April Kihlstrom Read Online Free Page A

smoothed his path could only be a good thing. The faster the matter was settled, the faster he could return to London and his friends. Besides, if Miss Trowley did not prove acceptable or if she refused him, he would have to scramble to find another bride by the deadline set in his father’s will. Even to himself, he would not admit how much he hoped that she was the girl he remembered and that she would still look fondly at him. That would have smacked too much of the kind of sentimentality his father had done his best to browbeat out of him. No, he would not let himself think in such a way. He would be the man his father had wished him to be. After all, had it not served him well to do so thus far?
    Life was, he reminded himself, generally quite good, and he savored every moment—just as his father had taught him to. If he was bored, he merely did something different, and doing things kept one from feeling those pesky feelings one wasn’t supposed to feel. To be sure, his father would have said he was too soft, too cautious. He would have told Edmund to quit coddling his servants and take charge like a man, as he would have done. He would have told him to take more risks.
    That was perhaps why Lord Rothwood was on the box of his traveling coach, engaged in an attempt to cover ground as fast as possible—over the objections of his more reserved coachman—when disaster struck. The wheel of the coach hit a large rock in the road and something broke. The carriage began to slew sideways, the horses began to panic and it took both Rothwood and the coachman to keep them from bolting. As it was, they came to a halt half in a ditch with the horses stamping and snorting impatiently.
    Rothwood jumped down to survey the damage. It was, unfortunately, even worse than he feared. He looked up at the coachman. “I shall have to walk to town,” he said, “and get help.”
    “Here, no! I should be the one doing the walking!” the coachman protested.
    “Yes, well, I’ve a notion the horses will need your expert hand to hold them,” Rothwood replied. “Besides, it is my fault we are in this mess and therefore my responsibility to do the tromping to the nearest village. I shall send back help as quickly as I can. If the weather turns bad, tether the horses and take refuge in the coach,” he advised.
    The coachman straightened his back. “I think I know my duty,” he said indignantly.
    Which meant, Rothwood thought with a sigh, the man would probably stay on the box of the coach holding the reins even if it started to pour buckets of rain. Rothwood didn’t mind the walk ahead but it did bother him that his coachman should suffer for his folly. His father would have been appalled that he gave two thoughts to the man’s welfare but he could not help himself.
    Well, he would just have to hope the clouds did not bode as badly as they seemed. At least not until his coachman could reach the safety of a dry inn. Now the question was, how far back was the last village through which they had passed and was it so far that he should go forward instead?
    “Forward,” a voice advised.
    Startled, Rothwood looked around and discovered a rather untidily dressed woman regarding him with grave eyes. Over one arm was the handle of a basket full of ripe berries. A housemaid no doubt sent to collect fruit for the family’s table. At least that was the status he gauged by the shabbiness of her gown. No doubt it had been a gift of sorts from one of the young ladies of the house.
    Then he looked at her face and went still. He knew her. Even after all this time, he knew her. He took a step forward and she took a step back, looking a trifle alarmed. Hastily he recollected himself. Clearly she did not recognize him and perhaps he was even mistaken. He tried to collect his wits but he could not seem to make sense of what she had said.
    “Beg pardon?”
    “I presume you are trying to decide whether to go back to the last village or whether it is