Lost In Love: Road to Forever

By Louisa Cornell

EVERY RELATIONSHIP HAS ITS UPS AND DOWNS –

When Adelaide Formsby-Smythe insults the Duke of Selridge to the point she sees her own murder in his eyes, her wish that the ground would open up and swallow her seems a perfectly reasonable response. Until it does.

Thus, Major Marcus Winfield, now the Duke of Selridge, ends the worst year of his life by falling into an underground cave with the younger sister of his former fiancée. An offense punishable by—marriage!

EVERY MARRIAGE HAS ITS SECRETS –

Although he never imagined marrying Adelaide, Marcus decides they will limp along quite well together. There’s no need to mention he’s being blackmailed... or that his irritating new wife fills his nights with a passion he cannot deny.

Adelaide, however, having unexpectedly married the man of her dreams, will settle for nothing less than her new husband’s heart. She’ll make him love her. Far less bothersome that way when she has to tell him she’s a thief. And possibly a murderess.

AFTER ALL, EVEN THE ROAD TO FOREVER HAS A FEW BUMPS ALONG THE WAY.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Louisa Cornell
• Release date: Jun 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386881810

Book preview

Chapter One

Yorkshire – April, 1816

---

You are planning to murder me, aren’t you?

After a mere twenty years of life, Adelaide Formsby-Smythe was to die a no doubt horrible death for asking the wrong question. To be more precise, for asking a man the wrong question.

Not the question about her imminent demise, which she had asked simply in jest. At least she hoped she had. Seated beside her on the high perch phaeton the man with the flashing green eyes, stiff shoulders, and grinding teeth, most definitely gave one pause.

Not at the moment, he muttered.

His answer did nothing to allay her concern for two reasons. One—he had not answered her original question, the one which had set this entire debacle of a conversation in motion. Two—he still had the look.

She’d witnessed the look in the eyes of her four brothers many times over the years. The after-effects of the look seldom boded well for her. In the past, it had resulted in several unfortunate encounters with nettle patches, frogs, snakes, an extremely smelly goat (in her bedroom, no less), and an unpleasant roll down Breckneck Hill in an old ale barrel.

The present situation differed entirely. Her brothers were basically harmless and, when pitted against her, inept at best. Thus, they posed no real threat. The Duke of Selridge, on the other hand, was neither harmless nor inept. Marcus Winfield, decorated hero of the Battle of Waterloo, presently gave her the look whilst delivering a detailed lecture on the position of the sun and the nature of the terrain—all because she had asked him a simple question.

In hindsight, she had to agree no reasonably intelligent lady her age would have had the audacity to make such an inquiry of any man, let alone a duke. It was, of a certainty, one of the three most fatal questions a woman could ask. The first two being— Do you love me? and Are you offering marriage?

Much as she enjoyed the indignant fire in those green eyes and the way his truly amazing mouth moved as he spoke, she couldn’t let him go on like this. Quite so, in for a penny, in for a pound. She’d received no response to the question of her murder. He’d obviously invoked a male’s proclivity to ignore questions he deemed frivolous or unworthy of response. As a dramatic death wasn’t in the offing, she would ask her original incendiary question again.

"Well, Your Grace, are we lost?"

Miss Formsby-Smythe, have you been listening to me at all? His exasperation was palpable.

To be perfectly honest, Your Grace, no. I seldom listen to men who splutter at me for making what any intelligent person would agree is a reasonable inquiry. It pleased her to note her voice did not quiver at all.

The vein in his temple pulsed rhythmically. Obviously, this was not the answer he wanted. He had not been a duke for long, but his ducal glare was already highly polished.

During the first hour of this farcical outing, you have chattered like a magpie on every conceivable topic—the weather, the scenery, the trees, the rocks and every blo— blessed bird we encountered.

I like birds, she said with her cheekiest grin. Hmm. Another unacceptable response. His current resemblance to a hawk eying a mangy mouse had her questioning her affection for winged creatures.

He pulled the phaeton to a stop and turned, apparently to give her his full attention. Lucky her. The second hour you sat like an old stump, not uttering a word, for which I thanked my lucky stars.

I never —

Of that I have no doubt. I am certain silence is not your normal state.

Sir, you go too far. Adelaide folded her arms across her chest and pointed her nose in the air only to have a feather from her bonnet flop over between her eyes.

