. Ellsworth’s gathering looking like that,” Beatrice said from behind her household ledger.
Cordelia pulled another length of thread through the fabric.
“Then perhaps Mrs. Ellsworth will be grateful for something interesting to discuss.”
The scratching of Beatrice’s pen stopped.
Cordelia knew that silence.
It had lived in the house longer than she had.
Beatrice slowly lifted her head. Silver hair framed a face that age had made elegant rather than gentle.
“You imagine insolence makes you remarkable.”
“No. I imagine it makes unpleasant conversations shorter.”
“Cordelia.”
Cordelia continued sewing.
Beatrice closed the ledger.
That was worse.
“You have rejected or offended every man foolish enough to consider you.”
Cordelia glanced at her.
“I do not remember receiving so many proposals.”
“They did not remain long enough to make them.”
“That may have saved everyone considerable embarrassment.”
Beatrice’s mouth tightened.
“Lord Danbury’s nephew has two thousand pounds a year.”
“He also spoke for forty minutes about cloud formations.”
“He could have spoken about turnips for forty hours and you should have smiled.”
“I am afraid my face refuses certain forms of dishonesty.”
Beatrice rose.
Her cane struck the floor once.
“You have no dowry. No property. No father to arrange your future. You eat beneath my roof because I allow it.”
Cordelia’s fingers stopped.
The needle remained suspended above the cloth.
Beatrice moved closer.
“You think you can afford pride. You cannot.”
Cordelia looked at the three coals glowing weakly in the fireplace.
She could tolerate hunger.
Cold.
Mended sleeves.
She could even tolerate Beatrice reminding her twice a week that charity had purchased every meal Cordelia had eaten since her father died.
But there were days when endurance felt less like strength and more like slowly disappearing.
“No gentleman wants a woman who argues with him,” Beatrice continued. “Certainly not one without money.”
Cordelia bit through the thread.
“I shall keep that wisdom in mind.”
“You mock because you know I am right.”
Cordelia carefully placed the dress aside.
“I am going to repair the boundary fence.”
Beatrice stared at the windows.
Rain-colored clouds pressed against the afternoon.
“There is a storm coming.”
“Excellent.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the weather and I are in agreement.”
She stood, pulled on her worn wool cloak, and left before Beatrice could stop her.
Outside, the wind struck hard enough to steal her breath.
Cordelia welcomed it.
The boundary fence beside the post road had leaned dangerously for weeks. One rail had finally split from its joint.
She knelt in the mud and pushed.
Nothing.
She pushed harder.
The timber refused to move.
Her palm slipped, scraping against wet wood.
“Wonderful.”
She stood and kicked the post.
A man’s voice came from behind her.
“I suspect it has already learned its lesson.”
Cordelia froze.
She turned.
A large black carriage had slid partly into the ditch.
Mud covered the crest painted across its door.
Beside it stood a stranger.
Tall.
Dark-haired.
Expensively dressed despite being soaked by the rain.
His greatcoat would probably have paid Thornwood’s grocery account for six months. Polished boots were sinking into mud, yet he looked less irritated by his ruined clothing than amused by the woman who had just assaulted a fence.
Cordelia disliked him immediately.
Not because he had done anything particularly offensive.
Because wealthy men usually required very little time to begin.
“Did you need something?” she asked.
His eyebrow rose.
“My carriage has developed a disagreement with your road.”
“That is between your carriage and the road.”
A surprised laugh escaped him.
It transformed his severe face.
Cordelia wished it had not.
“The wheel is trapped.”
“I noticed.”
“You are not especially sympathetic.”
“I spent my supply of sympathy on the fence.”
The man glanced at the broken rail.
“It will not fit because the timber has swollen.”
“I know.”
“You need more leverage.”
“I also know that.”
“And yet you are kicking it.”
“That was emotional rather than architectural.”
For several seconds, the stranger simply stared at her.
Then he removed his gloves.
“May I?”
Cordelia should have said no.
Instead, she stepped aside.
Together they positioned themselves against the rail.
“On three,” he said.
They shoved.
The timber groaned.
Mud splattered Cordelia’s skirt.
The stranger’s boots disappeared almost to the ankle.
Then the rail slammed back into position.
Cordelia released it.
“There.”
The stranger looked unnecessarily pleased.
“You are welcome.”
“I had not thanked you.”
“I was anticipating it.”
“That seems dangerous.”
“Why?”
“You do not appear predictable.”
“Neither does the weather, yet people discuss it constantly.”
He smiled again.
Cordelia hated that smile slightly less than the first one.
