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Confessions Bundle
Confessions Bundle

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Confessions Bundle

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She watched him turn on his heel and suddenly remembered that he must not find the stranger in the shed.

“No, wait!" she cried in a most undignified manner. “There is much more to be said!" She started to follow him to the door.

Mercy grabbed hold of her hand. “Oh, Grace,” she pleaded softly. “Let him go. He won’t change his mind. He’s so mean and hateful!”

“I must speak with him,” she replied hurriedly, freeing herself gently from Mercy’s grasp and rushing after Sir Donald.

“But your cloak-!" she heard Mercy cry as she closed the front door behind her. It was still raining; nevertheless, Grace didn’t have the time to fetch her cloak. Sir Donald was nearly at the cow shed.

Sir Donald paused at the entrance, looking back at her with an interrogative smile. “Yes, Miss Barton?” he inquired as she joined him at the door. “Please, come inside out of the wet.”

He pushed open the door and gestured for her to enter, which she did, although that meant she had to push past him, her shoulders brushing his immovable chest. A quick glance around the cow shed revealed Daisy, still chewing, and the stallion, still waiting. There was no sign of any other human there, and for a moment, Grace wondered if the stranger had awakened and left.

“How can I help you, Miss Barton, who only moments ago was so anxious to have me gone?”

She whirled around to face her landlord, noting the smug amusement in his heavily lidded eyes.

“You must reconsider,” she began. “You must be reasonable.”

“Reasonable?” he countered. “I am being reasonable. I either need money from you, or from someone who can provide it.”

Grace took a deep breath and struggled to remain composed. She wouldn’t beg. Not of him, not even for Mercy’s sake.

Sir Donald’s smile grew broader, and his gaze more intense. “I could perhaps be persuaded to reconsider,” he mused, his voice low and uncomfortably intimate. “You are a remarkable-looking young woman, Miss Barton.”

Grace’s eyes narrowed with suspicion and disgust. “I hope what you are about to propose is not going to insult me,” she warned.

“Believe me, Miss Barton, when I tell you that nothing could be further from my mind.”

This time, Grace did not try to hide her skepticism.

“Oh, do not frown so, sweet lady! It quite mars your loveliness.”

“If you don’t mind, Sir Donald, say what you have to say at once. I’m rather cold.”

He ran his gaze over her in a way that reminded her of the damp clothes clinging to her body and she hugged herself. “I see that you are,” he said. “Therefore, although I would much prefer to take my time about this, I will be brief and to the point.”

Suddenly, and to Grace’s utter amazement, Sir Donald Franklin dropped to one beefy knee. “Miss Barton, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Chapter Three

Utterly dumbfounded, Grace stared at Sir Donald, convinced she couldn’t have heard him correctly. “I…I beg your pardon?” she gasped.

Sir Donald reached out and took her fingers in his large, damp hand. “My dear Miss Barton--and I do mean dear--I am asking you to marry me.”

“But…I…”

“It’s a surprise, I know,” Sir Donald continued smoothly, stroking her hand as he laboriously got to his feet. “As much to me as to you, if I were to speak truly. It was only when I realized how devastated I would be if you were forced to leave Barton that I knew my own heart.”

“Then do not raise the rent,” Grace said, regaining her faculties and immediately snatching her hand from his.

Sir Donald shook his head. “I regret I cannot do that.”

“Then allow me to say that while I appreciate the honor you do me with this proposal,” she said, her shock giving way to a sarcasm she could not conceal, “I regret my answer must be no.”

Sir Donald looked not a whit dismayed. “I would not be so hasty,” he replied softly, his gaze still upon her. “What I offer is not to be dismissed lightly. Wealth, privilege, a fine home. I would see that your sister wants for nothing. Indeed, she would be most welcome to make her home with us. She would not have to leave her beloved Lincolnshire.”

Somehow, Donald Franklin had discovered the one thing that could force Grace to hear him out without slapping his face: Mercy’s ardent desire to remain in Barton.

Grace forced herself to think of something that would overrule Mercy’s preference. “I don’t love you.”