He fixed two iced over pools of stormy sea green on her face. Lord, she'd either freeze or drown in those eyes. Or both. This little jaunt became ‘too far’ the minute we left the house.

Oh, for pity’s sake. I do apologize for offending your male sensibilities, Your Grace. I asked a perfectly understandable question. There is no need for you to get yourself into a state. She flipped the errant feather back over the brim of her bonnet and searched the moors for something more interesting than his shiver inducing scrutiny.

A state. A state? I am a soldier. A major in His Majesty’s cavalry. I never get myself into a state, he said very loftily for a man mad enough to spit. I am a master strategist. I assure you I am completely aware of my surroundings, and I, therefore, always know exactly where I am. So, to answer your first question, no. We are not lost. I am still contemplating my response as to the question of murder.

You might have said so earlier, before you became insulting and petulant. Adelaide's gaze was drawn to his face once more. Oh dear, the vein at his temple was still pulsing.

Insulting? What in God’s name did I say that was insulting?

He really is the outside of enough.

I was not ‘chattering like a magpie,’ as you so politely put it. I was merely attempting to be a pleasant companion. Frankly, Your Grace, I have sat on stumps that were better company than you. And the reason I had the utter temerity to ask if we were lost is because we have passed that outcropping of rock six times in the last hour.

You counted? He managed to sound both outraged and incredulous at the same time.

I had little else to do, sir. Your conversation, the scintillating series of grunts and nods that it was, simply did not occupy my mind enough to prevent me from noticing we have been driving around in circles.

---

Marcus regarded the fuming young woman seated next to him. When he had courted her sister so assiduously, Adelaide Formsby-Smythe had merely been the younger sister. Much younger when one compared her twenty or so years to his practically ancient thirty. He would not have noticed her now, save for the fact she had handily delivered him a blistering set down. Very few of his closest friends and family would dare to do what this little chit had done. Astonishingly amusing actually.

The poor girl had every right to cut up at him. His remarks had been unkind and worse, untrue. Oh, at first her ceaseless chatter had been annoying. His annoyance might have had more to do with the fact she had completely foiled his plan to outwit his mother’s romantic scheming. Rather than refuse the trip across the moors outright, as any normal young lady of breeding would have done; Miss Formsby-Smythe had the audacity not only to accept his invitation, but to enjoy every minute of the outing. Until now, that is.

To an outsider, the moors were a barren, intemperate, unfriendly place. His entire purpose in withdrawing to the northern estate was for the distance it put between him and the rest of the world. He’d wanted nothing to do with God or man—the one having abandoned him and the other spouting platitudes about time healing all wounds. In the wilds of Yorkshire, he’d hoped to outrun them both.

He had been most decidedly wrong. From man, he could run. From God, he could not. God was everywhere, it seemed. Even in Yorkshire. Especially in Yorkshire. It took a young woman a few years out of the schoolroom with the eyes of a child to remind him of it. For her, every mile—every new vista brought something exciting and wondrous to see. The smallest of things struck her as worthy of notice.

Look at that rock. It’s as if an errant bird has dropped a pebble onto the moor and a tree of granite grew from it. The moors do have trees, Your Grace. Trees of stone.

He’d made no response, but he grudgingly saw the sudden eruptions of rock dotting the landscape in a whole new way.

A trio of otters playing chase across the flat rocks in a shallow streambed was greeted like old friends. To his utter amazement, her cheery Hello. Aren’t you lovely? was answered by all three sleek creatures standing on their back legs and chittering a reply before returning to their play.

Of a long stretch of bog, with its mounds of sphagnum moss patched between solid ground and open water, she'd said, It looks like the rug in my father’s study. All patchy and threadbare with little bits of plush here and there. Oh, but it smells infinitely better. It smells green. Deep, dark, forest green. How heavenly. I wish my father’s study smelled as sweet.

Green? Green had a smell? And not simply green—forest green. When she’d turned away to call to a covey of red grouse, he’d inhaled deeply. It did smell green, green like a forest, not like his mother’s gardens or the lawns at Winfield Park.

She knew every plant and animal on the moors by name, and this was her first trip to Yorkshire. She had said so at the interminable dinner party last night. The one at which he’d sat there like the old stump whose company she preferred, if her earlier tirade was to be believed.

Her identification of the cotton grass was easy. With its white wooly heads, it could hardly be named otherwise. How was it she knew the asphodel and yellow stars just beginning to peek out at the world? Reminder flowers she’d called them. They’ve come out to remind us spring will come. As it always does.

