The Coachman's Daughter Read online

  The Coachman's Daughter

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  The Coachman’s Daughter

  Gayle Eden

  Copyright © 2013 Gayle Eden

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The right of Gayle Eden to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First e-Edition 2012

  First Edition

  All characters in this publication are purely fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Published for Air Castle Books by Smashwords. Smashwords Edition.

  Chapter One

  “Are you going to wallow in that stall all day?”

  Demetrius (Deme) Willingham, 4th Marquis of Fielding did not open his sooty lashes yet, though he certainly heard and recognized the sarcasm in that voice. It was Haven Mulhern, the Coachman’s daughter. She was likely the one who had dumped him in a horse stall, again.

  “It’s nearly three in the afternoon. The lads need this stall for Samson. They’re mucking today.”

  “I own this bloody stable and stall. They can bloody well take him outside to the yard.” He finally lifted his lashes, showing green eyes that were smarting as an arc of fall sun came through from the left side of the stable.

  As he pushed himself to sit up, Deme gazed with his usual disdain over Haven’s male clothing—usually his father’s green livery, but just as often, buckskin trousers, linen shirt, boots.

  “To my knowledge, your father, his Grace, owns the stables. Though, you are his heir, true. It still doesn’t mean it is all right to inconvenience the lads that keep them.”

  “Don’t chasten me, Mulhern. I’m not in the mood.”

  She grunted at that.

  “Is that coffee?” He gestured to a cup in her hand where she leaned casually on the stable door.

  “It is.”

  She was not offering it to him and he regarded her face while he shoved back his raven hair. It was curly, falling over his brow. It had never been tamable.

  Hers—was a scandal, blood red, cut to her chin.

  Her tawny gaze was steady in what would be an attractive face—if he liked her one bit, and he did not. From the time she was a lass, given the run of his father and mother’s house, the estate as well as in London, schooled with his siblings, Haven Mulhern was a pain in his arse. He often told his father he’d raised her above her station, to which his father replied he had better think his lucky stars Haven was around all these years to make sure he hadn’t gotten himself killed, foxed as he was usually—raking and slumming being his favorite pastimes.

  Considering the not so subtle tilt of her pink lips, he groused, “How long have I been in here?”

  “Since we returned from your friend the Marquis of Wolford’s to welcome him and his bride, Lady Juliette. About 12 hours.”

  “Twelve!” He did not believe her.

  She shrugged and pushed away, taking a few steps and reaching the cup down to him. “It’s not yours. It is mine. So consider how generous I’m being, since I had to lie to the Duke again for you.”

  “Why bother. He’s not stupid.” He took the cup and drank half, shuddering a bit because his guts were raw. He must have lost whatever he’d drank—likely due to her hell for leather driving, which he would swear was deliberate.

  Leaning against the stall door again, she was looking over his dishevel, wrinkled white shirt, the snug trousers that had dirt on the knees—he must have wretched somewhere between there and here, a his scuffed Hessians, which his valet, Mossley, would be in a dither over.

  Her eyes moved up to his face again. He deliberately held them—and finished drinking all of the coffee.

  “I didn’t lie about your being foxed. It’s your normal state; I lied about the detour you had me take to the tavern.”

  Deme got to his feet. His jacket and cravat were draped over the stall. He smelled the earthy scents, heard the distant sounds of the horses, groom and lads working. She bloody well had a habit of rolling him out into the stables, even in London.

  Haven and her father, Patrick, a celebrated whip, who had won many prizes and purses, lived in well-appointed apartments over the carriage house, which was further back and to the left. He may not care for Haven but everyone respected Patrick. He could work for any house he chose and was much coveted. Wimberly, his father’s ducal estates, held coach races every year and Patrick never failed to win the prize. He was also a friend to the Duke. They played chess and cards together.

  The Wimberly’s, being a high spirited and eccentric lot, were made up half siblings, aside from the whole ones, himself and Lady Lisette, his sister, who were born to his parents before they divorced. There was a set of twin girls in school, who were his mother’s with her lover, and a lad who lived with a countess and her husband up north, fathered by his sire. There were also the ones born during their on again off again relationship.

  James, and Aiden, and Jude (called little John,) who lived here at Wimberly—a menagerie of his mother’s pets, rooster, rabbits, various breeds of dogs and cats, peacocks, and two parrots. So one heir, who was more often than not foxed, was not anything out of the ordinary for the Duke and Duchess.

  “Is the family about?” he asked, reaching her the cup before collecting his jacket and pulling it on, draping the cravat around his neck, and leaving it dangling.

  “Lisette and James are playing tennis. Your parents are in the courtyard, and Little John is fishing.” She met his gaze. “In case you have forgotten, this is James and Aiden’s last week here.”

  Deme cursed. He remembered the conversation in the study when his younger brothers told him they had joined the military, James the army and Aiden the navy. They jested about being younger sons, having to make their mark on the world, but Aiden had muttered, “At the rate you’re drinking yourself to death; we may yet be a Duke.”

