The Reluctant Suitor

The Reluctant SuitorKathleen E.

Woodiwiss0060532009en-usCAE59D50-587D-4160-A827-2DBCA8D65A4D

KATHLEEN E. WOODIWISS

THE RELUCTANT SUITOR

To my very good friend Laurie McBain. If we thought any more alike, we’d be identical twins.

Contents

E-Book Extra

“Happy-Ending Oriented”: An Interview with Kathleen E. Woodiwiss One Lady Adriana Sutton whirled through the gracefully arched portico . . .

Two Samantha, my dear sister, do you intend to do the honors, Three There you are,” Samantha said with a gently welcoming smile . . .

Four Now that Colton Wyndham was home and lord of the manor, Five Edmund Elston sat back in his chair as he stared agog . . .

Six A brilliant shard of sunlight pierced the drapery-shadowed darkness . . .

Seven Samantha’s not in the carriage with him,” Melora announced, Eight Felicity, where are you?” Jane Fairchild called . . .

Nine Christina mentally braced herself for the ordeal . . .

Ten The weather on the last day of September was fairly heady . . .

Eleven It seemed for a time that every bachelor in the room . . .

Twelve Gracefully mimicking the flamboyance of an actress . . .

Thirteen A pensive sigh slipped from Colton Wyndham’s lips . . .

Fourteen Harrison shifted the candlestick to his left hand . . .

Fifteen It had seemed the way of it in ages past . . .

Sixteen Immediately after Bentley drew the landau to a halt . . .

Seventeen Just where have you been?” Jarvis Fairchild railed . . .

Eighteen Colton Wyndham swept his bride into his residence . . .

Nineteen Felicity donned her bonnet and a light shawl . . .

Twenty My lady, there is a young woman here . . .

Twenty-one Roger Elston glanced up from his book keeping . . .

Twenty-two Lord Harcourt’s housekeeper bustled into the guest bedchamber . . .

Epilogue Adriana gently jiggled her wailing son in her arms, About the Author

Also by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

One

Wiltshire countryside, England Northeast of Bath and Bradford on Avon September 5, 1815

L
ady Adriana Sutton whirled through the gracefully arched portico of Randwulf Manor, spilling effervescent laughter over her shoulder as she deftly avoided the reaching hand of an eager young swain.

In copying her lead, he had jumped down from his mount and raced after her in his zeal to catch her before she could dash up the stone steps and escape into the Jacobean mansion of her family’s closest neighbors and friends. At her approach, the massive door was drawn open and, with quiet dignity, a tall, thin, elderly butler stepped aside to await her entrance.

“Oh, Harrison, you’re positively a dear,” Adriana warbled cheerily as she flitted through the spacious vestibule. Safely ensconcing herself in the hall beyond the steward, she spun about and struck a playfully triumphant pose for the benefit of her pursuer who came to a teetering halt at the threshold, causing her to lift a brow in curious wonder. As zealously as Roger Elston had dogged her heels in his nearly year-long quest to claim her for his very own, even intruding when not invited, it seemed as if his dread of the late Lord Sedgwick Wyndham, the sixth Marquess of Randwulf, had actually intensified rather than abated in the months following the nobleman’s death.

If there had been occasions when Lord Sedgwick had grown exasperated by the apprentice’s impromptu visits, it certainly hadn’t been the elder’s fault, for Roger had seemed unusually tenacious in his endeavor to win her hand, as if that had been even remotely possible. His gall had reached amazing limits. Whenever formal invitations had been extended to select groups or close friends were enjoying

private dinners with the Wyndhams or her own family, as long as she had been a participant, her single-minded admirer would present himself on some pretext or another, if only to speak with her for a moment or two. It made her rue the day she had ever yielded to his first unannounced visit to her own home at Wakefield Manor. Even after his audacious proposal of marriage, which her father had answered forthrightly by explaining that she was already committed, Roger had continued to chase her hither and yon.