Rain began falling harder.
He glanced toward Thornwood’s distant roof.
“Do you live there?”
She followed his gaze.
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps you might save a stranded traveler from pneumonia.”
“No.”
His expression changed.
“No?”
“There is an inn in Thornwood village.”
“I saw no village.”
“Continue east for two miles. When you smell burnt onions and hear someone losing an argument, you have reached the Boar and Whistle.”
“You are sending me to an inn?”
“Yes.”
“In this weather?”
Cordelia looked pointedly at him.
“You seem well equipped with a coat.”
For the first time, he appeared genuinely speechless.
It gave her unreasonable satisfaction.
“Most people,” he said slowly, “would invite a traveler inside.”
“Most people do not live with my aunt.”
“I have survived difficult relatives.”
“Have you survived interrogation concerning your income, ancestry, marital prospects, political opinions and preferred number of children before finishing your first cup of tea?”
He considered.
“Perhaps the inn is safer.”
“Considerably.”
She pulled her cloak around herself.
He watched her.
There was something strange in his gray eyes now.
Curiosity, perhaps.
Cordelia had seen wealthy gentlemen look at women with desire.
Assessment.
Condescension.
She had never liked any of those expressions.
This was different.
It unsettled her more.
“You have not told me your name,” he said.
“You never asked before.”
“I am asking now.”
Cordelia glanced toward the carriage.
A servant was approaching from the distant bend in the road.
The stranger would soon have assistance.
Her work here was finished.
“No,” she said.
“No?”
“You do not need my name to reach the village.”
She turned.
“Wait.”
Something in his voice made her look back.
Rain streamed from his dark hair.
Mud ruined his immaculate boots.
He stood beside the broken fence looking like an aristocratic portrait someone had accidentally left outdoors.
“Will I see you again?” he asked.
Cordelia almost laughed.
“You do not even know who I am.”
“That is currently the difficulty.”
“Then I suggest becoming accustomed to disappointment.”
She walked away.
He remained standing there.
Cordelia did not know that the man she had abandoned ankle-deep in Gloucestershire mud was Julian Blackwood, the Duke of Ravensworth.
She did not know that women in London arranged entire seasons around the possibility that he might dance with them once.
She certainly did not know that before that rainy afternoon ended, the Duke would ask three separate people who lived at Thornwood Manor.
And none of them would give him an answer he liked.
The opening situation—the impoverished Thornwood household, Beatrice’s pressure concerning marriage, Cordelia repairing the fence, the stranded black carriage, and her sharp encounter with the unidentified Duke—follows the supplied story premise.
By six that evening, Julian was seated beside the Boar and Whistle’s smoking fireplace while his valet attempted to rescue his boots.
“Who lives at Thornwood?” Julian asked the innkeeper.
The man polishing a glass stopped.
“Thornwood Manor?”
“Yes.”
The innkeeper looked toward the other customers.
The room became strangely quiet.
“Mrs. Beatrice Ashworth,” he finally said.
“And?”
A woman near the hearth whispered something.
Julian heard only one word.
Poor.
The innkeeper lowered his voice.
“Her niece lives there too.”
Julian leaned back.
“Name?”
“Miss Cordelia Ashworth.”
Cordelia.
The name suited her.
Sharp at first.
Unexpectedly soft at the end.
“Is something wrong?” Julian asked.
The innkeeper hesitated.
“Depends who you ask, Your Grace.”
Julian’s gaze sharpened.
“What does that mean?”
Before the man could answer, the door opened.
Wind extinguished two candles.
A soaked messenger stumbled inside carrying a leather case sealed with black wax.
He scanned the room.
“His Grace, the Duke of Ravensworth?”
Julian raised one hand.
The messenger hurried toward him.
“This arrived from London. Marked urgent.”
Julian broke the seal.
He read the first page.
Then the second.
The faint amusement Cordelia had inspired disappeared entirely.
His solicitor had discovered irregularities in the purchase of several properties bordering Ravensworth land.
One name appeared repeatedly.
Thornwood Manor.
Another name appeared beneath it.
Sir Percival Vale.
And at the bottom of the page was a warning.
If Vale succeeded in enforcing the outstanding debts attached to Thornwood, the property—and everyone dependent upon it—could be removed before winter.
Julian slowly folded the letter.
Outside, rain hammered against the windows.
Somewhere beyond that darkness, Cordelia Ashworth was walking back toward a house she did not realize she might soon lose.
May you like
And Julian suddenly had a reason to see her again.
A reason far more dangerous than curiosity.