  He had laughed and muttered something about not getting themselves killed. The fact that they were old enough, nineteen and twenty, to go off to war, certainly shook him. He had looked at their handsome faces, their height and brawn, and he had realized that for eight years or more, he had been in a haze. He had stopped being a part of their lives, their older brother, and a part of the competitive games they played. While he climbed into beds and bottles, they had turned into men.

  “Sobering, isn’t it?”

  Deme glanced at Mulhern, who annoyingly seemed to read his mind. “Very.”

  He motioned for her to step back, and she did, opening the stall door in the same motion. His body must pass close to hers, and he had the unwelcome thought that even in trousers, there was not any doubt Haven was a woman. She was not tall, but was leggy. She was not full figured, but had a feminine one, no matter what she wore or how boyish her hair cut.

  How old was she now? Twenty-one or two….

  He had unconsciously looked her over and paused, so when he met her gaze on the trip up her body, Deme realized how closely she was observing him.

  “If you’d bother to wear a dress and stop acting like
a man, you wouldn’t be half bad, Mulhern.”

  She retorted, “I like my trousers, and I have been known to wear a dress when it mattered. As to your half bad remark, rest your mind on that score, I have plenty of suitors, in my trousers or out of them.”

  “Do tell.” He arched his brow, his smile meant to mock.

  “Unlike yourself, I value discretion.” She reached and plucked straw from his hair and had her own biting grin. “You should know by now, my lord, that I don’t give a bloody damn what you think of my dress, or my looks. But as we’re being frank, you have reason to be glad I do have some less than lady like traits.”

  “Not that again.” He rolled his eyes and passed by her. “I fear I shall hear of your heroics on my behalf till my dying days.”

  “Which will be sooner than later, if you keep up your current habits.”

  He ignored that and her, and proceeded to the entryway.

  Haven watched him walk out of the stable. Her stride a bit slower following, she arrived at the entry doors in time to observe his walking to the sprawling white stone manor. It was a shame; she thought for the millionth time, that he was blessed with such exquisite looks and natural lean muscled grace. That hair was curly, soft, wild, she knew from having held his head while he spilled his guts in a ditch. His body she’d felt against her, half carrying him when he was foxed, and more often than she wanted to remember, she’d seen most of it exposed. It was a beautifully sculpted body, for a beautiful man—who was wasting himself on drink and women he could not remember. He was spoiled, too wild, and had been blessed unfairly with the kind of visage that made women flock to him. His wit could be biting, bitter, and his attitude pricked her like a brier most of the time.

  She should be getting on with her own life, as her father oft reminded her these days. She had an excellent education, thanks to the Duke and Duchess. Her father had plenty of money saved for either her dowry or whatever she wanted to do with her future. Yet, here she was, unable to walk away—.

  Muttering, she headed toward the manor. She needed distraction.

  Lady Lisette was by the courtyard and motioned her over after putting away the tennis racquet. “Come and sit with me.”

  Haven strode over, and they poured glasses of lemonade before sitting on the lawn.

  Lisette had opposite looks of her Marquis brother. She was lithe, but a petite five foot even, like the Duchess. Her hair was long, blonde, straight, and she had aqua eyes. Attractive, as all the siblings were, Lisette had more than made up for early years spent in a sickbed, and was full of spirit. They were as close as sisters, shared confidences, and she was glad that Lisette made friends with Lady Juliette, because for all the Duchess and Duke traveled in fast circles, Lisette found little in common with London ladies, and had made no friends. Now Juliette would be there for her.

  An expert archer, rider, game for any sport, Lisette had a restlessness since she had gained full health. She was fearless, bold, and though they were close, Haven could not and never would, be of the same society.

  No matter how close they were, she was still, the coachman’s daughter. Though everyone but Deme in this household seemed to ignore it, Haven did not forget that fact.

  “Do you know mother is planning a gathering before the brothers leave at week’s end?”

  “No.” She looked at Lisette. “But they will enjoy it, I’m sure.”

  Lisette nodded but winced. “She’s inviting Elisha Roulle, Viscount Marston.”

  Haven arched her brow. “Should I know him?”

  Shuddering, Lisette muttered, “He’s a bloody snob. I doubt he will condescend to mix with the wild Wimberly’s. No matter how rich and titled my family. His bloodlines are very old and his family is known for their arrogance.”

  Studying her, knowing her well, Haven chanced, “Why then, is the Duchess inviting him?”

  “Guess.”

  “You mean—”

  “Yes.” Lisette put the glass down and lay back on the grass, rubbing her eyes. She was dressed in a pair of trousers, shirt, boots, and her hair was in a braid. It was her leisure attire at Wimberly, for hunting, fishing, riding, playing whatever sport the siblings got up to. Yet in London, she could transform herself as easily as any wealthy heiress. At her heart though, she was a Wimberly, through and through.

  She said, “I was shocked. I would never think it of Mama. She is an unconventional woman herself, and has lived her life as she pleased. I am not happy that she suddenly has it in her head I need to be settled. And with someone like Marston!”

  “Have you met him?”

  “Briefly, but it was enough. He is tall, dark, with silver—cold eyes. He’s arrogant and rarely condescends to speak to anyone.”

