My Lord Winter Read Free Page A

the horses hooves ringing hollowly, and halted before towering gates of wrought iron.
    “Locked.”
    “There must be a lodge,” Jane said, “but no doubt the gatekeeper would turn us away. See if there is a wicket gate to one side.”
    This proved to be the case. With considerable difficulty and much low-voiced profanity the horses were persuaded to squeeze through, their muzzles wrapped in cloths to stop them neighing in protest. Jane was breathless with suppressed laughter as they started up the drive. She was quite looking forward to crossing swords with the haughty Earl of Wintringham.
    Guided by white posts linked by black-painted chains, they quickly covered the half mile to the house. Judging by the vast sweep of steps they came upon, Wintringham Abbey must have been an impressive mansion, but even the front door was invisible from the bottom. Mr. Selwyn came to a stop.
    “Perhaps we should look for the servants’ entrance,” he said hesitantly.
    “We might never find it.” Jane dropped Gracie’s and Ella’s hands and started up the steps. She knew they would follow. The coachman’s plaintive “Don’t forget me!” told her the others were coming, too.
    To one side of double doors of iron-banded oak hung a brass bell-pull. She tugged on it twice and heard a clangour within, faint through the thick wood. As it died away, she moved to the centre of her little troop, facing the doors. The right-hand one swung open and she stepped in.
    “Who... What...?”
    Jane ignored the stammering footman in favour of the butler, who was advancing across the marble floor of the spacious, lofty hall.
    “The Mail coach came to grief in the fog,” she announced, pushing back her hood. “I and my companions have come to request shelter.”
    “Impossible, madam.” Not an eyebrow twitched. “There is an inn in the next village.”
    “We cannot possibly go so far. I daresay this house is large enough to accommodate us without anyone even noticing.”
    “I fear her ladyship would disagree, madam. Peter will direct you to Nuffield.” Indicating the footman, he turned away.
    Young Mr. Hancock was not about to be cowed by a mere servant, however imposing. “You can’t see your hand in front of your face out there,” he said loudly.
    Emboldened, Mr. Ramsbottom joined in with his customary belligerence. “What’s more, it’s demmed nearly dark.”
    “At least let the ladies stay,” pleaded Mr. Reid.
    A cold, quiet voice cut through the clamour. “Bradbury, who are these intruders?”
    The butler swung round. “My lord!”
    Jane looked with interest at the infamous earl. Her gaze met icy grey eyes set in a square-chinned face that would have been handsome but for its unrelenting hauteur. Lord Wintringham’s hair was dark, cropped short above a broad brow. Tall and powerful, he wore a superbly tailored shooting jacket, buckskin breeches and top-boots with an air of formality more suited to evening dress. The wrathful flare of his nostrils belied his apparent calm composure.
    Jane had pictured an elderly curmudgeon. My Lord Winter was no more than thirty years of age.
    Moving towards him, she curtsied. Now was the moment to solve all their problems with what Gracie had called a judicious mention of her title of nobility. Jane easily resisted the temptation. Even if so toplofty a gentleman were willing to believe a shabby young woman from the Mail coach to be a marquis’s daughter, she was determined to best him on her own terms.
    “Lord Wintringham?” She favoured him with a sunny smile, unaware that imps of mischief danced in her eyes. “I am Jane Brooke. I beg your pardon for this invasion, but we are in dire need of a refuge. The Mail coach overturned.”
    He looked her up and down and his lips curled in contempt. “I daresay Bradbury can direct you to the nearest inn, madam.”           l
    “I daresay you have not glanced through a window recently, my lord,” she retorted. “The fog is so