Runaway Miss. Mary Nichols
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My God, she was beautiful!
He wanted to pull her into his arms to kiss her, but she was not the sort of woman you could do that to—not suddenly and for no reason. What in heaven’s name was she doing here, wandering among the buttercups and daisies, miles from home? Who was she?
He felt it too, this strange alchemy, and he supposed it had been there from the start of this strange journey. It was why he was determined to escort her, even when she made it plain she did not want an escort. It wasn’t only the mystery surrounding her—perhaps there was no mystery and she was exactly what she said she was—it was something about the girl herself. Her beauty, her courage and independence, all the attributes he had said would make her unfit to be a lady’s companion, were the very things which drew him to her.
Runaway Miss
Harlequin®Historical
MILLS & BOON
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MARY NICHOLS
Born in Singapore, Mary Nichols came to England when she was three, and has spent most of her life in different parts of East Anglia. She has been a radiographer, school secretary, information officer and industrial editor, as well as a writer. She has three grown-up children, and four grandchildren.
Runaway Miss
MARY NICHOLS
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
Available from Harlequin®Historical and MARY NICHOLS
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Prologue
1816
It was almost dawn, the eastern sky over the chimney pots of St James’s bore a distinct pink tinge, and soon the sun’s rays would penetrate to the level of the street and the creatures of the night, human and animal, would disappear and those of the day make an appearance. But the gentlemen sitting at the card table in the gaming room of Brooks’s club were unaware of the time. The heavy curtains in the room were drawn against the windows and the only light was from the lamps that had been burning all night, so that now the room was stuffy and malodorous.
The previous evening it had been crowded, all the tables filled, but as midnight approached the first players began to leave, followed by others until, by three in the morning, only one foursome remained intent on their game. Hovering over them, wishing he could go home to his bed, was a liveried, bewigged footman whose task it was to make sure their glasses remained full. Except what was necessary to further the game, no one had spoken for hours.
The four men—Lord Cecil Bentwater, Sir George Tasker, Mr Jeremy Maddox and Viscount Alexander Malvers—were so absorbed that the time of day, even the day of the week, hunger or families and servants patiently waiting for them to come home meant nothing at all. Lord Bentwater, who had the largest pile of coins and vowels beside his elbow, was in his middle to late fifties, dressed entirely in black, unrelieved except for a white neckcloth in which reposed a glittering diamond pin. He had a pasty complexion and dark glittering eyes.
Sir George Tasker was a year or two younger, dressed in a single-breasted green coat, a waistcoat of cream satin embroidered