Bound by Honor

Chapter 2

Lady Letitia Parker walked unhurriedly along the narrow road bordering

the fields, keeping to the shade cast by a line of old, large-canopied trees.

She would rather put up with the pervasive afternoon heat than suffer the

depressing gloom of the country house her father had chosen for their

temporary home in Norfolk.

Wycombe Oaks was a ruin. No one had lived there in years, and the last

resident had stripped it of everything that might make it a home. A hasty

attempt to improve this sad situation while they stayed there only shed

brighter light on the building’s progressing demise. The room she had

been given was haphazardly furnished with a collection of odd pieces,

some looking as if they had come directly from the servants’ quarters.

Faded wallpaper had peeled off in corners and hung in loose despondence

below the ceiling. Windowpanes were opaque with dinge. The room

portrayed quite accurately her life since it had fallen to pieces ten days

ago.

Delayed five years, first by her mother’s death, then by her father’s

prolonged stay in the West Indies, her first season had ended in disaster.

Vicious and utterly nonsensical gossip had trampled everything in its way

and left behind only mindless destruction. Nothing had prepared her for

such savagery in the midst of high society.

At first, the season unfolded along the well-established path: the

presentation to the Queen, the coming-out ball, admirers swarming around

her, and the betrothal arranged by her father. Naturally, her marriage was

meant to give the Earl of Stanville an alliance he wanted. The man fitting

that category turned out to be Viscount Darnley.

To the ton , Viscount Darnley epitomized the idea of the most eligible

bachelor. Young, wealthy and well connected, he was a suitor many only

dreamed about and a high prize on the marriage mart she’d snatched

without even trying. And yet, her heart did not stir for him once. Why would

it? His always polite and stiffly proper demeanor bespoke the viscount’s

desire to marry the Earl of Stanville’s fortune, not his daughter.

The familiar old pain, still cloaked in a piercing disappointment, returned

together with the recollection of the once beloved face of Sir Walter

Hasting. Walter had been her childhood friend. Her first love. And an

excellent actor.

Letitia bit her lip and fingered the straps of the military knapsack slung

over her shoulder. It had belonged to her brother before he fell in Egypt six

years ago. The Stanville wealth, or at least its unentailed part, became her

sole inheritance then, but she valued it less than the old, stained knapsack

she took with her everywhere.

“Oh, John,” she whispered, “how I miss you and Mama.”

She blinked rapidly and gazed at the intense blue of a mid-June sky.

When Viscount Darnley withdrew from the engagement after that silly

business with Lord Ogilby, her father’s ire had erupted like Vesuvius,

spewing an unending fury and an ultimatum—instant marriage to another

man of his choice, or transportation to Botany Bay. The threat was not idle.

Her father’s business ventures seemed unlimited. She had once found at

Fratton Hall a report from his man of business. It contained tallies from the

slavers the Earl of Stanville owned and employed for the transport of

convicts. As many died as survived the voyage to the antipodes. Terrified

by this recollection, Letitia had chosen marriage in England over certain

death on the high seas. At least she knew what to expect—a red-faced,

obese squire who, for a proper portion of the Stanville fortune, would

generously overlook the scandal attached to her name.

She forced away the thought of her impending nuptials. Today was her

last afternoon as Lady Letitia Parker.

At the end of the wood, she turned left and followed the narrowing path

that soon left the trees behind and meandered through a meadow. The

fragrant heat sitting heavily atop the ripening grasses swallowed her

almost instantly. Letitia pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the beads of

moisture collecting under the bonnet’s rim.

This could be her last day of freedom to sketch outdoors. She still

cherished the hope of having her own painting studio—a real studio, not a

small easel tucked away in a poorly lit spare room.

“A lady does not dirty her hands with an artisan’s work,” her father had

shouted when he discovered what she had done with the sitting room off

the yellow parlor during his absence. “A lady makes watercolors, and that’s

all you’ll do!”

A few small oils she had painted during those three years of his absence,

lucky to escape his punishing hand, now rested hidden among her clothes.

She doubted the squire would let her have a studio in his house—which

was probably as horrible as the squire himself—but she wasn’t ready to

extinguish the feeble flame of hope just yet.

The path narrowed until Letitia could put only one foot in front of another,

and disappeared altogether by the time she reached the bottom of a large

outcropping. She had discovered the outcropping the day before and

hoped it offered a good view of the village outlined on the horizon.

Within minutes, Letitia sat comfortably perched on a cliff at the top, the

gently rolling fields stretched out below. With her back turned to her

derelict temporary home, she relaxed against an old oak hugging the cliff

with its gnarled roots. The view was indeed excellent and well worth the

climb. She turned the page in her sketchbook when the sounds of rustling

and of steps approaching from behind her back sent a cold shiver of

apprehension down her spine.

She turned abruptly just as a man appeared around the rock. He was tall,

broad-shouldered and, she estimated, about thirty. Dark curls framed his

tanned face. He might be a gentleman if not for his scuffed riding boots

and a worn-out coat that had definitely seen better days in the previous

century. His gloves showed some use as well. His shirt, though

snow-white, was undone at the throat and called attention to the shocking

lack of neckcloth. She swallowed at the sight of his Adam’s apple. A true

gentleman would not expose himself with such blatant disregard for

decorum.

Despite fear gathering in the pit of her stomach, the irony of the situation

did not escape her. Instead, it put her in a caustic frame of mind. She was

alone with a complete stranger, but this time there wouldn’t be a scandal.

There was no one around to see and report her reprehensible behavior.

She could do anything she pleased, without consequences.

Worse, the stranger too could do anything he pleased, and without any

consequences at all. Josepha, her maid and only friend, had been

confined to the house by her father, and no footman hovered nearby to

provide protection.

Letitia took a deep breath. Judging by the stranger’s looks, he spent a lot

of time outdoors. He might be her father’s steward. Or, God forbid, a

highwayman. She hoped he was the former rather than the latter, given

that they were far from any major highway. Unless he was fleeing

prosecution… But he was not brandishing a pistol or a club, and seemed

in no hurry. Instead, a shadow of astonishment and displeasure passed

over his features. It was gone by the time he took off his hat in a gesture of

greeting.

“Forgive the intrusion. I did not expect to meet anyone here.” His voice

had a pleasantly deep timbre.