“Perhaps not at present,” Sir Donald replied. “I’m sure you’ll see my merits soon enough.”

She knew him to be a vain fellow, but his persistence was beyond imagining. “Surely you don’t expect me to believe that you love me, either. You hardly know me.”

“Really, Miss Barton, don’t underestimate your charms." He ran his gaze over her body in a way that made her understand that he knew all he apparently wanted to about her. “And of course, there is the value of your family name. Don’t you think you could appreciate being married to a member of parliament?”

That he was ambitious as well as vain was not beyond her expectation; nevertheless, it had not occurred to her--or even the Hurley twins--that he might aspire to political power.

Yet now, when she looked at him and thought of his vanity and ambition and sudden, unexpected desire to be connected to an old family name, she could easily believe it.

She could think of no one worse to represent her county than this conceited, arrogant and greedy man. “You suppose that by marrying me you will advance your own career?”

“I do, and so does Lord Denburton,” he replied, naming a man who had been successful in fielding candidates who were sure to do his bidding for years.

“But I am penniless,” she noted, wondering why this particular point hadn’t stopped him before.

“You are also a very beautiful woman,” he said in what she assumed he intended to be a romantic manner.

He looked like a fool.

“Do you think I could ever be so desperate--”

He held up his hand to silence her. “I would not be too impetuous, Miss Barton,” he said harshly, with a spark of anger in his eyes. “Not when you have such limited alternatives, unless you quite fancy the idea of spending the rest of your life in a workhouse." He took hold of her hand again, so firmly that he hurt her. “I am making you an honorable offer in good faith. Will you not at least do me the courtesy of thinking about it before giving me your final answer?”

Whatever Grace thought of his offer--and at the very least, she considered it outrageous--her mind told her to be circumspect at present. After all, the three-month period he had set to raise the rent was arbitrary, to be extended or shortened at his whim. “Very well,” she said. “I will think about your proposal.”

“Excellent!" he declared, lifting her hand to his lips to kiss it.

She managed to subdue a shudder, yet she could not refrain from tugging her hand away as soon as possible.

He realized the meaning of her action, and a scowl darkened his features. “I have not taken offense at your manner because I knew my proposal would come as a shock to you,” he said, his voice full of menace. “However, Miss Barton, you would do well to remember that I have a long reach. And an even longer memory.”

With that final threat, he retrieved his horse and led it out of the shed.

Grace started to shiver and drew in a great, shuddering breath. She couldn’t marry Sir Donald. Not if she had to become a beggar in the streets.

She heard a small sound, and instantly remembered the stranger sleeping not so far off. Her face flushed with shame at the thought that even an unknown person would have heard Sir Donald propose to her, and she quickly moved to the stall to look at her uninvited guest.

Still asleep, thank heavens, and his presence still a secret. She regarded him for a long moment, marveling that a man so handsome, who had apparently at one time been well-to-do, and who had, perhaps, had a home and a family, was now reduced to sleeping in a stranger’s cow shed. This could be their fate, if Sir Donald would not lower the rent.

Then she realized with some surprise that she was also feeling a sense of relief. Surely Mercy would not be willing to stay in Barton if her sister’s marriage to Donald Franklin was to be the price. She would still be loath to go, but Grace would not be to blame.

And if the only alternative was marriage to their landlord, she would far rather depend upon the compassion of strangers.

For now, her first duty was to Mercy, weeping in the house, so she quickly left the shed.


Lord Elliot Fitzwalter slowly opened his eyes and gazed at the roughly shingled roof over his head. He could hear rain hitting the wooden wall at his back. After a long moment, when his eyes had adjusted to the dimness, he realized he was in an outbuilding of some sort. He could glimpse dark sky through the slats, and supposed that meant it was evening.

Straw. He smelled straw, which wasn’t unexpected since he was apparently lying on it, in a shed with a…cow, he thought, nearby. What had happened to the nag?

Hadn’t he just heard voices? Where had the people gone?

He sat up and ran a hand over his face. His head ached, and so did his back. His shoulders felt as if somebody had been trying to rip them from the sockets.

Where the devil was he, and how had he gotten here?

