The Coachman's Daughter

Copyright © 2013 Gayle Eden

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The right of Gayle Eden to be identified as
the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First e-Edition 2012

First Edition

All characters in this publication are purely
fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is
purely coincidental.

Published for Air Castle Books by Smashwords.
Smashwords Edition.

Chapter One

“Are you going to wallow in that stall all
day?”

Demetrius (Deme) Willingham, 4th Marquis of
Fielding did not open his sooty lashes yet, though he certainly
heard and recognized the sarcasm in that voice. It was Haven
Mulhern, the Coachman’s daughter. She was likely the one who had
dumped him in a horse stall, again.

“It’s nearly three in the afternoon. The lads
need this stall for Samson. They’re mucking today.”

“I own this bloody stable and stall. They can
bloody well take him outside to the yard.” He finally lifted his
lashes, showing green eyes that were smarting as an arc of fall sun
came through from the left side of the stable.

As he pushed himself to sit up, Deme gazed
with his usual disdain over Haven’s male clothing—usually his
father’s green livery, but just as often, buckskin trousers, linen
shirt, boots.

“To my knowledge, your father, his Grace,
owns the stables. Though, you are his heir, true. It still doesn’t
mean it is all right to inconvenience the lads that keep them.”

“Don’t chasten me, Mulhern. I’m not in the
mood.”

She grunted at that.

“Is that coffee?” He gestured to a cup in her
hand where she leaned casually on the stable door.

“It is.”

She was not offering it to him and he
regarded her face while he shoved back his raven hair. It was
curly, falling over his brow. It had never been tamable.

Hers—was a scandal, blood red, cut to her
chin.

Her tawny gaze was steady in what would be an
attractive face—if he liked her one bit, and he did not. From the
time she was a lass, given the run of his father and mother’s
house, the estate as well as in London, schooled with his siblings,
Haven Mulhern was a pain in his arse. He often told his father he’d
raised her above her station, to which his father replied he had
better think his lucky stars Haven was around all these years to
make sure he hadn’t gotten himself killed, foxed as he was
usually—raking and slumming being his favorite pastimes.

Considering the not so subtle tilt of her
pink lips, he groused, “How long have I been in here?”

“Since we returned from your friend the
Marquis of Wolford’s to welcome him and his bride, Lady Juliette.
About 12 hours.”

“Twelve!” He did not believe her.

She shrugged and pushed away, taking a few
steps and reaching the cup down to him. “It’s not yours. It is
mine. So consider how generous I’m being, since I had to lie to the
Duke again for you.”

“Why bother. He’s not stupid.” He took the
cup and drank half, shuddering a bit because his guts were raw. He
must have lost whatever he’d drank—likely due to her hell for
leather driving, which he would swear was deliberate.

Leaning against the stall door again, she was
looking over his dishevel, wrinkled white shirt, the snug trousers
that had dirt on the knees—he must have wretched somewhere between
there and here, a his scuffed Hessians, which his valet, Mossley,
would be in a dither over.

Her eyes moved up to his face again. He
deliberately held them—and finished drinking all of the coffee.

“I didn’t lie about your being foxed. It’s
your normal state; I lied about the detour you had me take to the
tavern.”

Deme got to his feet. His jacket and cravat
were draped over the stall. He smelled the earthy scents, heard the
distant sounds of the horses, groom and lads working. She bloody
well had a habit of rolling him out into the stables, even in
London.

Haven and her father, Patrick, a celebrated
whip, who had won many prizes and purses, lived in well-appointed
apartments over the carriage house, which was further back and to
the left. He may not care for Haven but everyone respected Patrick.
He could work for any house he chose and was much coveted.
Wimberly, his father’s ducal estates, held coach races every year
and Patrick never failed to win the prize. He was also a friend to
the Duke. They played chess and cards together.

The Wimberly’s, being a high spirited and
eccentric lot, were made up half siblings, aside from the whole
ones, himself and Lady Lisette, his sister, who were born to his
parents before they divorced. There was a set of twin girls in
school, who were his mother’s with her lover, and a lad who lived
with a countess and her husband up north, fathered by his sire.
There were also the ones born during their on again off again
relationship.

James, and Aiden, and Jude (called little
John,) who lived here at Wimberly—a menagerie of his mother’s pets,
rooster, rabbits, various breeds of dogs and cats, peacocks, and
two parrots. So one heir, who was more often than not foxed, was
not anything out of the ordinary for the Duke and Duchess.

“Is the family about?” he asked, reaching her
the cup before collecting his jacket and pulling it on, draping the
cravat around his neck, and leaving it dangling.

“Lisette and James are playing tennis. Your
parents are in the courtyard, and Little John is fishing.” She met
his gaze. “In case you have forgotten, this is James and Aiden’s
last week here.”

Deme cursed. He remembered the conversation
in the study when his younger brothers told him they had joined the
military, James the army and Aiden the navy. They jested about
being younger sons, having to make their mark on the world, but
Aiden had muttered, “At the rate you’re drinking yourself to death;
we may yet be a Duke.”

He had laughed and muttered something about
not getting themselves killed. The fact that they were old enough,
nineteen and twenty, to go off to war, certainly shook him. He had
looked at their handsome faces, their height and brawn, and he had
realized that for eight years or more, he had been in a haze. He
had stopped being a part of their lives, their older brother, and a
part of the competitive games they played. While he climbed into
beds and bottles, they had turned into men.

