Janice Preston - Mary And The Marquis

He frowned, a memory floating a fraction beyond his reach.

Her lips. He could feel them, he knew their taste—silky as rose petals, sweet as honey. But how? He licked his own lips, paper-dry and sour. The answer eluded him as he continued his perusal of the woman by his bed.

Her hair. He paused, feeling his forehead pucker. Why had he thought her hair to be guinea-gold? It was not. It was more beautiful by far—the soft golden colour of corn ripening in the August sunshine. Not brassy, not a mass of curls, but soft waves where it escaped from its pins. He wanted to see it loose, flowing down her back.

He frowned again as he watched her sleep, striving to remember, fragments of memories teasing at his mind …

JANICE PRESTONgrew up in Wembley with a love of reading, writing stories and animals. After leaving school at eighteen she moved to Devon, and any thoughts of writing became lost in the hectic rush of life as a farmer’s wife, with two children and many animals to care for. When her children left home for university she discovered a love of history, and of the Regency period in particular, and began to write seriously for the first time since her teens.

Janice now lives in the West Midlands with her husband and two cats. Over the years, apart from farming, she has worked as a conveyancer, a call handler for the police and an administrator for a teacher training programme at a local university. She currently works as an exam invigilator and has a part-time job with a weight management counsellor (vainly trying to control her own weight, despite her love of chocolate!).

This is Janice Preston’s fantastic debut novel for Mills & Boon® Historical Romance!

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Dedication

To Ian, for your unwavering support and encouragement.

And with grateful thanks to the Romantic Novelists’ Association, and in particular the organisers and readers of the wonderful New Writers’ Scheme.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Copyright

Chapter One

September 1811

Mary clutched her cloak tighter around her and shivered as she peered through the gathering gloom. She hoped it wasn’t going to rain. She felt a tug on her skirt and looked down.

‘Mama.’ Pinched features set in a face too pale stared up at her. ‘Mama, I’m hungry.’

Mary summoned a reassuring tone. ‘Hush, Toby; yes, I know, lovey. We shall have something to eat as soon as we find somewhere to shelter.’

Grimly, she quelled her rising panic and reached for Toby’s hand as she hefted two-year-old Emily higher on her right hip, where she had fallen asleep, one grubby hand entangled in Mary’s hair. They plodded on, following a muddy track that wound through dense woodland, the trees—a mixture of mature specimens and saplings—crowding in on either side, creating a claustrophobic atmosphere that had intensified as the afternoon wore on. No breath of wind stirred the limp foliage, not a bird sang and no woodland creature rustled amongst the undergrowth. The silence was unnerving.

Mary couldn’t even be certain they were still heading north. She had become disorientated almost as soon as they had entered the wood. Such had been their weariness that the path, which had appeared to offer a short cut through the wood, had been accepted without thought. Now, however, Mary regretted her impulse. The track had twisted and turned like a serpent, until she no longer knew in which direction they walked.

For the past half-hour she had been on the lookout for something, anything—a woodsman’s hut, perhaps, or even a fallen tree—that might provide shelter for her and the children, but there had been nothing. The afternoon was dipping inexorably towards evening. She knew she must find shelter for the night soon. Her arm ached with the effort of carrying Emily and Toby was tired and dragging his feet. She could hear his breath hitching and knew he was trying his hardest not to cry. She squeezed his hand and he looked up at her.

‘It’ll be all right, Toby. I promise.’

Suddenly, a deep, rasping groan sounded from amongst the trees to her right. She whirled to face it, pushing Toby behind her and clutching Emily tight to her chest. She saw nothing. She took an uncertain step towards the trees, peering into the shadows.

‘Mama?’ Toby’s panicky whisper sounded deafening in the eerie silence.

‘Hush!’ Mary hissed. Her eyes darted around, searching for the source of that groan. Nothing moved. She tightened her grip on Toby’s hand. ‘Come along, lovey, we must go.’ She tugged him behind her as she hurried away, her heart hammering with the compulsion to put as much distance as possible between them and that unnatural sound. They reached the edge of a large clearing. It was lighter here, without the tree canopy, and Mary slowed, breathing a touch easier. As they neared the far edge of the clearing, however, a more familiar sound came to her ears—the jingle of a bit and the soft whicker of a horse.

Spinning round, Mary saw a large pale shape materialise from amongst the trees. The riderless horse walked on to the track, then halted. She looked around. There was nobody to be seen. A horse. Mary glanced down at Toby, read the exhaustion in his stance.

‘Come, Toby.’

She led her son to a nearby fallen tree, then shook Emily gently.

‘Emily...sweetheart; wake up, darling, there’s a good girl.’

Emily opened her eyes a slit. Her face crumpled and she began to cry.

‘I know, I know,’ Mary soothed.

She lowered Emily to the ground before untying the knot that held the bundle of their worldly possessions on her back. She put the bundle down, then took her cloak off and lay it on the damp ground by the tree. ‘There, sit on my cloak, sweeties. I won’t be long.’ She drew the cloak around the children for warmth.

The horse had reached the clearing and now cropped steadily at the grass. As Mary approached it, the grey stretched its head towards her, blowing softly through flared nostrils.

Mary slowly reached out to allow the animal to take in her scent. ‘Hello, old fellow.’ She stroked its nose, then took hold of the bridle. ‘What are you doing out here all alone?’