One Night with a Regency Lord. Lucy Ashford

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      Wedged uncomfortably between her fellow passengers, Amelie endured the miles as they rolled wearily on. By now her escape must have been discovered. Her father would be spreading tempest through the house; he would find it impossible to explain her absence to Rufus Glyde when the latter came calling. For a moment the thought of Glyde’s likely retribution made her feel a little sick, but she resolutely pushed it from her mind. Lord Silverdale would have to find another way of saving the family.

      She had no clear idea of the time, but it had to be around noon. Any moment now Sir Rufus would be stepping up to the front door of the house in Grosvenor Square, expecting to have acquired a bride before he left again. A wave of revulsion passed through her. Anything was better than that, even the harassment she’d suffered from Mr Gareth Wendover.

      She was glad to be free of him, too, yet she couldn’t quite subdue a twinge of regret. He’d behaved abominably, but then her conduct had hardly been that of a delicately raised young woman. If he’d realised her true situation, he wouldn’t have attempted to make love to her. But that was a nonsense. It would have made no difference to him if she were maid or mistress. From the outset he’d shown a predilection for seizing her in as close an embrace as possible. Whether she was the daughter of Lord Silverdale or the daughter’s maid would be immaterial.

      And shamefully, it hadn’t mattered to her either whether he was Mr Wendover, gentleman, or a choice spirit of dubious origins. She’d enjoyed the feeling of being held against his powerful frame. Eyes closed, she thought reminiscently of the strength that had encompassed her, the masculine warmth that promised as much excitement as security. But how foolish! She had no intention of being at the mercy of any man—ever. She’d just escaped from one threatened entanglement and she must preserve herself from any other, particularly with a man who by the look of him could bring her nothing but trouble.

      She shifted her position, trying to get more comfortable, but in such a crowded carriage it was difficult. Her feet were already numb from inactivity and her left arm ached with the weight of the portly farmer bunched in beside her. A thin-faced clerk in the corner scowled at her attempts to move, but the country woman smiled in motherly sympathy.

      ‘There ain’t much room in these coaches, miss, and we large ‘uns don’t make it any easier.’

      The farmer snorted at this and shifted his bulk again, trapping Amelie’s arm even more heavily than before. As well as aching from head to toe, she was beginning to feel very hungry. She’d hardly eaten a crumb at the inn, so intent had she been on eluding Gareth. The motherly lady, sensing her thoughts, reached down to the basket, which now nestled on the floor between her feet. She drew out some slices of pie and cheese and apples and smilingly offered to share her fare. Natural politeness would normally have made Amelie refuse, but her hunger was tormenting and the morning’s events had somehow dispensed with normality. She plunged her teeth into the succulent pie just as they left Hounslow Heath.

      Her benefactor adjusted her white cotton cap and sighed with relief. ‘I’m certain glad we’ve left that Heath. Terrible things happen there. Just last week my neighbour told me her son was held up in broad daylight and robbed of everything, including his horse. He’d to walk all the way to the City and never a chance of catching the man who robbed him.’

      Amelie, too, was relieved, for Fanny’s words still echoed in her mind; that at least was one danger she’d evaded. Once replete with food, it was easy to slip into a doze. She knew it must be another eight hours or so before she reached her destination and if she could catnap at least some of the time, the journey would not be so wearisome. She started to rehearse what she would say to her grandmother when she finally reached her and was in the middle of a masterly speech in which she painted a frightening picture of what her life would be like with Rufus Glyde, when her head began to droop and she drifted gently into a deep sleep. The red-faced farmer beside her also slept, his snores keeping time with the rhythm of the coach, but Amelie heard nothing. Even when the stage came to rest at its designated stops, she remained undisturbed.

      She slept on, mile after mile, until suddenly just past the Chippenham turn-off the coach lurched to an abrupt halt. She was jolted awake and thought at first that they must have reached the small town of Wroxhall, which she’d noticed was just twenty miles short of Bath. Hopefully some of the passengers would alight there and leave those remaining a little more room. Craning her neck round the still-sleeping farmer to look out of the window, she received a shock that sent her senses spinning.

      Gareth Wendover wrenched open the doorway of the coach. He was smiling grimly and in his hand was her forlorn cloak bag. ‘You seem to have forgotten something, Amelie.’

      The coachman at that moment appeared at his shoulder. “Ere, ‘ere, you can’t stop a coach on the King’s ‘Ighway to give back a bag,’ he blustered.

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