“Sobering, isn’t it?”

Deme glanced at Mulhern, who annoyingly
seemed to read his mind. “Very.”

He motioned for her to step back, and she
did, opening the stall door in the same motion. His body must pass
close to hers, and he had the unwelcome thought that even in
trousers, there was not any doubt Haven was a woman. She was not
tall, but was leggy. She was not full figured, but had a feminine
one, no matter what she wore or how boyish her hair cut.

How old was she now? Twenty-one or two….

He had unconsciously looked her over and
paused, so when he met her gaze on the trip up her body, Deme
realized how closely she was observing him.

“If you’d bother to wear a dress and stop
acting like a man, you wouldn’t be half bad, Mulhern.”

She retorted, “I like my trousers, and I have
been known to wear a dress when it mattered. As to your half bad
remark, rest your mind on that score, I have plenty of suitors, in
my trousers or out of them.”

“Do tell.” He arched his brow, his smile
meant to mock.

“Unlike yourself, I value discretion.” She
reached and plucked straw from his hair and had her own biting
grin. “You should know by now, my lord, that I don’t give a bloody
damn what you think of my dress, or my looks. But as we’re being
frank, you have reason to be glad I do have some less than lady
like traits.”

“Not that again.” He rolled his eyes and
passed by her. “I fear I shall hear of your heroics on my behalf
till my dying days.”

“Which will be sooner than later, if you keep
up your current habits.”

He ignored that and her, and proceeded to the
entryway.

Haven watched him walk out of the stable. Her
stride a bit slower following, she arrived at the entry doors in
time to observe his walking to the sprawling white stone manor. It
was a shame; she thought for the millionth time, that he was
blessed with such exquisite looks and natural lean muscled grace.
That hair was curly, soft, wild, she knew from having held his head
while he spilled his guts in a ditch. His body she’d felt against
her, half carrying him when he was foxed, and more often than she
wanted to remember, she’d seen most of it exposed. It was a
beautifully sculpted body, for a beautiful man—who was wasting
himself on drink and women he could not remember. He was spoiled,
too wild, and had been blessed unfairly with the kind of visage
that made women flock to him. His wit could be biting, bitter, and
his attitude pricked her like a brier most of the time.

She should be getting on with her own life,
as her father oft reminded her these days. She had an excellent
education, thanks to the Duke and Duchess. Her father had plenty of
money saved for either her dowry or whatever she wanted to do with
her future. Yet, here she was, unable to walk away—.

Muttering, she headed toward the manor. She
needed distraction.

Lady Lisette was by the courtyard and
motioned her over after putting away the tennis racquet. “Come and
sit with me.”

Haven strode over, and they poured glasses of
lemonade before sitting on the lawn.

Lisette had opposite looks of her Marquis
brother. She was lithe, but a petite five foot even, like the
Duchess. Her hair was long, blonde, straight, and she had aqua
eyes. Attractive, as all the siblings were, Lisette had more than
made up for early years spent in a sickbed, and was full of spirit.
They were as close as sisters, shared confidences, and she was glad
that Lisette made friends with Lady Juliette, because for all the
Duchess and Duke traveled in fast circles, Lisette found little in
common with London ladies, and had made no friends. Now Juliette
would be there for her.

An expert archer, rider, game for any sport,
Lisette had a restlessness since she had gained full health. She
was fearless, bold, and though they were close, Haven could not and
never would, be of the same society.

No matter how close they were, she was still,
the coachman’s daughter. Though everyone but Deme in this household
seemed to ignore it, Haven did not forget that fact.

“Do you know mother is planning a gathering
before the brothers leave at week’s end?”

“No.” She looked at Lisette. “But they will
enjoy it, I’m sure.”

Lisette nodded but winced. “She’s inviting
Elisha Roulle, Viscount Marston.”

Haven arched her brow. “Should I know
him?”

Shuddering, Lisette muttered, “He’s a bloody
snob. I doubt he will condescend to mix with the wild Wimberly’s.
No matter how rich and titled my family. His bloodlines are very
old and his family is known for their arrogance.”

Studying her, knowing her well, Haven
chanced, “Why then, is the Duchess inviting him?”

“Guess.”

“You mean—”

“Yes.” Lisette put the glass down and lay
back on the grass, rubbing her eyes. She was dressed in a pair of
trousers, shirt, boots, and her hair was in a braid. It was her
leisure attire at Wimberly, for hunting, fishing, riding, playing
whatever sport the siblings got up to. Yet in London, she could
transform herself as easily as any wealthy heiress. At her heart
though, she was a Wimberly, through and through.

She said, “I was shocked. I would never think
it of Mama. She is an unconventional woman herself, and has lived
her life as she pleased. I am not happy that she suddenly has it in
her head I need to be settled. And with someone like Marston!”

“Have you met him?”

“Briefly, but it was enough. He is tall,
dark, with silver—cold eyes. He’s arrogant and rarely condescends
to speak to anyone.”

Haven chewed her lip. “Regardless of how the
Duke and Duchess lived their lives, they take their obligation to
each of you seriously.”

“Oh, Haven. I would suffocate with a man like
that. I told Mama so. She knows me. She knows I would never be
happy being dressed up like a doll, hiding my brains and
spirit—because some prig of a husband—”