Chapter One
Scarcliffe Forest, England, 1820
Lady Cecily Balfour was lost, though nothing in the world would have induced her to admit it. Thoroughly and completely lost, and suffering the indignity of an encroaching rainstorm to boot.
It was simply too much! She had been exploring Scarcliffe Forest since she was a child. Why should it turn on her now? Oh, there were some areas of the woods which she knew she was not really supposed to venture into – but how could anyone restrain themselves from choosing the prettiest path on a warm August afternoon?
Now, the sun was setting, Cecily had got herself turned around in the forest, and she had a terrible suspicion that she had ventured over the border into Hartley land.
No member of the Balfour family ought to be seen dead wandering across the Hartley family's estate of Scarcliffe. The two families, though neighbours, were the most notorious enemies in England. The feud had lasted for generations, fuelled by the social snubs, vicious rumour-mongering, and challenges to masculine pride that were oil to the flames of high society hostility. There was not a single member of the aristocracy who did not agree that the Hartleys and the Balfours ought to be kept apart at all costs.
And now Cecily found herself trespassing on the Hartley side of Scarcliffe Forest just as the first fat drops of rain fell from the sky. Wonderful.
She hitched up her skirts to prevent them getting mudstained and began darting from the cover of one tree to the next. Surely there must be somewhere nearby that she might take shelter? A hunting lodge, perhaps? A charcoal-burner's cottage? The Hartleys could not be such savages that they were left wanting for material comforts when they explored their lands.
The rain quickly turned from a splatter into an outright downpour. Cecily gave up on protecting her clothes and let her skirts hang loose. She was not wearing anything particularly fine – a day dress of white jaconet muslin and a pale green spencer. Her boots were the precise opposite of fashionable coloured kid slippers or satin half-boots; black, serviceable leather was what Cecily required for a country walk. She took some comfort in supposing that, if anyone were to see her in her state of bedragglement, they would never guess that she was the only daughter of the Duke of Loxwell.
Cecily had never wanted for anything and, as a consequence, she wasted very little thought on her fine clothes and jewels. The activities which delighted her most all required sturdier clothing, and, when she was not about the tedious business of husband-hunting in London, that was exactly what she chose to wear.
The knowledge that she was not spoiling anything fine was very little comfort as the rain soaked through Cecily's dress and plastered it to her legs. If only she had listened to her mother's advice and taken a coat! The thin muslin was growing almost indecent from the wet.
A gap in the trees ahead spurred Cecily to run onwards, hoping to find a clearing with at least a bird-watching hide to shelter in.
Her surprise was very great upon breaking out from beneath the trees to discover a vast expanse of sky, black-clouded and lowering, and, to top everything, Scarcliffe Hall itself atop a rise of perfect grassy lawn in the near distance.
"Drat!"
The last thing she needed was to be seen by one of the despised Hartley family in this state. If she had any luck at all, they would not even be at home. The rift between the families was such that Cecily had no idea how often the denizens of Scarcliffe Hall were in residence. The chief property of the Hartley family was the marquisate of Lilistone, some miles to the north, but Scarcliffe Hall was the traditional seat of the Earl of Scarcliffe, the Marquess's eldest son. If he should happen to have a taste for passing the summer in the country, Scarcliffe Hall would be the ideal place to stay.
Cecily cast about for a place to take shelter. Across the beautifully-kept lawn, she spotted a small outbuilding that looked a reasonable option. She could only hope that the door was unlocked, so that she would at least be able to get out of the rain until the storm passed.
A brief glance at the grim sky told her there was not much hope of it passing any time soon, but that was a problem to be addressed once she was under cover.
Cecily lifted her skirts again and dashed out to the outbuilding, shuddering as the cold rain leaked down her back. A fork of lightning juddered across the sky. She counted five seconds before it was followed by a roar of thunder. Summer storms were always the most dangerous; rolling out suddenly across a clear blue sky, bringing enough wind to tear down an ancient oak.
Cecily's fingers were almost numb as she grappled with the door handle to the little outbuilding. When it failed to open, she wasn't sure at first whether it was only her gloves slipping in the rain. Her teeth were beginning to chatter. She cast a nervous glance in the direction of Scarcliffe Hall.
Well, if she had to freeze to death in clear sight of shelter simply to maintain her family pride, so be it. Her father had always warned her that the Hartley men were wild beasts, not to be trusted around women, and Cecily adored nothing in the world as much as her father. His word was enough to make the handsome Hall seem a den of horrors.
She pulled a hairpin from her head, sending a lock of chestnut hair tumbling, and set about trying to pick the lock. If a common thief could manage it, after all, why not the daughter of the Duke of Loxwell?
Cecily was so absorbed in her task that she did not even notice that, halfway across the expanse of sodden green between herself and Scarcliffe Hall, a broad-shouldered figure was running towards her, shirt sleeves pushed up to the elbow, sheltered only by a dark cloak held over his head which the wind whipped out behind him.