A Season for Love

A Season for Love

Cynthia Breeding

England, 1814

“Umph!
”
Elizabeth Townsend landed on her backside in a patch of mud and melting snow that made the winding road through the forests of Northhamptonshire treacherous
.
She grimaced as her horse galloped off toward home without her
.
Her uncle, the Earl of Dewberry, wouldn
’
t be happy to see one of his prize Andalusians arrive at the stables frothed up and riderless
.
She probably shouldn’t have taken the mare out, but it was such a beautifully warm day with the hint of spring around the corner.

And it was also rutting season
.
The big, many-pronged buck had leapt out of the trees, startling the horse into rearing while Elizabeth wool-gathered
.
Now here she was, in a wet puddle with her brown velvet riding habit no doubt ruined.

She bit her lip
.
Uncle James and Aunt Catherine had been kind to take her in when her parents were killed in a carriage accident shortly before Yule
.
They
’
d been generous in supplying her wardrobe—the countess said the simple woolen dresses Elizabeth had worn as a vicar’s daughter simply wouldn
’
t do—still, the earl had two daughters who would need numerous gowns and day-dresses when they moved to Town for the Season
.
Elizabeth didn
’
t want to be a further burden.

Hoof beats of a cantering horse sounded from the direction she
’
d come
.
Elizabeth pushed to her feet, thinking to seek cover behind a tree and then cried out as she tried to put weight on her right foot
.

The horse careened around the bend and skidded to an abrupt stop, splaying mud as the startled rider slid down from the saddle.

“Are you all right
?
What are you doing out here by yourself?
”

“I’m— Ouch!
”
She winced as she gingerly tried to put her foot down again.

“What a cad I am!
”
With three long strides, he was at her side, a strong arm wrapped around her waist, leaning her weight against his thigh and relieving her foot of any pressure.

Elizabeth gasped
.
Never had a man been this close to her—well, Papa, of course, but—
She looked up into eyes nearly as green as the pines behind her
.
Eyes fringed with sooty black lashes that matched the raven hair worn rather unfashionably long, curling over the open collar of his cravat-less shirt
.
She glimpsed a dusting of chest hair and stone-chiseled muscles that seemed to extend beneath his cloak to very broad shoulders
.
His leg, tightly encased in buff-colored breeches, seemed equally hard
.

She was pressed against his thigh
.
In fact, her whole body was nestled alongside his in the most improper way…and it felt good
.
Dear Lord, what was she thinking
?
Did she have attics to let
?
Elizabeth pushed away.

He looked amused, but released his hold enough to create some space between them
.
Before she could take a full breath, however, he was down on bended knee, hiking her riding skirt up to her knee.

“Sirrah!
”
She tried brushing her skirt down, but he just pushed it back up and began removing her half-boot
.
“This is most indecent!”

He glanced up, his full mouth curving into a smile
.
“I
a
m only checking your ankle to make sure it is
n
o
t broken
.
Put your hands on my shoulders to steady yourself.”

Elizabeth hesitated and then, tentatively placed her hand on one of them—to keep from falling, of course—and inhaled sharply
.
His shoulder
was
as hard as granite
.
She hadn
’
t imagined it
.
As tan as he was, he must be used to a lot of outdoor work
.
She glanced at his clothes
.
Simply cut, but clean; his cloak worsted wool.

His warm hand closed over her foot, his long fingers gently pressing around her ankle
.
Tiny prickles of heat coursed up her leg and her breath hitched.

