The Scoundrel’s Daughter by Anne Gracie
Prologue
He was making excellent time. Gerald Paton, Viscount Thornton, glanced behind him and grinned. No sign of his rival, Brexton. His team barely checked their pace as they passed between the narrow stone walls of the bridge and flew around the corner. They were beautiful steppers, well worth the sum he’d spent on them.
He pulled out his watch, flicked open the cover and checked the time. Three and a half hours. He was not only going to win the race, and two hundred guineas, he might even break the Prince Regent’s rec— What the hell?
A large white goose stood in the middle of the road. Swearing, he hauled on the reins. His horses instantly slowed, but even so it looked as though the blasted bird might not see another dawn. He wouldn’t particularly regret the loss of a goose, but his horses would find running over it horribly distressing.
A girl ran out into the road and scooped up the bird. And then stood there facing him.
“Out of the way!” he yelled.
She didn’t move, just stood there holding the goose in her arms and looking defiant.
He tightened the reins and hauled back on the brake. The curricle swerved to the left. There was a swirl of dust, the goose flapped its wings and honked, and his horses plunged and snorted. The wheels of his curricle bumped and scraped against the wall of the nearest building. And came to a halt just inches from the wretched girl and her blasted goose.
“Get the devil off the road!” he snarled. “Don’t you realize, you fool woman, that you could have been killed!”
“Yes, and whose fault would that have been?” she snapped back. “You weren’t even planning to stop, were you?”
“Nonsense. I slowed right down. If the blasted bird had any sense, it would have moved—”
“Who do you think you are? This is our village. You have no right to bowl through it at such a breakneck speed. What if a child had run out into the street? What then? Would you have happily driven over a child as well?”
“Of course not! Isn’t it obvious that I was slowing down—even for that stupid damned goose? Now move!”
“Don’t swear at Ghislaine.”
Ghislaine? Ridiculous name for a maidservant or farm girl or whatever she was.
“Dammit, Ghislaine, get out of my way. I’m in the middle of a race.” Even now, he could hear the sound of horses approaching.
“A pox on your stupid race. And Ghislaine is the goose. She’s a very special goose, aren’t you, Ghislaine?” She stroked the goose’s neck, murmuring soothing sounds.
“I don’t care what sort of a goose either of you are,” he roared. “Get off the damned road and let me pass!”
But it was too late. Brexton came racing up behind him and passed him at a smart clip with bare inches to spare, his wheels almost grazing Gerald’s.
“Flirting with pretty village maidens, Thornton? More fool you. See you in Brighton!” Brexton called as he passed. Laughter drifted back as he drove out of sight. It was as fine a piece of driving as Gerald had seen, and it put him in an even filthier temper.
“Now look what you’ve done!” he snapped at the girl.
She strolled off the road. “Oh pooh. All this fuss over a silly race? Men like you, you’re—”
Gerald didn’t wait to hear the rest of the sentence. He snapped the reins, and his curricle moved off.
* * *
Lucy Bamber walked back to the comtesse’s house. She smiled to herself at the remembrance of the man’s indignant expression. “We showed him, didn’t we, Ghislaine?” She was fed up to the back teeth with men, especially the high and mighty lordly types who thought they ruled the world. She’d met enough of them at the comtesse’s.
She turned the corner and came to an abrupt halt. A dusty traveling carriage stood outside the comtesse’s house. Another one. Her first impulse was to hide until whoever it was had left, but a moment’s reflection made her reconsider. The comtesse’s visitors sometimes stayed for days. The comtesse would need her to be either ‘ma charmante invitée’—my charming guest—or her servant, whichever the old lady deemed appropriate at the time. Given Lucy’s current appearance, in an old dress and an apron and with her hair blowing loose and wild across her face, it would most likely be the maidservant.
Which meant she would be fending off wandering hands for the duration of the visitor’s stay. Not that playing the charming guest was much different, just that the wandering hands were more subtle. Fine gentlemen—she despised them all.
Lucy opened the gate and set down Ghislaine. She removed the apron, dusted down her dress, picked off a goose feather or two, gathered her hair back into a tidy knot—it had come loose in her pursuit of Ghislaine—and entered the house. The door to the sitting room stood ajar, and she paused to peek in. “Est-ce toi, Lucille?” the comtesse called. “Entrez.” Oh dear. The old lady was in one of her moods.
Lucy reluctantly obeyed. A gentleman stood in front of the fire, his back to the door. The comtesse lay reclined on the chaise longue, a handkerchief soaked in eau de cologne—Lucy could smell it from the door—pressed to her forehead. It was not a good sign.
“Madame?” she said.
The gentleman turned and Lucy’s jaw dropped. “Papa?” She hadn’t seen or heard from him for more than a year.
He didn’t say anything for a moment, just scanned her from head to toe, frowning as if displeased by her appearance. He pursed his lips and gave a brisk nod. “It’s time you were married, Lucy. Pack your things. We’re leaving.”