As much as she had foreseen the need to issue a stern directive that would have permanently banished the apprentice from her presence, Adriana had not yet subdued the qualms that plagued her. At times, Roger seemed like such a lonely individual, clearly evincing his troubled youth. Whenever she came nigh to severing their association, she found herself inundated with reminders of all the helpless creatures that her lifelong companion, Samantha Wyndham, and she had once nurtured as children. To exhibit less compassion to a human being in desperate need of a little kindness had seemed inequitable in comparison.

“I do believe that dastardly fellow is afraid of you, Harrison,” Adriana teasingly surmised, lifting her riding crop to indicate her boyishly handsome admirer. “His reluctance to confront such a man as yourself has plainly led to my advantage. If you hadn’t opened the door when you did, Mr. Elston would’ve likely caught me and made me rue the fact that Ulysses and I left him and that paltry nag plodding along behind us again.”

Although Roger had not been invited on their planned outing today, he had nevertheless shown up at Wakefield Manor just as her friends had arrived on horseback to join up with her and a recent female acquaintance. What else could she have done other than politely offer the man a mount? In spite of his awareness that she was obliged to another by a formal agreement her parents had signed years ago, Roger’s perseverance seemed indefatigable, causing her to wonder if the man actually thought he could, by his own resolve, put to naught such a contract and win her hand.

In a guise of perplexity, Adriana gathered elegantly arched brows as she laid a slender finger aside her chin. “Still, as much as I’ve tried to rein in Ulysses, I fear he can’t abide the sight of another steed racing ahead of him. He refuses to walk beside any of the geldings from our stables, as Mr. Elston can well attest by his efforts to keep up today. Indeed, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the gray considers it a personal affront to be associated with them. You know yourself, Harrison, that Lord Sedgwick used to complain fairly often about the stallion’s indomitable spirit.”

The steward’s ephemeral grin hinted of a humor more often masked by a dignified mien. “Aye, my lady, that he did, but always with a twinkle of pride in his eye because of your ability to handle such a headstrong stallion. His lordship took enormous delight in boasting of your accomplishments to any who’

d lend an ear. Why, he was just as proud of you as his own darling daughter.”

Having been in the Wyndhams’ employ for several decades, Harrison had a fine recollection of the Suttons’ arrival at Randwulf Manor in a quest to show off their third and newest daughter. Slightly more than a score of years later, the lady now held claim to the affection of nearly everyone living on the premises. As for her riding skill, Harrison had heard enough praise from his late lordship to be conversant of the fact that the girl rode well enough to ruffle the pride of equestrians who considered their own talents unmatched. In view of her present companion’s lack of experience in that area less than a year ago, it wasn’t at all surprising that he continued to lose without fail. If anything, his defeats had strengthened his determination to succeed, to the degree that he usually fared better now than other participants in their spontaneous races. At least this time he had been nigh upon the girl’s heels when she had darted through the doorway. But then, considering the long climb from the hitching posts to the manor, her pursuer’s leaping strides had allowed him more of an advantage in the final moments of their

contest.

“To be sure, my lady, no other steed has the heart to match the heroic efforts of the gray . . .
or
those of its spirited rider. Nevertheless, Mr. Elston does seem determined to catch you. Perhaps he will someday.

”

Long years of service had established Alfred Harrison as head steward of Randwulf Manor, in all aspects a rightly deserved position dutifully carried out with loyal dedication. In the presence of such a respected pillar of the household staff, Roger Elston did indeed feel uncomfortable barging into the manor. As much as he craved to have the lady for his own, he couldn’t dismiss the fact that he was taking much upon himself by fraternizing with affluent aristocrats who had grown up with lofty titles and well-respected names. His impertinence had already tweaked the ire of a veritable legion of titled lords vying for the maiden’s hand, but months ago he had decided the prize was clearly worth any altercation he’d be forced to surmount. Had not his own sire inherited a sizable woolen mill on the outskirts of Bradford on Avon and bade him to learn its management and the woolen trade, he would never have left the London orphanage wherein he had lived since he was nine and, for the last ten of his eight and ten years’

residency there, served as a tutor. Truly, considering his less than humble circumstances, it was a miracle he was even allowed in their presence. If not for the Wyndhams’ deep, long-abiding affection for Lady Adriana and their reluctance to embarrass her by questioning the one who trailed in her footsteps, a man of his low estate would have been turned away at the door.

