The Marriage Rescue. Joanna Johnson

with vexing regularity since their encounter three days before. The memory had troubled him to begin with—what was he doing, allowing a woman so much space in his mind?—until he had reassured himself that it meant nothing.

      It was simple human nature to admire a pretty face, and that was surely all his idle thoughts amounted to. Couldn’t a man enjoy the mental picture of a handsome woman without it meaning anything more? He was in little danger of ever seeing her again—and besides, his disinclination for spending too long in the company of young ladies ran deep.

      Thoughts as to her suitability as a wife were as laughable as they were entirely hypothetical. Still... She wouldn’t be self-centred and idle like the women of his class, he was sure of it. She certainly wouldn’t spend too much money on dresses and amusements—in a stark contrast to the wasteful extravagance of the gentry. Of course it helped that she was beautiful, but a beautiful wife was often more trouble than she was worth—and besides, it wasn’t as though he had any intention of loving a woman. He doubted he was even capable anymore, his heart having twice been battered by thoughtless rejection.

      The only female with any sort of claim to his affections was little Ophelia, and he resolved there and then never to allow her to be moulded into an upper-class Miss. If she were to be subjected to endless lessons in etiquette and how to be a true lady he feared his sister would one day become conditioned to be more concerned with herself than other people. Just like his mother.

      Edward grimaced. Now you’re getting maudlin, he chided himself. Ophelia was nothing like the first mistress of Blackwell Hall and thank goodness for it. His sister would never be so cruel as to abandon her own child and run away with another man, leaving without so much as a goodbye for the boy she’d left behind, who had spent months waiting in vain for her return and defending her reputation with his fists.

      At least she’d done him one favour—even if accidentally. From her harsh teaching he had learned a valuable lesson: he knew never to fall in love with a woman lest she leave and shatter his heart all over again. That was his mother’s legacy.

      Letitia had been the only one to break through, and Edward had dared to believe she might be a better woman than the one who had given him life. But instead she had proved herself almost a copy of his mother, and after her duplicity he had rebuilt his defences with even higher walls.

      Edward drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair as thoughts of Letitia flitted through his mind. The notion that he had once thought she could be his bride seemed so ridiculous now he might almost have seen the humour in it if she hadn’t ripped open the emotional scars he’d borne since childhood.

      She knew how Mother’s leaving had affected me, and yet she betrayed me in exactly the same way Mother betrayed Father.

      If what he’d felt for Letitia had been love he could do without it. For when the loved one left—as apparently was inevitable—the pain was almost too much to bear.

      The gilt clock on the mantelpiece struck two, but Edward was only half listening to the feeble chimes. The idea of another fashionable young lady parading around his countryside sanctuary appalled him. This was where he came to escape the cloying falseness of high society—the notion of inviting it into this last outpost of peace was unthinkable.

      He sighed and rubbed his aching forehead with one hand. ‘Think, Ned,’ he said aloud. ‘Put that Cambridge education to use for once in your life.’

      Inspiration wouldn’t come.

      Edward got to his feet and paced the floor, boards creaking as he moved. ‘Think! This is your future. Do you really want to be bound to such a creature for the rest of your life?’

      Anger at his father’s last actions churned within him once again, and he felt his chest tighten with the now familiar mixture of grief and rage. The Squire had been dead almost one month already; only a few weeks remained for Edward to find a suitable match or risk forfeiting his inheritance forever.

      He could barely even remember Uncle Charles, the man to whom all his future could be lost. The only communication they had shared in the twelve years since Charles had left for the Continent was the occasional letter, never concerning anything warmer than news of business affairs. The injustice of his situation made Edward curse out loud.

      He crossed to the window and drew aside one heavy curtain. There was no sign of dawn. Darkness would cover the estate for hours yet—until the sun sulked into view and its pale autumn rays signalled the start of a new day.

      His rooms were at the front of the Hall, positioned to make the most of the natural light, and from the window Edward could just make out the line of manicured trees that stood to attention on either side of the long drive leading up to the Hall’s imposing front door. He gazed out at the night, watching the trees stir gently in the moonlight.

      A movement further down the drive caught his eye. He frowned. Even from a distance he could tell that whatever was out there was approaching the house at some speed, and getting ever closer. Edward squinted, straining his eyes against the gloom. Was it an animal of some kind?

      Yes, he could just see it now: a great horse, bleached bone-white by the moon, galloping towards the Hall as though fleeing the fires of hell. Its rider was swathed in a cloak, with only her hair uncovered, flying out behind her like streamers in a storm—

       ‘Selina?’

      A thrill of something unknown flared in Edward’s chest. It was definitely her—the closer she drew, the more Edward’s certainty grew that the figure flying towards him was the girl from the woods. Now she was in range he could even recognise her horse: a huge grey beast, flecked with scars and knotted with hard muscle, speeding down the gravelled drive with a gracefulness that belied its size.

      Momentarily frozen in surprise, all Edward could do was watch her approach, his confusion growing with every moment. He hadn’t expected to see her again, and yet here she was. A less sensible man might have called it fate, and the unwanted suggestion was enough to galvanise him into action.

      His heart pounded in his ears as he wrenched on his breeches, a rapid succession of thoughts chasing each other through his mind. Why was she here? At this hour? And why had she approached so swiftly? Something must be gravely wrong. She had given the impression that she distrusted his offer of friendship. What events could the intervening few days have wrought to bring about such a change?

      A disloyal corner of his consciousness registered the thought that he was, despite his rational mind, pleased she had sought him out. Whatever it was she wanted, it was to him that she was turning. He dismissed the thought as soon as it arose—ridiculous notion!—but the echo of it stubbornly remained.

      A thunderous sound at the front door drove him onwards in even greater haste. She’ll break it in two if she’s not careful, he thought in wry amusement as he thrust his feet into long leather boots.

      The creak of an inner door being hurriedly flung open signalled the emergence of Blackwell’s aged butler, Evans, and Edward couldn’t restrain a grin at the prospect of the faithful retainer confronted with Selina.

      Poor Evans. He smiled. He won’t know what’s hit him.

      She was trying to pull away from the butler’s firm grip when Edward reached the top of the grand sweeping staircase that led down into the entrance hall, all the while waving something in Evans’s heated face—something white. Or at least it might have been white originally, but now it was streaked with mud and perhaps...dried blood?

      ‘Mr Fulbrooke!’ Selina spotted him and her attempts at escape doubled. Her hair was windswept and tangled from riding and her eyes were wild. ‘Mr Fulbrooke! Please, sir, I must speak with you—let me go!’

      Evans was trying manfully to restrain her, but the woman appeared to be as strong as an ox. The older man’s face was puce with effort, and one of his slippers had come clean off in the fracas.

      ‘You can’t just push in here, waking the whole house—’

      Selina