She’d nearly overturned the carriage when she leapt to her feet and shielded her eyes with her hand to watch a pair of merlins wheeling across the sky. Even a sudden rainstorm of a few minutes’ duration did not deter her. It’s like a child’s temper tantrum, don’t you think, Your Grace. Quickly fussed up and as quickly calmed down. How funny.

It struck him. She had opened his eyes to the Yorkshire of his youth. Truthfully, he hadn’t been annoyed by her chatter. He was at turns captivated and comforted by it. The lilting rise and fall of her conversation had soothed him as nothing had in a very long time. She soothed him.

Ah! That is what irritated him. No longer the quiet, plain houseguest he was forced to court to honor his late brother's promise, she'd become attractive. Very attractive. He was hard pressed to look away from her sparkling eyes and smiling Cupid’s bow mouth. It would be easier if the inane drivel he expected of a girl her age came out of that mouth. Damn. Why did she have to be so bright and kind and alluring?

Get hold of yourself. It was best he put those tender stirrings to a quick and merciless death. A man like him had no right. He’d already destroyed two members of his family. He’d not take a chance on unleashing his unpredictable rages and cruel tongue on such an innocent. In spite of his mother’s hopes, no matter what the understanding between her and his brother, Marcus had changed his mind. This entire plan smacked of a fool's errand, with him as the fool. He would not be proposing to this disturbing little wood sprite. She'd undoubtedly refuse him anyway.

Indeed, whilst he’d sat immersed in his brown study, his already meager cachet with Miss Formsby-Smythe dwindled to nothing. Her tapping foot and magnificent scowl left it in no doubt. She was fed up and furious and in all likelihood had another stinging set down ready for him.

He could not help it. The memory of the one she’d dealt him earlier made him smile.

Oh, she huffed, crossing her arms beneath her shapely bosom and fixing her gaze on the ears of the matched pair of blacks in the traces. Now you are laughing at me.

He pursed his lips in an effort to erase his smile. I am not laughing at you, Miss Formsby-Smythe. There is nothing at all funny about this situation.

On that, we are in total agreement, Your Grace. If you are such a master strategist, how is it you could not devise a single plan to thwart the efforts of my parents and your mother in forcing us to take this little ride in the country? We both know neither of us wanted to spend the afternoon with the other.

Something indefinable tinged her voice. It bothered him. Still, it wasn’t entirely his fault they had been forced to spend the last several hours tooling about the countryside in his new phaeton.

I assumed if you had not wanted to come, you would have pleaded a headache or some other female complaint. If you want a soldier to try and formulate a plan you must at least let him know it, Miss Formsby-Smythe.

What a horse's arse of a response. It did have the desired effect, however, because she suddenly grew silent.

For a few breaths, at least. Need I remind you, you are no longer a soldier? You are a duke. You could have said no.

My dear Miss Formsby-Smythe, you’ve met my mother. Napoleon himself could not tell my mother no.

She did not give voice to her amusement, but laughter shone in her eyes—luminous, intoxicating laughter.

And you do not need to remind me I am a duke. It is a fact of which I am painfully aware.

Damn.

He had revealed too much. Something he was loathe to do. Especially to a creature with the allure and insight of Miss Formsby-Smythe. Even after six months, the pain of having lost his older brother to a sudden heart seizure waited like a bog on the moors, ready to drag him into a cold, dark place. He started the horses back onto the narrow cart path that crossed the bleak Yorkshire landscape of his vast northern estate.

---

Blast.

She had not meant to dredge up such memories. The past year had dealt him enough heartache for a lifetime. The wounds he’d received at Waterloo nearly killed him. As it was he had returned to England with a long scar marring his handsome face and a pronounced limp from a badly twisted leg. Add a broken engagement and the sudden death of his brother—life of late had not been terribly kind to Marcus Aurelius David Winfield. The injustice of it all reminded her of a bear baiting, life's dogs nipping and chewing at him and him refusing to fall.

I am so terribly sorry about Julius, Your Grace. He was a genuinely kind gentleman. I was so very fond of him.

It was an error in decorum to call the previous duke by his given name, in spite of her dear friendship with Julius. The man, who was Major Winfield until three months ago, appeared oblivious to her faux pas. Grief often made people oblivious to a great many things.