Sweeping off his hat, Roger drew himself up in stilted decorum and sought to claim the steward’s attention, if only to remind the man he was awaiting an invitation to enter, but he froze in sudden prickling apprehension as his ears caught the low, muffled growls of the pair of aging wolfhounds that freely roamed the palatial manse and the grounds around it. Months ago, he had learned that when Leo and Aris were afoot, he was not always safe, whether in the house or the grounds around it. Indeed, the two seemed ever-eager to sink their sharp fangs into him. Even if the manners of the family members had always been above reproach, the same could not be said for their two pets.

Elaborately ornamented stonework clearly evidenced the artistry of talented masons of bygone eras in the fluted and festooned archways that on two levels and four sides set apart the enormous great hall located at the heart of the manor from the elegantly vaulted passageways that surrounded it. Two of these corridors began at the vestibule, which was itself spacious enough to accommodate a throng of people.

From the entrance, the hallways on both the north and south sides almost traversed the entire length of the manor. The expansive great hall, which they buttressed, was typical of those built in ancient castles, where trestle tables, replete with thronelike chairs, provided dining reminiscent of the Middle Ages. The southernmost corridor offered access to the drawing room, at the door of which the lady and the butler had paused to talk. Just beyond that massive chamber, stone archways similar to those encompassing the great room defined the boundaries of the gallery. The library with its handsomely paneled door was immediately adjacent to it. At the end of the passage was a pair of deeply etched crystal doors that led to the enormous, glass-paned conservatory presently glowing with the reflected radiance of the afternoon sun.

The rumbling growls could have come from any of these areas on the south end of the manse, yet the open stone archways bordering the gallery made it completely accessible to the hounds. It was also a room where the pair could often be found basking in the warm maze of fragmented sunlight.

Cautiously Roger craned his neck as he tried to see into the gallery, though from where he stood it was impossible to view the interior of the room. But then, even had he been standing directly in front, the stained-glass windows lining the exterior wall would have made it difficult for him to ferret out the wolfhounds. Framed within elegantly arched stone casings similar to those on the opposite side of the

room, the vividly hued windows presented an impressive collection of artistic memorials. Among ancestors honored for their valiant contributions to the Wyndhams’ legacy were battle-garbed knights immortalized for their separate acts of courage, several ladies for their righteous causes, and a gentlemanly scholar holding an olive branch. Yet, in seasons stretching from the advent of winter until the coming of summer, the sun cast its rays upon the leaded panes from mid-afternoon nigh to the approach of dusk, causing strangely distorted configurations of multicolored shafts of radiance to flood into the room, doing much to confuse the eye and muddle the senses of the beholder. It was nearly three in the afternoon now, and already there was a riotous blaze of vibrantly hued streaks stretching as far away as the great hall.

Roger blamed his sudden dizziness on the variegated brilliance imbuing the corridor rather than his own swiftly palpitating heart, but he had cause to reflect upon a possible error in his reasoning when he found himself meeting evilly glinting eyes amid the dazzling array of sunlit colors. Beneath those piercing orbs, sharp, white fangs were bared in fixed snarls. The threat was obvious . . . and immensely terrifying; any moment now the huge beasts might decide to rush upon him and close their steely jaws on his legs or arms, if not his throat. They only awaited some menacing gesture to incite them to attack. For that reason, Roger dared not twitch a brow.

Incredible as it began to seem as the moments flew past, the animals remained rigidly poised for battle where they stood, as if some magical potion had transformed them into two granite effigies, which to Roger’s regret he could not trust to remain stationary beyond a second’s passage of time. In spite of their frozen posture, their hackles now formed distinct ridges along their backs, conveying their unwavering distrust of him or anyone else they loosely regarded as an outsider . . . except that in this case they had taken up what had every appearance of being a protective stance on either side of a tall, uniformed officer who was standing in the passageway near the far end of the gallery. The fact that he was leaning heavily on a cane indicated that he was just another wounded participant from their war with France, perhaps even from the more recent battle of Waterloo or the subsequent skirmishes still raging in that foe’