He sneezed violently, from the straw, he thought, although his clothes were wet. God, he smelled like an old, wet sheep. No doubt he looked worse.

He stood up shakily, the movement making his head hurt even more, and stepped out of the stall. The cow in the next stall stared at him.

Nothing and nobody else present. Only a cow and himself.

Yet he knew he had heard voices, and somebody must have brought him here. He closed his eyes and tried to remember, focusing his efforts on the voices. There had been a woman and a man, talking in low, intense tones. Not friends, judging by the hostility in their voices.

Still, that didn’t mean it hadn’t been a farmer and his wife, perhaps one of whom did not relish the idea of giving a stranger shelter, not even in their shed. Country folk could be very suspicious of strangers, he knew, and a glance at his clothing confirmed that his appearance would not be in his favor.

It would probably be a good idea to expect hostility. It was an even better idea, he thought, to lie back down and rest. Surely after more sleep, when his clothes were a little drier and he was a little more himself, he would find a way to charm his rural Samaritans.

After all, he was a very charming young man.

Elliot started as the door of the cow shed opened again and, although he was cold, damp, very hungry and dry mouthed, he quickly lay back down as if still asleep. It would be wiser to feign such a condition until he knew exactly who had taken him in.

“Grace!" said a female voice. A young woman, he thought. Too mature for a child, but young yet.

“I told you I had an adventure today,” another woman’s voice responded. A little husky, but melodic. More mature and far more interesting that the too-soft, almost childlike first voice.

Not that he thought the second speaker an old woman. About his age, he would hazard to guess. More curiously, neither voice sounded like that of a Lincolnshire farmer’s wife or daughter, he was quite sure. These women were educated, and their voices close enough in tone and timbre to suggest that they were related.

Which woman had been in here before, with the man? Not the first, he ventured. The second.

Perhaps the man was her husband.

A husband was always a problem. Or maybe he was her father--a far more congenial notion.

He heard the rustle of garments as they apparently moved closer, and then the scent of something hot and made of beef assaulted his starving stomach. Probably a good English stew. His mouth started to water and he almost opened his eyes, yet caution--something, he thought wryly, Adrian would believe he did not possess--told him to wait a little while more.

What kind of a man sent women out to tend a stranger? Either he was naive or stupid.

Maybe they had slipped out here without his knowledge. It could be the fellow didn’t even know there was an unknown man in his shed. Now that was a very interesting idea.

Adventurous young women always thrilled Elliot, and as he waited for the women to speak again, he wanted very much to open his eyes and see what faces and forms accompanied the voices. Perhaps they were wholesome, pretty country girls. That would be a welcome relief from the colonials of Muddy York always seeking to impress him with their version of fine manners, or the haughty noblewomen of his former acquaintance, whose cool masks quickly slipped when they had him alone.

“Who is he?” the younger woman asked quietly.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“He didn’t wake up.”

“Didn’t he walk here with you?”

“I had to drag him.”

That was an unexpected admission. Perhaps she was a farmer’s wife after all, with brawny arms, wide hips and double chin. And what had happened to the nag?

“His trousers are thick with mud, but there was nothing else I could do.”

Probably the horse wandered off, the stupid beast--with his few belongings, too.

“You should have come home and fetched me to help you,” the younger voice said.

Why didn’t she suggest asking the man for help? Why fetch another woman for assistance?

“It was getting late and the rain was worsening.”

Maybe he hadn’t heard a man’s voice, after all. In his previous state, he might have mistaken the older woman’s deeper tones for that of a man.

“Perhaps we should wake him,” the younger one said in a tentative tone. “The supper will be cold if we don’t.”

“Rest might be the best thing for him,” the other replied. “We could leave the food here for him to eat when he wakes up. I daresay he’s had worse.”

She sounded practical and matter-of-fact. Like Adrian.

“Don’t you think we should invite him inside the--”

“No, I don’t. He must not come into the house,” the huskier voice said, and Elliot was suddenly sure she must be an elder sister, by domineering manner as much as tone. What was it about older siblings that made them think they had the right to order others about? “We don’t know anything about him, who he is or where he’s from. Not only would allowing him inside our home be a foolish and risky thing to do,

Mercy, but think how bad it would be if somebody were to discover we had taken a complete stranger into our house! Why, imagine what the Hurley twins would say!”

