Until You
Authors: Jennifer McNare
Until You
By Jennifer McNare
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as factual.
Any resemblance to actual events, locales, businesses, or persons is completely coincidental.
Text Copyright © 2012
Jennifer McNare
All Rights Reserved
England, 1850
Nicholas Leighton, the eighth Duke of
Sethe
, was a wanted man, not by the authorities, but rather and much to his aggravation, by every husband-hunting, title-chasing female in the country, or so it seemed. And now he had
this
to deal with. “Bloody Hell,” he swore aloud, for the second time in less than a minute. He glared at the elegant white stationery, his expression both angry and incredulous. The brief note rested where he’d tossed it, atop a pile of invitations, calling cards, and other correspondence he had been dispassionately sorting through for the better part of the past hour. He loathed the never-ending routes, balls, and fetes that were the mainstay of his social set, and attended as few of them as possible, preferring to spend his evenings with friends at one of his clubs or in bed with his latest paramour.
Swinging his feet from their casual position, ankles crossed atop the large mahogany desk behind which he sat, his heavy leather riding-boots hit the floor with a dull thud. He needed a drink! Crossing the length of his tastefully appointed study, he made his way to the liquor cabinet. Grabbing the crystal carafe filled with his favorite bourbon, he poured himself a full glass. Raising it to his lips, he took a long swallow, savoring the familiar burning heat as the fiery liquid traveled slowly down his throat. Lowering the glass, he caught his reflection in one of the tall windows that flanked the cabinet. His finely tailored riding jacket had long since been discarded, leaving him standing in his leather buckskins and a white lawn shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his austere expression reflecting the sudden foulness of his mood. Unconsciously, his hand tightened around the crystal tumbler as he surveyed his appearance.
Standing over six feet tall, he had a large frame and a muscular, well-defined physique. His hair, cut just above his shoulders, was jet black and held the slightest hint of a curl at the nape of his neck. His brows were finely arched, and thick dark lashes shadowed intense blue eyes the color of sapphires. His cheekbones were classically sculpted, his nose straight and finely molded, and his lips, at present taut in irritation, were full and sensual, or so he’d been told by many an admiring female. At twenty-nine, he was in his prime. He was handsome, wealthy, titled, and reputed to be the most eligible bachelor in England, and therefore, like it or not, he was a prime target for the young, marriage-minded women of the English upper crust and their greedy matchmaking mothers. It was exasperating!
Scowling at his reflection, he turned from the window and walked back to his desk, draining the remainder of the bourbon as he went. Setting down the empty glass, he picked up the discarded note from his grandmother. Lady Ashleigh St. John, the seventeen-year-old granddaughter of the Earl of Dexter, was the subject of the note and the source of his present irritation.
Damn it all to hell!
he thought, as the delicate parchment crumpled like tissue paper in his fist.
“Thomas,” he called to his ever-present butler, turning from his desk and striding toward the front hall. “Have my coach readied. I shall be leaving for
Sethe
Manor within the hour.” He needed to speak with his grandmother and put a stop to this abominable notion of hers as soon as possible.
As he entered the foyer Thomas was immediately at his side. His usually unflappable butler looked panic-stricken. “Leaving? But, Your Grace, you…you cannot leave!”
His eyebrows lifted in the unconsciously arrogant gesture of a man unaccustomed to having his behavior questioned, baffled that his departure would have the ever-composed Thomas so ruffled.
“Your Grace, you are dining with the royal family this evening,” Thomas reminded him, his tone anxious.
Damn
, he’d completely forgotten. Sending his regrets to the palace on such short notice was not an option, at least not a good one. Thankfully his top-notch staff knew his schedule as well as, if not better than, he did. He struggled to hide his irritation at the unexpected delay. “Thank you Thomas,” he said, clamping his hand fondly on the shoulder of his frazzled butler. “I had forgotten. I will leave for
Sethe
first thing in the morning.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Thomas replied, exhaling an audible sigh of relief.
Unfortunately however, Nicholas wasn’t able to leave the following morning as he had planned. Much to his frustration, dealing with the problem of Lady Ashleigh St. John had to wait as unforeseen complications with one of his latest business ventures kept him in London for an additional three days.
