Page 3 of Lessons for Marquesses
He said slowly, “I will go.”
Oliver shouted for the guard to unlock the shackle as Nicholas gained his feet. He packed a small trunk and gathered his hat. His coat. His money in hand.
Oliver ushered him out of the room, onto the drive, and there, Nicholas gazed north to the stable yard where his heart lay. His hand went to his chest, where underneath his coat rested the medallion commemorating his victory at Newmarket less than a year before.
One afternoon had changed his life forever.
He surveyed his home one last time. The vast green fields dotted with marsh reeds and pastures. It wasn’t his anymore.
Wild Squire, the bay stallion on whom Nicholas had won the Newmarket Plate, emerged from the block with a skinny boy riding him bareback. The boy held the reins with nervous hands. His face shielded by a cocked hat, the boy looked down, unfamiliar with holding such sleek, muscled supremacy.
William St. Clair, tall, powerful, clothed in black, strode up to the boy. Already taking over Nicholas's home. Because Oliver knew Nicholas was not really a man. That he would show a weakness for living. Didn’t have the courage to die by the noose.
Wild Squire bolted from the yard with the boy miraculously seated over his churning hooves and rolling back.
Give me something. A sign that what I’ve done is right.
Wild Squire veered left. The boy hooked a firm leg to avoid being unseated. The stallion kicked out his rear legs and sent the boy flying. His skinny body slammed into the grass, sucking for air.
Maybe there is a God.
Nicholas warmed at the sight of the boy struggling to his feet. Too bad he still had use of his limbs.
The boy stuffed his hat back on his tie wig, straightened his coat, and limped across the lawn to where Wild Squire tore a chunk of grass from beneath the ancient copper beech. He gathered the reins and mane, and in one smooth motion, mounted Nicholas's horse. His horse no longer.
Satisfaction turned to white-hot anger. Nicholas clenched his fists. “Who is the boy?”
“Georgiana.”
“Who?”
“William’s daughter. She’s a good girl, Nick. A trifle eccentric but?—”
“Shut up.”
Georgiana St. Clair. The name burned in his brain. His fingers dug into his palms. “What satisfies my father?”
“Hmmm?”
“You said your negotiations satisfied my father.”
“You’re in remainder,” Oliver said, with a note of smugness. “You’ll be the seventh Marquess of Eastwick one day.”
“Ah. Well, that’s encouraging.”
“And your father insisted that you have the right of first refusal if William St. Clair chooses to ever offer Farendon for sale.”
If Nicholas survived.
He had to survive. No matter what faced him, he had to survive.
CHAPTER ONE
Nine Years Later, 16 March 1763
Farendon Estate
Huntingdonshire, England