Thank you. His voice uncharacteristically hoarse, he continued. Julius was the best of brothers. He was my best friend. I cannot accustom myself to the idea he is gone.

The brave soldier, the powerful, sometimes-a-bit-arrogant aristocrat was in an instant terribly sad and very much alone. Adelaide could think of nothing appropriate to say.

They rode along in a more comfortable silence. As they did, Adelaide grew a little ashamed. As easy as it was to lay the blame for this miserable excursion at her ambitious mama’s doorstep, it was also unfair.

When all was said and done, Adelaide had been the one who’d accepted the duke’s tight-lipped invitation to take a ride in his phaeton. Once she had, she’d contrived to do all in her power to attract his notice.

She’d dressed in her loveliest shell pink sprigged muslin dress. The muslin was meant to be a tribute to his military service. The war now over, most young ladies had returned to wearing gowns of French silk. The memory of those lost at Waterloo would not allow Adelaide to do so.

Not that the duke noticed. She might have been wearing sackcloth and a purple turban for the few glances he threw her way. How unkind of her. Why should he care her rose-colored light velvet pelisse was of the latest stare? With its hussar-style black frog fasteners marching down the front and its embroidered hem brushing her ankles, it was the perfect complement to her dress. Her little half boots were fashionable as well as practical. The ensemble was completed by an abbreviated straw bonnet, decorated with a plain pink ribbon around the crest, a few wispy pink feathers and a jeweled dragonfly hatpin.

She chose the ensemble because she had been told she looked quite fetching in it. She even felt quite fetching; or she had on other occasions when she’d worn it. How silly and vain of her.

She should never have allowed her parents to drag her out to the far reaches of Yorkshire on such a mercenary mission. Her promise to his brother, a man she’d loved dearly, was the excuse she allowed herself for even contemplating this trip. It was obvious, in spite of his mother’s assurances, their visit was a blatant imposition on a man still in mourning.

For his brother.

For his military career.

For the man his wounds insured he would never be again.

Perhaps, even for his broken engagement. What if he was still in love with her sister? She’d had to share a great deal with Clemmie, but she drew the line at sharing a man’s heart. Especially this man’s heart.

Oh dear. The entire thing waxed worse and worse. Peeking from under the brim of her smart little bonnet, Adelaide studied Marcus carefully.

His long, slender hands sported a few scars, but managed the reins of his spirited blacks with ease. A cavalryman’s sculptured legs and powerful thighs, notwithstanding his injury, were encased in mirror-shined Hessians topped by fawn-colored buckskins. Snowy white linen, contrasted by the dark blue superfine of his perfectly tailored jacket, covered the muscular chest and tapered waist of a man accustomed to action. Sitting behind a desk administering an estate, attending balls and routs and musicales, were not the activities to mold a man like Marcus Winfield.

She moved on to his face. A patrician nose and squared jaw, complimented by hair so black as to appear blue in certain lights, and eyes of the coolest green—the word striking had been used to describe his visage more than once. From the instant she’d first seen him, Adelaide had deemed his the most noble and handsome face in London, perhaps in all of England. The scar left by a French cavalryman’s saber never altered her opinion.

The face she had watched in secret during the Season before Waterloo had smiled and laughed and flirted with all the exuberance of any young man of fortune and breeding who still believed the glittering promise of the ballroom could forever hold the sorrows of life at bay. In less than a year all of it had faded away, to be replaced by a seriousness of purpose and a sorrow she could hardly bear.

Miss Formsby-Smythe, if you like I can stop the carriage and pose for you.

Adelaide had grown so engrossed in her study of him, when he spoke she almost fell off the phaeton perch. Pose, Your Grace?

Isn’t that what young ladies do on these outings? Sketch or paint or gather flowers to press?

She took a deep breath. I fear I owe you an apology, Your Grace.

Nonsense. His expression reminded her of one of those outcroppings of rock they’d passed, save for the tiny muscle that flexed in his cheek. I assure you I am accustomed to people staring at my face. Think nothing of it. I try not to.

No—that isn’t—I mean— Between the bouncing of the phaeton and the heat of his storm-tossed green eyes Adelaide had trouble gathering her thoughts. I am sorry my parents have seen fit to interrupt your solitude to try and foist me off on you. I should never have agreed to come here. I do wish you would accept my apology.

The realization of what she’d said spread across his face like a gathering gale. The ghost of the young major disappeared and once again the haughty duke was in his place.