  Haven chewed her lip. “Regardless of how the Duke and Duchess lived their lives, they take their obligation to each of you seriously.”

  “Oh, Haven. I would suffocate with a man like that. I told Mama so. She knows me. She knows I would never be happy being dressed up like a doll, hiding my brains and spirit—because some prig of a husband—”

  “Do you think she discovered your—er—adventures in London?”

  Lisette sat up and pursed her lips, then shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. It was harmless fun. She herself attended the masque balls and everyone in our crowd is considered fast. Though I daresay, they are not the debauched group those prigs like Marston makes them out to be. Anyone would go daft if all they could attend were stuffy teas and the balls; everything you do is under someone’s eye. I do not understand why she would include him.”

  “Perhaps he spoke to her?”

  Lisette’s eyes grew round. “Oh, No. Never say so.”

  Laughing, Haven offered, “I’ve no clue. Just ask her.”

  Curling her lip, Lisette muttered, “I wish Juliette would hurry up with her honeymoon. I could flee there, to Wolford. At least she would be here. I do not want to do the pretty for any man, let alone Marston! I am exactly as I wished to be.”

  “The Duchess loves you, Lisette. Talk to her. “

  Lisette got to her feet, and when Haven did too, she said, “Yes she loves me. But let us be honest, My Mama is eccentric. She gets things in her head, and though she and papa have given us everything, every freedom, and she has no great envy of the sticklers in London, she can be stubborn if she thinks one of her “ideas” is brilliant. Besides that, she is all sad and weepy that James and Aiden are going off. I wish she would focus on Deme; he is the heir after all. And as papa oft says, there needs to be a succession.”

  “I don’t have an answer there either.”

  Walking a bit on the lawn, they headed round to the gardens that were fading in the fall but smelled earthy, bearing a fall show of orange and yellow flowers and quaint vines.

  Plucking a dry leaf off one, Lisette turned to regard her when Haven sat on a bench, knowing her friend well enough to know that she would fret endlessly over this Viscount Marston, and whatever her mother planned.

  No, it was not like the Duchess. She was a modern woman, a force all her own, no matter how petite or titled, she never had given in to dictates. However, Haven had no clue what she was thinking.

  “What was your mother like?”

  “Mine?” Haven sat up, but cast her eyes toward a bush, birds were picking berries from.

  “Yes. You have never spoken of her. We never have, not even when you told me stories those long winter nights I was confined to bed.”

  Haven tried to sound casual, “I don’t know much about her. Mrs. Mafy would not talk of her, and father gets such a look on his face, I just stopped asking.”

  “But surely, you are curious?”

  “I was.” Haven nodded and watched those birds still though she felt Lisette looking at her. There were few secrets between them, but there were some things Haven found difficult to share. What she did murmur was, “The six years I was with the Mafy’s, I learned not to ask. Everyone would get uncomfortable. You sense things. And with Papa, it’s suc
h a look, I can’t describe it.”

  She turned her head and met Lisette’s curious gaze. “I wasn’t very happy with the Mafey’s. He was a vicar. They were very dour and strict people. Coming here was a dream. I have been given more than I had a right to expect. Schooled, taught the arts, dancing, and manners, everything your family and all of you, so graciously afforded me. Mostly, being with Papa, I felt the love he has for me. I just stopped—asking.”

  “I understand.” Lisette held her gaze a moment. “Mother thinks of you as one of her own. We all feel close to you.”

  “As I do, all of you. We’re friends, Lisette, but I’m still the coachman’s daughter.”

  Dryly Lisette offered, “So what? Do you think Mama cares, or the Duke? Even my brothers—well, except for Deme—who cares for no one, not even his self. Everyone loves you.”

  Haven was warmed by that. She murmured something, more for Lisette’s benefit. Wed to a lofty male or no, Lady Lisette would eventually be in a position where their friendship would be an inconvenience, and frowned upon.

  “I must find a way to avoid Marston.”

  Haven laughed. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  “I shall. I’m very good at slipping off when determined.”

  Haven looked toward the stables. “It’s almost dinner time.” She stood. “I’ll let you know if I overhear anything. But I still say, talk to the Duchess.”

  They parted. Haven headed for the apartments to see to dinner for herself and Patrick. She had much on her mind.

  * * * *

  Patrick Mulhern was a fit and handsome man. He was weathered in the way a man who spent his years out of doors would be, and stood over six feet tall and careful in his dress. When he was not wearing his black coachman’s coat and trousers, white shirt and cravat—usually a caped coat and the top hat, pristine white silk scarf—he was in well-made dun trousers, polished knee boots and crisp shirt, and tweed jacket. Haven had discovered his love of books, chess, and his passion for coaching, when she had come to live with him. It was not just his employment with the Duke of Wimberly that made him a coveted coachman; it was an expertise and skill, something he excelled at. He had been sent to one of the best driving schools at a young age. His trophies and prizes graced the apartment sitting room, six engraved gold plates rested on the mantle. There was even a painting done of him at some lofty pavilion, sitting on his perch, handling the ribbons to a team of six matching grays. But—he seldom talked of his younger years.