Another older sibling also worried about gossip.

“But Grace, they wouldn’t have to know, would they?”

“You would have us harbor this man in secret? For how long? A few hours? A day? Mercy, you have to stop letting your tender heart overrule your intelligence.”

The woman named Grace might have the more fascinating voice, but it was obvious Mercy would be the more sympathetic.

Then the full realization of his situation hit home, and Elliot subdued a smile. Apparently he had been rescued by young women who lived alone. To be sure, the older one was suspicious, but he could surely win her over. Why, if he worked this right, he could stay here for a while, safe from Boffin and probably very well fed.

He couldn’t have asked for anything better, and he dismissed Grace’s distrust. Young women always liked him, and often rather more, and it would surely not be difficult to charm a country lass, even a skeptical one.

“Didn’t Sir Donald see him?”

“No, thank goodness.”

So, there had been a man--a Sir Donald. Not a relative, Elliot gathered, and not a lover, or even very well liked, to judge from the slight alteration in Grace’s tone.

He heard one of them move closer. “What’s that smell?” Mercy asked.

“Wine.”

“Is he…is he…?”

“Drunk? He may have been, but he’s hurt, too.”

One of them came close enough for him to discern the slight scent of lavender, and to feel her warm breath on his cheek. “It’s not terribly serious. The cut is not deep, and there’s no bump.”

It was Grace, and her soft and surprisingly gentle words made him want to open his eyes more than ever.

He was about to, when Mercy spoke. “We should not leave him in those damp garments.”

As tempted as he was to see the women who were discussing him with such tender concern, Elliot thought it would be more amusing to wait and see if they were going to try to strip him. As he did so, it occurred to him that he was feeling somewhat better.

“I suppose you’re right,” Grace said reluctantly. “I wouldn’t want him to become ill. I’ll take off his boots. You loosen his cravat.”

He thought both of the women had come near him.

“My, doesn’t he smell?” Mercy whispered with obvious disgust. “Maybe we shouldn’t touch him.”

Elliot decided it was time he woke up. He moaned softly and opened his eyes, to behold a pair of surprised and worried gray eyes in a very pretty, almost childlike face topped with a tousle of blond curls. The young woman wore a lace shawl over a pink dress of plain, albeit good quality fabric.

He gave her a wan smile, and then looked behind her to the person who was obviously the older sister. Both women had fine and delicate features, as well as smooth, satiny complexions and blond hair. Yet while the girl kneeling beside him looked like a concerned cherub, the older one, with her smooth, golden hair, ringlets, suspicious brown eyes, frowning full lips, and severely plain navy blue dress looked more like a judgmental angel.

A strikingly lovely judgmental angel. Her form was astonishingly fine, quite as shapely as any Elliot had ever seen, even in that hideous dress that looked like something the leader of a strict religious sect would design. Her features were flawless, and her complexion such as one only found in England. Indeed, she had the potential to be a rare beauty, if she had the proper clothes and hairstyle, whereas the younger one would never be anything more than wholesomely pretty.

Nevertheless, Elliot realized that it was going to require considerably more effort and charm to secure the older sister’s aid, and he was absolutely certain she would be the one to decide his fate.

“Where…where am I?” he murmured, putting a hand to his head and contriving to make it sound as if the very act of speaking was an incredible ordeal.

“Barton Farm, Lincolnshire,” the elder sister said warily. “I am Grace Barton, and this is my sister. Who are you? How did you come to be lying in the road?”

“The…road?” Elliot repeated.

“Grace, perhaps we shouldn’t press him with questions now. Can you sit, sir?” Mercy Barton asked, bending down and putting her slender arms around him.

Elliot allowed her to assist him, secretly enjoying the sensation of her embrace before he glanced at the older woman to see what she thought of this activity. He expected outright disapproval; to his chagrin, he realized her expression was one of the most inscrutable he had ever seen on a woman’s face.