Ah. he said briskly. Exactly as I suspected. He jerked the carriage to a sudden stop and afforded her the full force of his unrelenting gaze. It was perfectly acceptable for your sister to jilt the disfigured Major Winfield in such a grand fashion. However, a duke, scarred and crippled though he may be, is a much more acceptable addition to the family.

Sir, you really mustn’t—

Your sister showed a great lack of foresight in jilting me and then rushing to marry Mister Edgehill, wasn’t it, before my brother died?

Viscount Edgehill, Adelaide corrected him. And you could at least try to believe my parents feel guilty about my sister’s unfortunate treatment of you. They are attempting to make amends by offering you… Well…

For some reason, it was no longer important to finish that particular sentence. Especially as they sat stopped in the middle of a forlorn stretch of the rocky open moor. Worse, having looped the reins around the brake, his hands were now free. To strangle her, perhaps?

He raised an utterly irritating eyebrow in response. His only response.

Well, she snapped. Clementine hardly jilted you in a ‘grand’ fashion, Your Grace.

She took one look at me at the St. Andrew’s ball and burst into tears.

I —

After which she ran sobbing from the ballroom, screaming she would rather join a convent than marry such a scarred monster.

She adjusted her bonnet away from her face and huffed. You really have no one to blame but yourself, Your Grace. There. She had actually said it. And once she saw the outrage on his face, she sincerely wished she had not.

Exactly how is your sister’s callous treatment of me my fault? Each word a chip of ice, his eyes weren't the only things capable of freezing an unsuspecting woman.

Adelaide threw up her hands in disgust. Men, she declared. You are all such idiots. Really.

Idiots? he shouted in a rather unducal tone. Idiots?

You fix your affections on the first glittering debutante you see, and then like a raven spying a shiny penny, you refuse to see anything else.

Of all the —

You do not care if she has more hair than wit. Her strength of character is of far less importance to you than the number of times she giggles in your presence. As long as her eyes sparkle when she looks at you adoringly, the fact she does not actually see you matters not at all.

Miss Formsby-Smythe, I assure you —

In spite of appearing a raving lunatic, Adelaide hadn't the power to keep silent. And so, you give your heart to this glittering creature on the floor of a glittering ballroom and everyone sighs over your glittering romance. Then at the first sign of real adversity you discover all that glitters is indeed not gold. Your diamond of the first water is not a diamond at all but glass—shattering at the first pebble’s throw. But really, Your Grace, what did you expect?

As quickly as the words tumbled out of her mouth, they stopped. Adelaide was appalled. She had railed at him like a fishwife. At a duke, of all people. Whilst he stared at her in what had to be stupefied amazement, she sincerely wished the ground would open up and devour her.

I would hardly call this. His voice was bitter as he ran his hand down his face. Or this, as he gripped his twisted leg, A pebble. Your sister had every right to be horrified.

My sister was a fool, Adelaide blurted. A complete and ninny-headed fool.

---

Her voice faded to a whisper. Marcus heard her nonetheless. For some inexplicable reason, he needed to remove her bonnet. So, he did.

He’d assumed she would be an ethereally golden blond like her sister. He’d paid so little attention to her since she’d arrived, he’d have been hard pressed to describe her until now. Her hair, piled untidily on top of her head, was not the nearly white gold he’d expected at all. It was the color of honey when lifted into sunlight. Her deep brown eyes reminded him of those of a fawn he had watched on a sunrise long ago. He was seeing her, seeing her for the first time. Without touching, he knew her skin would be as silky as a summer breeze. Her face told a tale of fairies and magic and adventures—all of the dreams of a boyhood lost to him long ago.

Why did you do that? she asked softly.

I wanted to see you, he said more roughly than he meant. In all the time I courted Clementine, I never truly saw you. Why is that?

You courted her for forty-three days before you returned to your regiment. Hardly any time at all.

Forty-three days? Those deep brown eyes drew him so. He hadn’t the strength to look away from her. Are you certain?

"You met her on March 3rd at the Billings’ rout. You left to rejoin your regiment on April 14th. It was a Wednesday. It was raining."

She recited it as if it were some of the most precious information she knew. Her words warmed him in spite of the overcast sky and damp wind blowing across the moor. He envied the wind that caressed her face and fanned a lock of hair across her cheek.

