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Mary Balogh
The First Snowdrop
PART 1
December, 1814
Chapter 1
lt was not a dark night. It was as light as the traveler had hoped it would be. He could see the road ahead of him clearly enough that he kept his horse to its steady canter without fear that it would lose its way or stumble into one of the many ruts and potholes on the road's surface, laming itself and throwing its rider. In fact, with a tightening of his knees on the horse's flanks, he urged it to a slightly faster pace yet. He still hoped to reach the next sizable town before stopping for the night, and that must be close to fifteen miles distant. Time was in his favor; it was still only early evening despite the darkness. Night fell early in December.
It was as he had hoped, but Alexander Stewart, Viscount Merrick, nevertheless felt uneasy. It was moonlight and starlight that he had bargained on to light his way, not these heavy, low clouds that appeared a leaden gray color and illumined the landscape despite the time of evening. The light was eerie, certainly not like daylight, but not natural for nighttime, either. Those were snow clouds, if ever he had seen any, and they were about to loose their load. The air had become warmer during the past hour, not colder as one might expect with the falling of darkness. The breeze that had chilled his left cheek for most of the afternoon had died completely away.
Damn! He was going to be forced to stop more than ten miles sooner than he had pla
He should have listened to Horace that morning, much as he hated to admit his error. His friend had warned him that the weather was about to take a turn for the worse.
"Take m' word for it," Horace Reed had said, folding his hands across his large stomach and nodding his head against his chest so that his two chins doubled in number. "I always know when bad weather's on the way. M' feet swell and m' legs ache and I lose m' appetite." He had patted his mouth with a linen napkin and thrown it down onto his empty breakfast plate.
Merrick had gri
Horace's chins had returned to normality as he raised his head. "Laugh if you like, Alex," he had admonished his skeptical friend, "but it will surely rain before the day is out. Or snow, more likely, at this time of year. You'd better stay another day or two, old boy. Better here than in some country i
But Merrick had resisted. Even if he had had faith in his friend's unorthodox ma
But two weeks had been long enough. Too long! He had to get back, could not imagine, in fact, why he had been contented to be away so long. He was finally very close to getting his life in order. He now found that he could bear to wait no longer to complete the process. And so he had insisted on leaving.
Now, after all, it began to look as if he might not reach London tomorrow but be forced to put up along the way. The wind had risen, not the quickening breeze of the afternoon, but a strong and cutting force that blew directly into his face and stung his eyes. Snow was falling heavily, large white flakes that stayed where they landed and did not immediately melt. The eerie light still held, but it no longer served his purpose. The wind alone would have made him squint. The snow, slanting constantly across his line of vision, threatened to mesmerize him and made it impossible for him to see more than a few feet ahead.
Merrick cursed aloud and noticed, by looking down at his horse's hooves, that there was already a thin covering of snow on the road. If it continued to fall at this rate-and there was every indication that it would do so-it would soon be difficult to distinguish between the surface of the road and the fields that stretched to either side. He peered intently ahead and to both sides, trying to distinguish any light that might signal a habitation. He would have to settle for any shelter he could find, even a laborer's cottage. A country i
Merrick wondered if it was snowing in London, too. Would Lorraine be going out tonight-to some party, or to the theater, perhaps? He hoped she would be safe, then smiled at his own absurdity. With parents who doted on her, an abigail who would have breathed for her mistress if by doing so she might save the young lady some effort, and a coachman who prided himself on avoiding every bump and crack in the streets that his mistress might not be jolted u
When he finally returned, they would at last make a formal a
Merrick still found it hard to believe that he was actually welcoming the thought of marriage. It had been the last thing on his mind even a year ago. He was young-a mere seven-and-twenty even now-and wealthy and attractive, he knew. He had borne his title from infancy, when his parents had died, and was heir to a dukedom and another fortune. Ever since coming down from university, he had been bent on enjoying life to the full-traveling, socializing, participating in all strenuous sports, womanizing. His grandmother, the Duchess of Portland, had frequently hinted that it would soon be time to think of settling down, but he had always laughed and kissed her lightly on the forehead, declaring that she would not so easily wind him around her little finger as she did his grandfather. That comment could always be counted upon to make her loudly argumentative. And he was invariably an "impudent puppy." But she would forget about the topic that had provoked his impudence.