Nevertheless, she was obviously a cautious creature, so in all likelihood she did not approve.

“I think he can sit without your help,” Grace Barton said to her sister evenly before addressing him again. “Where do you wish to go?”

“Grace, please!" the kindhearted Mercy pleaded. “Can’t you see he’s hurt?”

Elliot thought Grace Barton’s expression softened a little, so he gave her a winsome smile, a thing that had stood him in good stead many a time. Several woman had confided that his lopsided grin had been instrumental in making them fall in love with him.

“I hope you will understand, sir,” she said as calmly as if they were discussing the weather, “that this shed is all we can offer by way of accommodation.”

Grace Barton seemed singularly immune to the power of his grin.

Elliot nodded, then decided that it might be wise to indicate that he had not been without some means before Grace Barton had found him. “My horse…?”

“Gone, I’m afraid,” Miss Barton answered, and he thought she thawed a little more.

He saw that slight change with unmitigated triumph, his natural optimism and confidence in his attractiveness to the opposite sex reasserting itself.

His delight was short-lived, as a sudden draft blew in through a large crack in the wall near him. When he shivered, it was not playacting.

“Oh, Grace!" Mercy cried. “He cannot stay out here all night. He’ll be too cold.”

Elliot quite agreed. He would much prefer the warmth of a house, and the company of these two lovely women. Therefore, with every effort to sound weak and helpless, he began to cough.

“Oh, Grace, we must let him come into the kitchen!”

Elliot watched the two sisters and suddenly realized that if he was adept at manipulation, his skill was nothing compared to the way Mercy Barton was using her large gray eyes to compel her sister to agree. She contrived to create an expression in their depths that was both begging and accusatory. Why, even the most hard-hearted of men would find it difficult to resist.

And then, just as suddenly, he felt that her efforts on his behalf were somewhat misplaced, and that expression was aimed at someone who didn’t deserve it. Grace Barton had already helped him, and with considerable personal effort. Why, her slender arms looked barely strong enough to drag a ten-pound sack of flour any distance, let alone him, and in the rain and through the mud, too. If she now saw fit to refuse a stranger entrance to her house, that was not weakness or cruelty. It was only wise.

Nevertheless, he felt quite pleased when Grace Barton finally spoke. “Very well. This one night.”


As the handsome young man struggled to his feet, Grace tried to convince herself that they were not taking a foolish risk. Her rational mind told her she was, but she had never been able to resist Mercy’s pleading looks--not when her sister had gotten into innocent mischief, or when she had brought home yet another wounded animal, or when she saw a particularly lovely bonnet, or even now, when they might be putting themselves in danger by inviting a stranger into their home.

Grace consoled herself with the observation that he seemed too weak to cause any trouble, even if he wanted to. Her hand went to the pocket of her skirt, where she could feel the cold steel of her father’s old pistol, and she felt a little more confident. She wasn’t a good shot, but she felt safer knowing the weapon was there. Just in case.

Mercy hurried to help the young man, yet it was not to Mercy he looked. His bright blue eyes narrowed for the briefest of moments as his gaze followed Grace’s movement, then he smiled, and in those eyes, she saw that he not only realized that she was concealing something, and that he could tell what it might be, but also that he didn’t begrudge her the caution. Surprisingly, she also saw a kind of respect there, which made her blush.

Don’t get silly or stupid, Grace reminded herself. Mercy was the sentimental one, not her, and she had best remember that.

It was also abundantly clear that Mercy’s assistance alone would not be enough, so she, too, put her shoulder beneath his and slipped her arm under his jacket and around his waist, which was slim, like his hips.

With her body up against his, his chin beside her cheek and his damp shirt offering the thinnest of barriers to his skin, her heart started to beat wildly in a most unfamiliar rhythm.

I must be fatigued from the effort of dragging him here, she told herself, especially when a quick glance at Mercy showed that her younger sister was apparently quite unaffected by her proximity to the stranger.

She gave him a sidelong look, to catch him regarding her with gratitude in his eyes, and that amazingly attractive lopsided grin on his face.

Grace blushed again and told herself to concentrate on the task at hand, which was getting him inside the house.

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