You appear to have kept a detailed journal on the subject, he teased. The sudden flush of her cheeks revealed he'd hit upon a truth of some sort. It surprised and pleased him all at once. The rosy hue made her eyes topaz jewels.

Did you, Miss Formsby-Smythe? He brushed the tendril of hair away from her face.

Did I what? Her eyes widened and her lips parted.

Did you keep a journal about me?

Into the silence the moor breezes whistled melodiously. The horses’ harnesses jingled in shimmering counterpoint. The phaeton creaked softly in the wind.

Yes. One word, so insubstantial the wind nearly swept it away.

Why would you do that, Miss Formsby-Smythe? His throat ached.

I don’t know.

Those three words fired his blood as nothing ever had. He needed to touch her almost as much as he needed his next breath, a breath his body struggled to take.

I am afraid you have left me no choice, Miss Formsby-Smythe. No choice at all but to kiss you.

Really, Your Grace?

He lowered his head. Oh yes, he breathed across her lips.

Then I do wish you would call me Addy.

Addy, he managed to rasp before he touched his lips to hers.

Soft. He never dreamed anything could be as soft as Adelaide’s lips. She expressed no hesitation, no guile, only a gentle sigh of satisfaction. She gave warmth and comfort and a thousand little things he never knew he needed, never knew he missed.

Marcus had kissed and been kissed by many women in his thirty years. The memory of those kisses slipped away like a morning mist when he kissed Addy. He groaned helplessly when her arms rose to pull him closer, her tenderly demanding hands stroking the overlong hair that fell over his collar. She smelled of lavender and the open sky. She tasted of wild honey.

He should not be doing this. She was so young, so little acquainted with the world and he; he was far too old for her in so many ways. His mind understood perfectly. The rest of his body, however, was of a completely different opinion. The curves of the wondrously soft form pressed to his were anything but childish. Her body spoke to his, demanding he deepen the kiss. Her squeak of surprise opened her mouth to the teasing flicks of his tongue. When her tongue touched his in hesitant answer all thoughts of age and right and anything outside of this moment flew out of his head.

---

If Adelaide died this instant she’d count her life complete. Marcus Winfield kissed her. Was kissing her. Very nicely too. Nice was too insipid a word, but at present short, single syllables were all of which she was capable.

She was about to go up in smoke at any minute. His hands, pressed to her back, burned through her clothes. His lips branded her beyond anything in her wildest maidenly fantasies. His scent, sandalwood and fresh linen surrounded her. He tasted of heaven and rain.

She was not altogether certain what he was doing with his tongue, nor what hers was doing in response. She only knew she did not want it to stop. Then again, as he trailed kisses across her cheek, along her jaw and down the tender, sensitive column of her throat, she did not want him to stop doing that either.

Dear God, Addy, he murmured. You must stop me. I cannot…

Oh, Marcus… What on earth? Adelaide managed to twist her head back and forth. Confusion turned to clarity. We’re sinking.

Marcus clasped her face between his hands. I know I am, He assured her as he began to nibble her earlobe.

No, Your Grace, you don’t understand, she babbled. Marcus! The seat tilted sharply.

He grabbed the reins as the horses reared and pulled forward. The ground began to rumble and give way beneath them.

She grabbed his arm. We appear to be sinking.

So we are. His cool tone might vex her if she weren’t scared witless. She watched him do a thorough reconnaissance in a single glance. Hold on.

The back wheels of the phaeton rolled into the growing hole.

Adelaide screamed. Marcus urged the horses on, which succeeded in making them more frantic to escape the abyss forming behind them.

Jump, Adelaide. Jump clear.

Are you mad? Adelaide cried. When she’d wished for the ground to open itself and devour her, she had not meant it so literally.

She was more than a bit put out of all her wishes, the Fates or God or whoever was in charge of such things had chosen to grant this particular one. Everyone knew a subsequent wish cancelled all previous wishes. And at the exact moment the ground had opened up she had been fervently wishing Marcus Winfield would never stop kissing her. A foolish wish perhaps, but then so was the one the Yorkshire moor saw fit to grant.

I really would prefer you not call me an idiot, a fool, and madman all in the same day. He spoke far too calmly for a man facing imminent death.

The carriage lurched back again. She imagined she smelled the stench of fear on the horses as they tried in vain to pull it free. Her very real terror had a taste all its own—bitter and sharp. With a loud crack the shaft between the horses broke under the strain.

Addy, for the love of God, jump! Marcus commanded.

