She’d been in England for two decades, but they hadn’t been easy decades. She never ceased fretting over the most trivial things, and she had worry lines that made her appear older than she was.
“Hello,” he said, his voice a deep baritone that tickled her innards. “I’m bound for Grey’s Corner. Have I ridden down the correct lane? Or am I lost?”
“You’re on the correct lane.”
“Praise be. I’m a Londoner, and all these country roads look exactly the same to me. I was afraid I might never reach my destination.”
“You’re almost there.”
He dismounted and came over to her. He had a confident swagger, as an army soldier might have, and she suspected he was a veteran. He was that impressive and imposing.
He was very tall, six feet at least, so he towered over her. He was dressed casually, in leather trousers and black boots. As a bow to the temperate weather, he’d shed his coat as she had her shawl. He wore a flowing white shirt, the sleeves rolled to reveal his powerful forearms.
“Are you headed to the manor?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“May I accompany you?”
“Of course.”
“And may I carry your basket?”
The request had her momentarily taken aback. She ran the house for her Uncle Samson, and she was in charge of the servants and the daily operations, but it was a rare circumstance when she was offered even the most paltry assistance.
“Why, yes,” she said, “you may carry it for me.”
He shifted it from her hand to his, and for the briefest instant, their fingers touched. It was very strange, but she felt that light caress clear down to her toes.
She introduced herself. “I am Miss Grey. Are we expecting you?”
“I hope I’m expected. I’m Mr. Caleb Ralston.”
On learning his surname, she tamped down a blanch of surprise. The captain who’d rescued them in the Caribbean had been a Captain Miles Ralston. They’d spent a few days on his ship, then he’d delivered them to the authorities in Jamaica. They’d never seen him again, and Caroline occasionally pondered him.
Might he still be alive? At the time, he’d seemed very old to her, but she’d been so young. She couldn’t guess what his current age might be, but she’d love to correspond with him, to thank him for saving her. She never had. When they’d parted from him, she hadn’t realized it would be forever.
She possessed such an intense fondness for him, and whenever she heard his name, she wondered if she’d stumbled on a relative. But because her grandfather had forbidden her to discuss her past, she never raised the topic, so she never inquired about Captain Ralston, and it was probably for the best.
If she was revealed to be a Lost Girl, people stared as if she had two heads or blue skin, so her history remained a dear and private secret.
Fortunately, Mr. Ralston hadn’t noticed her heightened interest over his identity. She smiled up at him, and when he smiled back, it was so dazzling that she was practically knocked over by it.
She warned herself to buck up and stop acting like a ninny, and she calmly said, “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Ralston. I’m delighted that so many of Gregory’s London friends could attend.”
“My brother, Blake, will be here too, but not until tomorrow. Gregory tells me the manor will be filled with beautiful women.”
“Gregory told you that? I can’t imagine him boasting about it. He’s not exactly the type to wax poetic.”
“No, not usually, but in this case, he was very vocal on the subject. He claims to have gorgeous female kin, so which Miss Grey are you?”
She chuckled, but with exasperation. “I am his cousin, Caroline.”
He assessed her cryptically, then murmured, “Ah. . . the blushing bride-to-be.”
“Yes.”
Gregory was her Uncle Samson’s only son and heir, with Samson having sired a daughter too, Caroline’s other cousin, Janet. Caroline had been engaged to Gregory since she’d turned seventeen, with her Uncle Samson announcing the plan and giving her very little latitude to object.
And she hadn’t objected. Not really. It made sense for her and Gregory to wed—cousins always did—and it wasn’t as if she’d had a thousand suitors lined up and demanding to marry her instead. She had no dowry or prospects, and she was considered to be very odd due to her being a famous Lost Girl.
Gregory was the sole nuptial choice ever presented. Why wouldn’t she wed him? Why wouldn’t she have agreed?
If she’d refused the match, he’d have ultimately picked someone else. He was thirty and had to get on with the business of starting a family. If he’d selected a different bride, Caroline would have had to let a stranger take over in the manor. She might even have been asked to move out, but where would she have gone?
She had no funds of her own, and she was a very aged twenty-four and about to be twenty-five, so she’d been waiting to tie the knot for seven long years.
Gregory had never been in much of a hurry to proceed. He lived in London and reveled in the sort of excitement all gentlemen pursued there. It had begun to seem as if she wasn’t betrothed, as if she wasn’t destined to be her cousin’s bride, but during his last visit, Uncle Samson had put his foot down and insisted Gregory set the date.
So. . . a week hence, she would be Mrs. Gregory Grey rather than Miss Caroline Grey.
After the ceremony, not much would change. Gregory would still carouse in town, while she resided in the country. She’d still manage the servants and the house, but she’d have the security and respect that came from being a wife.
She was trying to be happy
