Chapter One
Blythe
Wrexford Park
Early Summer 1812
Growing up, becoming a functioning human being in an altogether relentless and trying world, is just as
much a choice as it is a process. And the last time I saw Briggs Goswick, he was well on his way to
becoming a certified man-child.
I can only assume that in the four years that have since passed, he has achieved that status. He must be
someone unimaginably intolerable—certainly not the kind of gentleman who warrants my entire family
contemplating what kind of pudding to serve at the sure-to-be-insufferable dinner party being held in his
honor.
I have been sitting in Uncle Henry’s lavender drawing room at Wrexford Park for thirty-three minutes—
thirty-three minutes—listening to my uncle and cousin Charlotte debate the merits of chocolate or the
downfalls of boysenberry. Briggs Goswick has been in London for several months, apparently, settling his
late father’s estate, and now we must celebrate his homecoming to Brumbury as the master of Mistlethrush
Hall with nothing less than the perfect dinner party.
He arrives tomorrow.
Hooray.
Apparently, I am the only one dreading his return. My mother makes spirited menu suggestions to
Charlotte from across the room. My sister, Amy, asks a multitude of questions about what Mr. Goswick has
been up to since last we saw him. My other cousin, Julian, discusses the flower arrangements with Mrs.
Sullivan, the housekeeper, and I can tell she’s impressed with his ample knowledge of flora.
He offers me an exaggerated eye roll once Mrs. Sullivan turns her back, as if to suggest her taste in floral
arrangements leaves much to be desired, but I know he loves coming to Wrexford Park more than Amy does,
even. It’s a pleasant distraction from everything that troubles us at home at Awendown House.
I wish that Papa would have joined us rather than stay behind worrying about the debts that accrue
seemingly overnight.
“What about a trifle?” Charlotte suggests. The room all nods, murmuring their absolute delight at the
prospect of trifle. But what flavor? What indeed?
I cannot indulge in this for one more second.
I rise slowly, so as not to draw attention to my eventual retreat, but the eyes of all my Barlow ancestors
seem to tsk-tsk at me from their gilded frames.
Eat a bad prawn, Great Aunt Frances?
Charlotte turns to me. “Blythe, do you like trifle?”
G
“As much as I love trifle,” I reply, slowly backing toward the door and pretending to admire the many
portraits of ancestors who have passed, “the real question you should be asking is whether or not Mr. Goswick
likes trifle. Moreover, is he sick of trifle? What if all he’s had in London is trifle, and he wishes for a change
of dessert as well as a change of scenery? Then what, I ask?”
“Oh, Blythe, you are so astute!” exclaims Charlotte, shaking her head. “Father, we never even considered
Mr. Goswick’s preferences, and it’s his party. How thoughtless of us.”
“How will we know what he’s had in London?” Uncle Henry asks, a tinge of panic in his voice. “How
will we ascertain that information? Is it too late? I told you we should have started to plan sooner, Charlotte.
I knew this would all be in vain!”
I step backward, slowly, quietly, and reach my right hand out for my book on the sideboard. In the great
hall, I make a dash across the black-and-white tile floor for the kitchens, sneak one of the apples that Cook
planned to bake this evening, and with a quick whiff of cinnamon and sugar, I burst from the confines of
Wrexford Park and out into the glorious summer sunshine. I close my eyes, grinning up at the clear blue
summer sky. Freedom, finally.
Weaving my way through the paths of the formal gardens, I break from the pruned hedges, over the green
hills, and through the horse pasture, my skirts becoming tangled in the tall, tall grass.
Several of Uncle Henry’s bays roam the fields, looking up briefly from their cropping of the grass and
allowing me to make myself comfortable below the shade of the ancient oak. I open my book right to where
I left off last night, spreading it across my lap, my back propped against the broad trunk of the tree, and read
in blissful silence.
Charlotte suggested this book. Said she couldn’t put it down while on her trip to the seaside, and it is just
the sort of read that Charlotte would find enthralling. Handsome knights on stallions, roaming over hill and
moor on dark and stormy nights, all to avenge the honor of their fair maiden. Of course, I do love it, too,
though I’d never admit that to my cousin. I’d never admit that to anyone, actually. While romance may have
bloomed in me as a lovestruck adolescent, I’ve been pricked by its underlying thorns before. Better to read
about romance in private than allow anyone to think I’m still enthralled by its appeal in real life.
I take a bite of my crisp apple and sigh. At least I have Sir Garrett to woo me for the afternoon, and he
certainly comes with significantly fewer complications than any real gentleman I’ve ever met. Like the kind
Briggs Goswick brings with him. Lord, I cannot believe that upon my first trip to Wrexford Park in almost a
year, he of all people has to show up. But I cannot let his looming return ruin my day. I’ll deal with his
presence when I’m forced to.