A Season for Love

Cynthia Breeding

A Regency Romance

~~~

Highland Press Publishing

Florida

A Season for Love

Copyright ©201
2
Cynthia Breeding

Cover Copyright ©201
2
Amber Dawn Bell

Pr
oduced
in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system—except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web—without permission in writing from the publisher.

For information, please contact

Highland Press Publishing,

PO Box 2292, High Springs, FL 32655.

www.highlandpress.org

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names, save actual historical figures. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

PRINT
ISBN:
978-0-9833960-5-5
  (
Court of Love
)

HIGHLAND PRESS PUBLISHING

Tea Time

A Season for Love

England, 1814

Chapter One

“Umph!” Elizabeth Townsend landed on her backside in a patch of mud and melting snow that made the winding road through the forests of Northhamptonshire treacherous. She grimaced as her horse galloped off toward home without her. Her uncle, the Earl of Dewberry, wouldn’t be happy to see one of his prize Andalusia
n
s arrive at the stables frothed up and riderless. She probably shouldn’t have taken the mare out, but it was such a beautifully warm day with the hint of spring around the corner.

And it was also rutting season. The big, many-pronged buck had leapt out of the trees, startling the horse into rearing while Elizabeth wool-gathered. Now here she was, in a wet puddle with her brown velvet riding habit no doubt ruined.

She bit her lip. Uncle James and Aunt Catherine had been kind to take her in when her parents were killed in a carriage accident shortly before Yule. They’d been generous in supplying her wardrobe—the countess said the simple woolen dresses Elizabeth had worn as a vicar’s daughter simply wouldn’t do—still, the earl had two daughters who would need numerous gowns and day-dresses when they moved to Town for the Season. Elizabeth didn’t want to be a further burden.

Hoofbeats of a cantering horse sounded from the direction she’d come. Elizabeth pushed to her feet, thinking to seek cover behind a tree and then cried out as she tried to put weight on her right foot.

The horse careened around the bend and skidded to an abrupt stop, splaying mud as the startled rider slid down from the saddle.

“Are you all right? What are you doing out here by yourself?”

“I am— Ouch!” She winced as she gingerly tried to put her foot down again.

“What a cad I am!” With three long strides, he was at her side, a strong arm wrapped around her waist, leaning her weight against his thigh and relieving her foot of any pressure.

Elizabeth gasped. Never had a man been this close to her—well, Papa, of course, but… She looked up into eyes nearly as green as the pines behind her. Eyes fringed with sooty black lashes that matched the raven hair worn rather unfashionably long, curling over the open collar of his cravat-less shirt. She glimpsed a dusting of chest hair and stone-chiseled muscles that seemed to extend beneath his cloak to very broad shoulders. His leg, tightly encased in buff-colored breeches, seemed equally hard.

She was pressed against his thigh. In fact, her whole body was nestled alongside his in the most improper way…and it felt good. Dear Lord, what was she thinking? Did she have attics to let? Elizabeth pushed away.

He looked amused, but released his hold enough to create some space between them. Before she could take a full breath, however, he was down on bended knee, hiking her riding skirt up to her knee.

“Sirrah!” She tried brushing her skirt down, but he just pushed it back up and began removing her half-boot. “This is most indecent!”

He glanced up, his full mouth curving into a smile. “I am only checking your ankle to make sure it is not broken. Put your hands on my shoulders to steady yourself.”

Elizabeth hesitated and then, tentatively placed her hand on one of them—to keep from falling, of course—and inhaled sharply. His shoulder
was
as hard as granite. She hadn’t imagined it. As tan as he was, he must be used to a lot of outdoor work. She glanced at his clothes. Simply cut, but clean; his cloak worsted wool.

His warm hand closed over her foot, his long fingers gently pressing around her ankle. Tiny prickles of heat coursed up her leg and her breath hitched.

He appeared not to notice as he slipped her boot carefully back on. “It looks like a sprain. You will need to stay off it for a few days.”

Elizabeth tilted her head. Having done volunteer work at a London hospital, she agreed with him. “Pray tell, are you a physician, sirrah?”

“No. Just a soldier who has tended more wounded men than I care to count.” He placed one arm behind her knees, the other under her arms and stood in one easy motion.

“What are you doing? Put me down!”

“You cannot walk, Miss…what is your name, by the way? You do not look familiar.”

She was sitting sideways on his saddle before she could answer. “Elizabeth Townsend,” she said as he swung up behind her. “I just arrived here two months ago. My uncle is the Earl of Dewberry.” She hoped that wouldn’t intimidate him, but he merely nodded.

“Then you are not far from home.” He cradled her with one arm and turned his horse in that direction. “My name is Darian. My parents live on the next estate over.”

Elizabeth felt her eyes grow round. “You live on the Duke of Stafford’s property? What do your parents do?”

“Mostly, they manage the property.”

His mother must be the chatelaine then, and his father probably the majordomo. That would explain his manners and good speech. But it really wasn’t polite to pry.

He grinned and changed the subject. “If I am going to get you home before sunset, we will have to pick up the pace. Wrap your arms around me and hold tight.”

She really shouldn’t. It was terribly scandalous…but who would see out here in the country? She slipped one arm half-way around his narrow waist.

His grin widened and he took her other arm, pulling it around him until she was pressed firmly against the hard wall of his chest. She inhaled the clean, male scent of him, slightly soapy, with a hint of spice as well. He felt…good.

“Now hold on,” he said and the horse lurched into a gallop, heading home.

* * * *

“Oooh! An invitation to the duke’s ball!” Julianna’s golden curls shook as she grabbed the ivory parchment envelope the doorman had just delivered. “Will we have time to have gowns made?”