One Night with a Regency Lord. Lucy Ashford

road, but her anger drove her on. The earlier vision of his smile and the remembered pleasure of his embrace had evaporated without trace. He was a persecutor, there was no doubt. He was as bad in his own way as Rufus Glyde and, just as she’d defeated Glyde, she would defeat him, too.

      Still incensed, she trudged on and now both were silent. Gareth saved his breath. He could see it was pointless trying to persuade her otherwise. He’d been seized by fury when he discovered she’d disappeared without a word and had made a snap decision to go after her and wreak his revenge. It was a stupid thing to do, but he was unused to a female besting him. From the moment he’d met her, he’d behaved irrationally; she’d somehow got under his skin and it was a new sensation. Women were for dalliance, passing fancies to be enjoyed lightly before moving on. They were not to be taken seriously. Now he was landed with this ridiculous situation.

      He was willing to concede that she had cause to be angry. He’d behaved badly, but her conduct was hardly blameless. She’d been lying to him ever since they met, he was certain. And she’d made use of him when it suited her. He would show her that no one, least of all a chit of a girl, treated him in that way and emerged unscathed. Let her walk off her temper and destroy her shoes. She would be all the more acquiescent when he made his next move.

      Musing in this way, he was unaware of the sounds of an approaching coach. Amelie, far more alert, heard in the distance the clatter of wheels before a curricle and four swept round the corner at breakneck speed. She had a terrifying vision of four magnificent greys thundering down on her before she made a dive for cover. Lost in his thoughts, Gareth could only take avoiding action when it was too late. His startled mount reared into the air, and he was flung over the horse’s head, landing heavily in the ditch. The curricle swept by, its driver, clad in a caped overcoat, according them not a glance.

      Cowering in the shelter of the grassy bank, Amelie thought she spied a crest on the side of the coach panel. Surely it could not be Rufus Glyde. But she knew that it was. She was all too familiar with that crest. Her flight must have been discovered earlier than she’d hoped and he’d been sent for, or most probably had taken it on himself to hunt her down. Fanny would never have given her away; her father must have guessed that she’d fled to Bath and her grandmother. Terrified that Glyde might turn the coach and come back to inspect his handiwork, she remained in hiding. There she stayed silent and unmoving for a long time before finding the courage to crawl up the bank to the roadside.

      Gareth Wendover was nowhere to be seen. His mount was once more quietly cropping the grass, but there was no sign of the master. A perfect opportunity to escape. The horse was close by and looked biddable. If she led him to the nearest field gate she could manage to clamber into the saddle, then ride to Wroxall, and from there catch the next stagecoach westwards wherever it was going. The sooner she was out of this part of the country, the better. She knew Glyde was not travelling here for his own enjoyment. He was searching for her and he would be back.

      A groan sounded from the ditch a few yards away. Tiptoeing to the grass edge, she peered downwards. Gareth was lying on his back, but his foot was at a sickening angle. He had his eyes closed and his face was ashen.

      ‘Are you all right?’ She knew it to be an ill-advised question even as she asked.

      He opened his eyes and looked directly up into hers. ‘Does it look like it? No, I’m not all right, but it’s hardly your problem.’

      ‘What’s happened to your foot?’

      ‘It appears I may have broken my ankle—I’m not sure. In any case, I can’t move more than a few inches. There’s no way I’ll be able to walk on it.’

      She remained silent and he rasped out, ‘Don’t mind me, rejoice all you wish. You’re free to go now. Take the horse and make your escape while you can.’

      ‘But what will you do?’

      ‘Do you really care? I can’t imagine so. I shall stay here—I don’t have much choice. Someone will come by sooner or later.’

      ‘Let me try to help you up.’ She half clambered down the ditch and put her hand under the shoulder that was nearest. At the same time he tried to raise himself to a standing position with his other hand, but the effort was too great. His face turned even whiter.

      ‘I can’t do it,’ he said, sinking back onto the damp bed of grass once more, ‘but thank you for trying. I probably don’t deserve your help.’

      ‘No, you don’t,’ she said shortly, ‘and this could be just punishment for your behaviour.’

      ‘Spare me the lecture on my morals and go.’

      She hesitated, but then walked down the road and led the horse forwards to the nearby gate. Gareth’s last glimpse of her was a mass of chestnut curls flying in the breeze as she disappeared into the distance.

      She was an accomplished rider and the few miles to the nearest inn took her only a short time to cover. She rode into the deserted courtyard of the George and called out for help. No one came. She had to dismount and walk into the taproom before she found anyone. An angular woman with a sharp-featured countenance confronted her. Her worn pinafore and rolled-up sleeves suggested that this was the landlord’s wife.

      She barred Amelie’s passage, her arms folded pugnaciously, and her eyes snapping. ‘And what do you want, missy?’ she asked in an ill-tempered voice as she looked Amelie up and down with a thinly veiled disgust. ‘We ain’t that sort of place. Off with you. The Cross Keys is where you need to be.’

      Amelie was startled. She’d never before been spoken to in that fashion. She supposed she must look a fright; she was certainly dishevelled from the long coach journey and her tumble down the bank. The hem of her dress was muddy and her shoes practically falling apart. She rather thought her face was smudged, too. It was true she looked an unlikely member of the ton, but to judge her a lightskirt!

      However, she couldn’t afford to alienate the woman further and so pinned on her most appealing smile. ‘Dear, ma’am, I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m afraid there’s been a riding accident and my present state is due to having been thrown from my horse.’

      The landlady’s wife looked unimpressed. Her arms stayed folded and her expression was grim.

      ‘We, my brother and I, were on a pleasure ride, you see,’ Amelie extemporised wildly, ‘and my horse went lame, so we had to leave her behind at a farm we passed and we decided to continue home on Gareth’s horse. Only then a coach came along at a tremendous speed and the horse reared up and flung us both into the ditch.’

      That, at least, was partly truthful. The woman began to look a little more interested, but her arms remained in their fixed position.

      ‘Gareth, my brother, has hurt his ankle—I fear he may have broken it—and I’ve had to leave him lying in the ditch. I said I would ride to seek help.’ She gave a nervous laugh and finished lamely, ‘And here I am. Yours was the first inn I came to.’

      The landlady continued to maintain her unnerving silence and Amelie cast round for something that would penetrate the woman’s iron reserve. Her eye caught the garish design of what looked to be new curtains.

      ‘Oh, how wonderful!’ she exclaimed. ‘Such beautiful curtains. I know my mother has been looking everywhere for colours like these, but hasn’t been able to find just the right shades.’

      She prayed fervently for her dead mother’s forgiveness. The praise seemed to be welcome and Mrs Skinner unbent slightly, but it was the thought that she had stolen a march on Amelie’s unknown mother that really sealed the matter.

      ‘Where d’you say your brother wus?’ she enquired roughly.

      ‘Just a few miles along the road going west,’ Amelie said hopefully. ‘If we could send an able-bodied man with a horse and cart, we could carry him back here.’

      ‘We,’ said the landlady with emphasis, ‘can’t do nuthin’. You’ll ‘ave to wait till Mr Skinner gets back from Wroxhall, then we’ll see.’