The sun was just rising in the eastern sky, as Ashleigh Elizabeth St. John raced boldly across the brilliant English countryside, blithely unaware that she had incurred the wrath of one of England’s most powerful lords. She rode astride her prized black stallion, dressed in boy’s clothing, her waist-length hair unbound and flying free in the breeze. She enjoyed her solitary, early morning rides more than anything in the world. The slight chill of the crisp morning air, the fragrant smell of the tall grass, the gentle rustling of the leaves, the sight of the wild birds alighting delicately on the trees; they all filled her with a sense of joy. Smiling in sheer delight, she urged the stallion to an even faster pace, loving the feel of the wind blowing against her face.
Raider had been a birthday gift from her grandfather two years earlier, and he was by far her most prized possession. She was an excellent rider, fearless and uninhibited, and the feisty stallion had quickly become the perfect counterpart to her oft times daring behavior. Though it might seem surprising to some, considering her elevated station, she felt far more comfortable in the saddle than she did amongst the richly appointed trappings of her lavish home. Dressed in masculine attire, she could ride astride and forgo the hated sidesaddle, as well as the many ridiculous layers of fashionable female attire dictated by social convention. For a short while each day, she didn’t have to act the part of a proper young lady, and she relished in the freedom.
“Well Raider,” she said, bending low over the stallion's sleek neck, “I’m afraid that we are going to have to cut our ride short this morning, for Grandfather wishes to speak with me before breakfast.” Setting her heels gently to the horse’s sides, Ashleigh regrettably turned and headed back toward the house, the stallion’s thundering hooves sending large clods of dirt and grass flying out behind them as they tore across the meadow.
Riding into the courtyard, Ashleigh immediately headed towards the stable and then leapt gracefully from the saddle without assistance, a few feet from the entrance. Then, leading Raider to one of the hay-filled stalls housed within the large structure, she smiled warmly at those she passed, all the while pretending not to notice the six pairs of adoring eyes that followed her every move or the quelling look from the
stablemaster
that sent the six young grooms scurrying back to their tasks.
After giving Raider a quick rubdown, she fed the indulged stallion his customary handful of sugar cubes and obligingly scratched him behind the ears when he tossed his head and pawed at the ground, a blatant request for her continued attention.
When she finally left the stable, swiping the dust from her breeches and stamping the stray bits of hay from her riding-boots, she realized that she was running late. Hurrying across the front lawn and into the huge stone manor she paid little attention to her opulent surroundings, breezing past their aged butler and two of
Glenbrooke’s
liveried footmen as she headed toward the stairs. Her grandfather was as mild-tempered as could be, but he was also a stickler for punctuality, and she needed to change her clothes before their meeting. Although Ashleigh felt very fortunate that he chose to indulge her penchant for masculine riding attire, outside of the stable he wasn’t nearly as tolerant and expected her to dress and comport herself as a young lady should. She was after all, as he reminded her often, the granddaughter of the Earl of Dexter, and the sole heir to one of the largest fortunes in England.
Taking the stairs two at a time, her boot clad heels thudding lightly on the wide marble steps; Ashleigh reached the second floor landing and then entered her bedchamber at the end of the long hallway a few moments later.
She wasn't surprised to see Martha waiting for her with a dress of blue and white striped silk laid out across the large four-poster bed.
“You're late, young lady,” she admonished, shaking her index finger. “You know your grandfather doesn't like to be kept waiting.”
“I know, Martha. I'm sorry. I lost track of the time,” Ashleigh replied, her tone repentant. Hopping on one foot and then the other, she struggled to remove her tight leather riding boots. Then, casting them aside, she quickly removed all but her chemise and drawers and reached for the dress, deliberately ignoring the stiff, whalebone corset lying beside it.
“Humph,” Martha snorted, as she helped Ashleigh change into the modest morning gown. “If you ask me, your grandfather is downright foolish for allowing you to go gallivanting across the countryside as you do. What if one of the neighbors should see you dressed as a lad, and riding astride no less?” she demanded for perhaps the one-hundredth time, her narrowed gaze taking in Ashleigh's discarded attire, fawn-colored breeches, and a faded white cotton shirt.