For a few minutes, I take in the serenity of my current setting, the chirping birds darting from the oak tree
above me to the forest line just a few yards away, the snuffle of the companionable horses, and the rustling of
the leaves as the breeze sifts through the branches. All my concerns over the return of my nemesis and my
father’s financial woes melt away as I find myself sucked into the story. If I didn’t know any better, I would
swear I could hear the thundering of Sir Garrett’s noble steed.
I glance up at my equine companions, but they still munch peaceably on the grass, occasionally offering
me a contented snort.
But still, the clamor of hooves grows closer. I place my book, face flat, on the ground beside me, then
brush the dirt and dust off my skirts and shade my eyes with my hand to see more clearly. Becoming larger
with every moment, a beautiful, dappled gray horse gallops toward the wooden slat fence that separates the
pastures. Its rider is certain, leaning forward, calling out encouragingly, but once the creature reaches the
divider, it skids to a sudden stop—and the rider goes flying over its head.
“Oh!” I cry, my heart pounding as I gather my skirts and race to where the gentleman lies sprawled out
on my side of the fence. I kneel down beside him, skirts billowing in my haste. “Are you all right? Can you
hear me?” I’m too afraid to touch him. What if he’s seriously hurt?
He doesn’t move. His eyes are pressed closed, his full lips parted, and his chest heaves with exertion. He
has serious brows and dramatic cheekbones, a determined chin, and the slope of his eyes is gentle and smooth.
A single lock of thick, mahogany hair falls down along his forehead. Clothing, impeccable. Boots, tall and
shiny.
He is, quite certainly, the most handsome gentleman I have ever seen in my entire life, and conversely,
he is, quite certainly, Briggs Goswick.
Chapter Two
Blythe
Damn him. His effortless good looks are irritating even when unconscious.
Suddenly, Briggs Goswick’s clear, green eyes pop open, staring up at the serenely blue sky above
us.
“Are you all right?” I ask quietly, my hand on his shoulder.
“Damn that horse to hell,” he spits, sitting upright and then launching from the grass as though he had
simply dismounted the animal rather than fly ass over head to the ground. Of course, I know better, and I can’t
stop the smirk that has come to my lips. “No matter how many times we practice, it’s no use. He won’t jump.”
He approaches the fence where the horse whinnies amiably and then throws his hands in the air.
“That’s because he’s a hunter. Not a jumper,” I inform him.
Briggs stands with his hands on his hips, still breathing quickly as he stares at me. “Excuse me,” he says
quietly. His eyes soften, and he clears his throat. “I have been most ungentlemanly. I’m Mr. Briggs Goswick
of Mistlethrush Hall.” He bows. “And you are?”
I must come up with the appropriate answer to this question. He clearly doesn’t recognize me, and I would
prefer to avoid what will undoubtedly be our caustic reunion for as long as possible. “Well, if you would
really like to apologize for your ungentlemanly behavior, you might realize that we haven’t been formally
introduced.” I curtsy briefly and then make my way back to the tree where I left my book.
“Certainly, out here in nature, formal introductions aren’t quite as necessary,” he says, and when I glance
over my shoulder, he’s following me. Because of course he is. He gestures to the general outdoor area, then
runs a hand through his annoyingly thick, shiny hair. “After all, you must be staying nearby. We will likely
run into one another again before the summer comes to a close.”
D
“And when we do,” I say, bending down and retrieving my book and what’s left of my apple, “I will
gladly have a mutual acquaintance introduce us. Besides, this can hardly be considered real nature; it’s a
pasture.”
He stands right in front of me now, hands on his hips, grinning at my lack of cooperation. Because Briggs
Goswick always gets his way, and rather than being dissuaded by my impertinence, he has the gall to seem
entertained.
I shake myself from staring at the perfect bow of his mouth. “I must go.”
“Please don’t,” he says, reaching forward and touching my wrist. “I feel as though we’ve met before.
Perhaps if you tell me with whom you’re staying, I could guess.” He grins again and then bites his lower lip.
“I love a good game.”
The way he says this makes me blush, heat pooling low in my belly. That’s quite enough of that, then. “I
really must be going,” I say, heading for the fence. Gathering my skirts with my free hand, I step onto the
lower rung, then hoist one leg over. Before I can clear the top, however, Briggs appears at my side, and he
supports my elbow. “Th-Thank you,” I say quietly, landing on the other side and pulling my chestnut hair
over my shoulder and twisting it.