She rose halfway to her feet. The carriage threatened to jerk out from under her. Her bottom slammed back onto the seat. No, Marcus, I cannot. She clutched his arm tightly.

Like something out of one of those awful gothic novels, the collapse of the ground rose in a deafening roar. The horses screamed and the phaeton broke apart. With a frantic lunge the team was free of the shattered conveyance and it tumbled out from under its passengers into the chasm. Marcus held onto the reins with one hand and to Addy with the other as they dangled over the precipice. She knew he could not hold the panicking horses that strained to pull them out of the chasm or to escape his grasp and make for home, whichever came first. Even now she slipped further into the darkness below. The phaeton hit with a loud crash.

It doesn’t sound bottomless, she ground out, with far more optimism than the current catastrophe warranted.

That’s good, he replied with a grin that made her stomach flip. If we fall too far, I might break my good leg.

That would be quite insulting. A short gasp escaped as she slid down his arm. He grabbed her hand in a crushing clasp.

You are a real brick, Addy. I’ll get us out of this.

I hope I am not a particularly heavy brick, Marcus. She watched the reins slide through his fingers. Adelaide screamed.

Chapter Two

Knocked breathless from the fall, for an instant or two Marcus was back on the battlefield at Waterloo instead of lying upon the wreckage of his new phaeton. As then, he was uncertain if when he finally did get to his feet all of his limbs were going to come with him. Once he opened his eyes, he saw a graying darkness. The sole light came from above, but even it came in fits and starts as storm clouds flitted across the sky. Addy lay on top of him.

Addy? His heart beat wildly. He tentatively touched the shawl of honey gold hair that covered his chest. To his relief, she moved.

Do all of your outings end so dramatically? Her dry, put upon voice made him want to laugh out loud.

This is my first outing in some time. I may be a bit rusty.

Yes, a bit, she agreed. She pushed herself into a sitting position.

Ummpff, he grunted.

Oh dear, have I wounded you?

No, that is an old wound, he assured her, rubbing his chest. Now that, he continued as she trod on his hand, is new. Could you please be still?

Dare I hope your soldier’s instincts are still with us, and you know exactly where we are?

After abruptly (short and sharp pain being preferable to long agony, especially when witnessed by a young lady) rising to his feet, Marcus took in their surroundings and then the hole that opened the path to their current predicament. His mouth tasted of dust, but the air was damp.

Of course I do, he said firmly. We are in a cave. Yorkshire is riddled with underground caves and old mines. Extraordinary.

As his eyes adjusted to the limited light provided by the large hole overhead, he made out the rock formations and the varied striations of elements in the walls. Caves had always fascinated him.

Extraordinary? She dropped the remains of her mangled bonnet onto the phaeton wreckage. We could have been killed and you find it extraordinary? Is it any wonder I find men idiots? Her teasing tone amazed him. Other women would be shrieking their heads off by now.

All men or just me? He raised his eyebrow in mock anger.

She lifted her eyebrow in a perfect imitation of his. His bark of laughter echoed around the stone walls. I daresay you did not find me an idiot when I was kissing you, he said. Marcus repeated the gesture with his eyebrow, because he knew it would amuse her.

Even an idiot has instances of brilliance. Her voice was overly bright. How do you intend to get us out of here?

He suspected she was more frightened than she let on. Having lived through cavalry charges and cannon barrages, Marcus was far better equipped than a sheltered young woman to deal with something like this.

Actually, the situation did not look too promising even for a seasoned soldier like himself. They had no source of light, save the ring of it in which they stood. On closer inspection of the stone walls around them he spied a tunnel leading deeper into the cave. It might lead them to safety. It could also lead to dangerous drop-offs and cave-ins as well.

The soft tapping of a foot on the cave’s stone floor awakened him from his determination of their options. Miss Formsby-Smythe, one elegant hand perched on her hip, stared at him expectantly. She reminded him of his old governess when she had caught him and Julius daydreaming instead of conjugating Latin verbs. Julius. He rubbed his fist against his chest.

Are you in pain, Your Grace? In two steps, she was beside him, her delicate fingers on his arm. Such compassion on her face as to make his heart twist in a new and more dangerous way.

Not at all, Miss Formsby-Smythe. I have simply devised a strategy to deal with our current dilemma, he said briskly.

Going to the wreckage of the fallen phaeton, he retrieved the seat cushion and