Kasey Michaels - A Reckless Promise

Marley Hamilton. Age unknown. Would he be able to send her off to some young ladies’ academy and forget about her for at least a few years, or would he be laying down the blunt for a Season for the girl? Was she dewy and young, or already past her last prayers?

John had been a country doctor. Of good family, one could only hope, but would his daughter be up to snuff for a Season, or would she come to the cottage still with hay in her hair and mud on her half boots, and speak in some broad country accent?

Would he be forced to rebuild her, as it were, from the ground up, in order to be rid of her?

Would she feel it necessary to address him as Uncle Nailbourne?

Egads.

“Coop’s right,” he told himself as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “I do get myself into the damnedest situations. If only John’s solicitor would arrive, and get the waiting over with before I drive myself mad.”

“Milord?” the footman asked, holding forth his employer’s hat, gloves and small riding crop. “You be talkin’ ta yerself again, the way you said you wuz yesterday?”

“Exactly, Tompkins,” he responded, accepting the articles. “And as was the case yesterday, and probably will be for some time yet, you may feel free to ignore me.”

“Yes, milord. Mr. Rivers brought the new stallion ’round. He’s a big ’un, milord. You do mind ta be careful.”

“Since it would upset you, I’ll do my best not to break my neck,” Darby promised the young lad, and then stopped in the action of pulling on his gloves when there were three loud raps on the door knocker.

His entire body instantly went on alert.

“Ah, perhaps the time has come. Strange we didn’t hear a coach pulling up. Attend to that, Tompkins, if you please.”

The boy, freckle-faced and towheaded, and more accustomed to his usual chores in the kitchens, looked at his master in some distress. “But, milord, Mr. Camford says he’s ta greet all His Lordship’s guests to be sure where ta put ’em, and yer’r ta be summoned ta the drawin’ room only after he—”

“Tompkins, I can’t be certain of this, of course, but last I looked, I do believe I still outrank my butler. Open. The. Door.”

Tompkins blushed to the roots of his hair. “Straightaway, milord.”

“Clearly I have to develop more of a commanding air with the staff,” Darby told himself, replacing hat, gloves and riding crop on the large round table and stepping back two paces, ready to surprise his guest with his unexpected presence. Or perhaps he’d be mistaken for Camford, come to vet the uninvited guest so he’d know where “ta put ’em.”

A mental picture of the portly butler dressed in riding clothes brought a small smile to Darby’s lips as Tompkins opened the door and then stood directly in front of the opening, blocking any view of the visitor. Apparently Camford hadn’t had time to complete the lad’s lessons in footmanship.

“Let whoever it is pass, please,” he told the boy, unnecessarily it would seem, as Tompkins was rather handily pushed out of the way as a tall, heavily cloaked and hooded figure breached the human barrier and stepped through the portal, dripping water onto the tile floor.

When had it begun to rain? Did Norton so sincerely loathe the country that he didn’t even peek out the window to be certain his employer would be correctly dressed? Darby waved a figurative goodbye to any notion of working the new stallion.

He took a closer look at the figure. The words drowned rat scuttled into his brain.

“If you hadn’t yet noticed, young man, the doorway lacks a portico. How long do you usually have His Lordship’s guests stand unprotected in a deluge?”

A woman? It was definitely a woman’s voice. Tall, for a woman, able to wear a man’s cloak and not have it be six sizes too large. Only four, he estimated, taking in the many-caped cloak once again. Bossy, for a woman, especially one who had arrived uninvited, unaccompanied and apparently on foot.

“Tompkins, offer to take the lady’s cloak before she drowns in it, both literally and figuratively.”

“Yes, Tompkins, do that. And when it’s dry, consider burning it. I feel as if it could stand on its own after five days of travel on the public coach. And then please inform His Lordship that his ward has arrived.”

“Oh, bollocks,” Darby muttered under his breath, feeling the worst of his many suppositions had just sloshed through the doorway. Past her last prayers, unmannered, tall as a stick and clearly— “Well, hello.”

The woman had finally thrown back her dripping, drooping hood to reveal a head of more than merely damp blond hair, eyes that could be any color from blue to green to even gray, probably depending on her mood.

At the moment, as she looked directly at him, they were definitely leaning toward a stormy gray.

Her nose was straight, her lips full—with an intriguing pout to the upper one—her skin pale and flawless, a slight dimple in her chin. Her slim neck could only be judged as regal.

Furthermore, she was tall enough to tower over young Tompkins, and was only a few inches shy of being able to look Darby straight in his eyes, which would make her very nearly six feet tall.

Amazing. One can only wonder how much of her is legs.

“And you are...?” she asked him, definitely imperiously, and with no hint of a country accent. In fact, her English was probably more precise than his own, as he had a tendency to drawl when amused, and he was often amused. He’d best pull out his most precise accent.

He also probably should stop grinning.

“Astounded,” Darby said, bowing. “Perplexed. Nonplussed. Oh, and dry. And you?”

“You’re Viscount Nailbourne,” she countered as Tompkins finally realized he should close the door. “John told me about the eye. You received my letter? I sent one to every address John had provided. You weren’t at the first one and I was forced to continue my search.”

Typical female. Somehow everything apparently has become my fault.

“Clearly a lapse on my part. A thousand apologies,” he said, bowing yet again. “Would you care to continue this conversation upstairs, or are you more comfortable in foyers? I’m amendable either way, and I’m certain Tompkins here wouldn’t mind watching this small farce unfold.”

“I’m more comfortable dry. Our trunk momentarily lies abandoned just inside your gates. I would appreciate having it fetched and taken to whatever quarters you might assign. Once I have your ward settled, I would be more than amenable to continuing our conversation.”

“You’re...you’re not my ward?”

Then who in bloody hell are you?

She looked at him as if he had just popped out a second head. “Certainly not. I’m above the age of requiring a keeper. Marley? You can come out now, please, and allow me to introduce you to your new guardian.”

The young woman pulled back one side of the oversize cloak to reveal a female child of no more than six or seven. The child was clinging to her apparent protector with both arms, her face buried against the damp muslin skirts.

Yes, the legs were that long...

“Marley,” the woman urged, “if you’re quite done with your impersonation of a barnacle, make your curtsy to His Lordship, as I’ve taught you to do.”

“Will not.” The words were rather muffled, but clearly understood.

I don’t blame you, Darby thought.

“She’s prodigiously fatigued, poor poppet,” the woman said through only slightly gritted teeth she still couldn’t manage to keep from chattering with cold. “Unless I gave him a copper, the coach driver wouldn’t bring us any farther. We were forced to walk from the gate. And then it began to rain.”

And there is that glare again. Apparently the rain is also my fault.