“Ah, now, I think I’ve discovered a way to learn your identity once and for all,” he says. “Look there. Mr.
Fitzgibbons!” he calls.
Behind me, Mr. Fitzgibbons, my uncle’s gamekeeper, crosses the lower field. He waves when he sees
Briggs. Lovely. It’s all over now.
“Mr. Fitzgibbons,” says Briggs once the man is in earshot. “Do you know this young lady?”
The gamekeeper regards me, someone he’s chased out of his horses’ stables since I was a little girl, his
eyes darting between Briggs and me, ignoring the tiny shake of my head I try to hide and make obvious all at
once. “I…cert’nly do, sir.”
“Would you mind introducing us, then? Because, you see, she is a lady, and I am nothing if not a
gentleman.”
“Me?” Fitzgibbons asks, pointing at his own chest. “You wan’ me to introduce you?”
“If you would be so kind.”
Fitzgibbons shrugs, flummoxed but not unwilling. “Aye, sir, if’n it pleases ye. Mr. Briggs Goswick, this
is Miss Blythe Rowley, niece of Mr. Barlow. She’s stayin’ at Wrexford Park.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fitzgibbons,” says Briggs quietly, his grin never faltering and his eyes steady upon me.
“That will be all.”
“G’day, Mr. Goswick. Miss Rowley.” He touches the brim of his hat.
I raise my chin in the air in an attempt to exude whatever dignity I have left.
“Well, pluck my feathers and shove me in the oven,” Briggs says, one hand on his hip and the other
gripping his riding crop. “Miss Blythe Rowley, all grown up. And not altogether difficult to look at.”
I cluck my tongue. “Oh, good, there you are. I was afraid you had gained manners and grace in my
absence. Happy to see you’re as reliable as ever.”
A smug smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I am most surely as gentlemanly as I’ve ever been—the
gentleman I’ve been bred to be. You, on the other hand, are a most delightful surprise. Hardly any dirt
encrusting your person, a pretty dress, your hair tamed and fashionable. You almost look like a lady.” He
jumps the fence and circles behind me. “In fact, you sound like a lady, too. But does that a lady make?”
I arch an eyebrow, my cheeks heating at his slow perusal. Lord, please don’t let me be blushing. “You
may look like a gentleman, and if I were so fooled by your appearance, I suppose you’d sound like one, too.”
He laughs.
“But you can’t ride a horse, obviously, and that’s a deal breaker, so I shall take my leave of you, Mr.
Goswick.” I curtsy low and dramatically.
“So soon, Miss Rowley? But we were only just getting reacquainted.”
“I’m a busy girl,” I reply, tucking my book under my arm and taking a final bite of apple. “I’m needed
back at Wrexford.”
“For how long will you be staying?” Briggs asks, appearing before me and trotting backward in order to
keep up and be in my way all at once.
“Until the end of the week,” I reply.
“Not the summer?”
“Lord, no.”
“You don’t sound particularly enthusiastic.”
I pause. “Please don’t pretend to know my innermost thoughts, Mr. Goswick. It’s been quite some time
since we met under less-than-ideal circumstances, and at least one of us has matured since then.”
“Sharp as ever, Miss Rowley.”
I skip down the slope of a hill, the clock copula adorning the arch at Wrexford coming into view. “You
confuse rudeness with obligation. As I’ve told you, I’m needed back at Wrexford Park. There’s apparently a
dinner being planned.”
“For me, naturally.”
“So it would seem.”
“So you’re planning my dinner? How very kind of you, Miss Rowley. I am honored.”
I pause at the boxwood hedges that separate the gardens from the fields, closing my eyes and allowing
my shoulders to droop, even though I clench my teeth. “I am helping my cousin, who is planning your dinner.”
“As always, you thrive on being enigmatic.”
“Enigmatic!” I cry, that old familiar vexation bubbling in my chest again. Not five minutes in, and Briggs
Goswick has already gotten on my last nerve. “I could not be any clearer, Mr. Goswick. I have told you time
and again that my cousin needs me to help in preparation for your dinner. If you’ll excuse me.” I curtsy once
again and leave him.
He’s silent as I take several paces, and at last, I think, I’ve left him behind me.
Not altogether the worst meeting with Briggs Goswick, actually. He was cocky, no doubt, but I’ve
experienced worse.
Until he calls out, “Will you be serving pork, perhaps?”
Slowly, I turn, regarding him in the middle of the path, riding crop in one hand and hat in the other. He is
so maddeningly handsome, I see red. I hurl the core of my apple, and it meets its target, right between his
eyes.
“Ah,” says Briggs, offering me a slow blink. “Splendid. Right where we left off, then."
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