Scandal Becomes Her. Shirlee Busbee

back against the wall, her legs curled beneath her, she sat watching the lightning as it danced and dazzled in the darkness. She shivered from the cold, her torn and bruised feet were throbbing, and she was conscious of a great weariness stealing over her. At least the intensity of the storm was lessening, she thought drowsily, the crash and boom of the thunder just a faint growl in the distance, the lightning no longer so terrifyingly near.

      A huge yawn overtook her and she blinked sleepily. Tynedale was still a danger to her, but she was beaten. She could run no farther and it was possible, indeed likely, that she had given him the slip. Her mouth twisted. Of course, it was also possible that the road in front of the cottage was the Great Road North that Tynedale had taken from London and that at any moment he would come driving up to the front door of the cottage. She yawned again. She didn’t give a damn. She had run her race and could not run any longer. Her head dipped and a second later her body followed. She slept sprawled on the rushes, her small frame concealed by the heavy folds of the cloak.

      Cursing the storm, his stepmother and particularly his stepsister, Julian urged his horse forward. Of all the devilish inconvenient, inconsiderate things to have happened! He still didn’t quite believe that he was out in the black of night, far from London in the wee hours of the morning, riding along in the midst of one of the most powerful storms he had seen in many a year. Blast Elizabeth! If she was going to make a runaway match with Carver, why the hell couldn’t she have chosen less inclement weather?

      The wind tore at his cloak, and rain blew down on him while the lightning and thunder made his horse shy and dance crookedly down the road. He didn’t blame the horse—he was miserable, too. And wet. And tired. The jagged streaks of lightning exploding across the black sky did not help the situation, the bay stallion snorting and half-rearing at each strike. It was a thoroughly unpleasant ride.

      At this hour, Julian thought bitterly, he should have been at home, warm and asleep in his own bed, and he would have been if Diana hadn’t fallen on his neck the instant he had returned home. As he tried to disentangle himself from Diana’s stranglehold, he became aware that his spacious hall seemed awash with people. Meeting Julian’s eyes, Dibble, his butler, had sniffed and declared that he knew nothing of the affair. Elizabeth’s maid suddenly left off wringing her hands and wailed that she had only been obeying Miss Elizabeth’s orders by not delivering Elizabeth’s note to Lady Wyndham sooner. Clinging to him, Diana had shoved the tear-damp note under his nose, sobbing that he must save her baby. Now.

      Ignoring the note that Diana seemed insistent upon thrusting up his nose, Julian pushed it aside and taking Diana by the arm, escorted her into the morning room and got the tale out of her. It seemed that Miss Forest, chaperoned by Lady Milliard, Julian’s great-aunt, had not yet returned from the Ellingsons’ ball. The hour was not late and Lady Wyndham, having attended a social function of her own, had only returned home a short while ago. She had not been alarmed by Elizabeth’s absence until Elizabeth’s maid delivered to her, not ten minutes previously, a note stating that she was running away with Captain Carver.

      Julian was disinclined to set out in pursuit. His ride home in the sedan chair he had hailed upon leaving Boodle’s had already acquainted him with the fact that there was a wicked storm moving through the area. And if Elizabeth was damn silly enough to throw away her future on Carver, let her! But Diana’s sobs and pleadings finally overcame his common sense and convinced him that it was his duty to stop such an imprudent match.

      Grumbling and muttering, he ordered his horse brought round and changed his clothes. Within a matter of minutes, a broad-brimmed hat pulled across his forehead and swathed in a many-caped greatcoat, he was riding hell-bent for leather out of London. As the weather did its best to make his ride a nightmare, and he doggedly pressed forward, his thoughts were not kind toward his stepsister. In fact, he rather thought that he would beat Elizabeth soundly and throttle young Carver when he caught up with them.

      The weather continued to worsen and he considered seeking shelter until the bulk of the storm passed, but the need for haste was imperative if he was to overtake Elizabeth and her gallant. The weather and the condition of the road, which was slowly turning into a slick, muddy slop, made for treacherous going and Julian cursed again the fate that had sent him out on a night like this. His only comfort was the knowledge that Carver and Elizabeth were somewhere out there ahead of him in the storm and he bloody-well hoped that they were having as uncomfortable a time of it as he was.

      He smiled grimly from beneath the brim of his drenched beaver hat and thought about how this thankless task seemed a fitting end to an evening that had gone sour from the moment he had laid eyes on Tynedale, at Boodle’s. Oh, the time had passed pleasantly enough, but even when he had appeared at his most relaxed and urbane, his mind had been on Tynedale and his nephew’s senseless death. The anniversary of Daniel’s suicide was just over a month away and he suspected that he would be able to face it with far more equanimity if Tynedale had been brought to justice.

      But before he could seal Tynedale’s fate, he thought wearily, he had to catch his erring stepsister and rescue her, whether she wished for rescue or not, from the dashing Captain Carver.

      Catching sight of a vehicle resting drunkenly half-in, half-out of a ditch, his pulse quickened. Could luck be on his side? Had the lovers been thwarted by the storm?

      Pulling his horse to a stop, Julian stared down at the curricle, disgust on his face. Only a damn silly fool, and a lovesick one at that, would have chosen a curricle in which to make a runaway match—and on a night like this. He studied the scene in the flashes of lightning. The pair of horses that had been pulling the curricle were gone and so were the inhabitants of the vehicle.

      The sky lit by an incandescent arrow of lightning, he looked down the road and smiled. He would have them now. Knowing Elizabeth, he thought it unlikely that she would relish riding astride through a raging storm. They had probably holed up at the nearest house or tavern—and that, he concluded, was the first reasonable decision they had made tonight.

      It was a desolate stretch of road that he was riding along and after he had ridden another few miles, his confidence began to flag. He did not think that he missed any signs of habitation, but in the dark and the rain it was possible.

      A blinding flash of lightning sent his horse screaming and rearing up in the air. Dancing on two hind feet the stallion could not find purchase on the slippery road and despite Julian’s effort to control him, horse and rider went over backward.

      Instinctively Julian kicked free of the stirrups and dived to the right. The last thing he wanted was for the stallion to come down on him. Both he and the horse landed hard and Julian winced at the pain that bunched in his shoulder as he hit the muddy ground. Horse and man immediately scrambled to their feet and ignoring his painful shoulder, Julian lunged for the dangling reins. The stallion shied and spun on his heels and Julian watched in furious dismay as the horse disappeared into the darkness.

      Slapping his ruined hat against his leather breeches, Julian swore. Bloody hell! It had only needed this.

      All thoughts of Elizabeth vanished. Finding shelter and seeing how badly he had hurt his shoulder were now his first priorities. Knowing that he had passed the last sign of habitation miles back, there was nothing to be gained from following after the horse. Resigned to a miserable walk, he set off in the opposite direction taken by his fleeing mount.

      If he had thought he had been miserable previously, he had not realized how much more miserable he could become, but he soon learned. The mud dragged at his boots, the wind buffeted him unmercifully and the rain was incessant. Never mind the idea of being struck by a falling tree or lightning—by the time he had fought his way two miles away from where he had parted company with his horse he almost welcomed it.

      He had just begun to consider seeking shelter in the forest when he realized that he recognized the area—particularly that half-dead, gnarled oak tree at the edge of the road. Unless he was mistaken, there was an abandoned toll keeper’s cottage just a short distance ahead. Bending his head and shoulders into the wind, he plowed forward. Finally making it around a bend in the road, his persistence was rewarded; through the blowing rain, he glimpsed the building he sought.

      He