Excerpt from "Catch of the Century" by Sophia Nash

From the "Four Dukes and a Devil" anthology

Victoria Givan would rather be alone and plump with coin in a London rookery than walking beside the colorful profusion of flowers here in the dales of Northampton. Indeed, the end would come all the quicker in the former scenario.

Lord, how she loathed the countryside. A casual observer would never guess that the turmoil of worries tumbling through her mind this fine spring day rivaled the stories to be found in the sole possession Victoria carried—a book of Canterbury Tales.

This was her last thought before the shrill blast of a carriage horn interrupted all. “Take heed. Make way!” A driver’s voice rang out from one of the three regal coaches barreling down the turnpike.

For the fifth time that hour, Victoria hurried her three young charges to the edge of the road to avoid being trampled. Spirited horses shook their heads and polished brass and metal traces jangled in the air as the lead team jigged closer in a spanking pace. At the last moment, the first carriage swerved toward them, and Victoria spied the silhouette of a masculine profile beyond the gilt-edged window. The rear wheel passed perilously close to her boots and a flag of wind whipped over her as she stumbled back.

The trio of adolescent boys reached to steady her and murmured words of concern. She coughed and sputtered amid the clouds of dust kicked up by the departing entourage. What sort of uncaring person had the audacity to nearly run them down without even a—

There was a shout and the impressive set of equipages came to a dead halt a hundred yards away, before she could catch her breath and quell her frustration.

A stylishly liveried driver from the lead carriage jumped down and opened the highly lacquered door.

“Wait here,” she admonished the boys. She strode forward a few paces and then stopped—her legs shaky, her composure even more so.

A tall, daunting gentleman unfolded his frame from the polished carriage, his gloves and hat fisted in one large hand. It was obvious even at this distance that he was as dashing in his elegant clothes as she was uncommonly shabby in her faded gray gown. His long, loose strides ate up the distance between them and suddenly, he was right in front of her, his gold quizzing glass gleaming as it lay amid the starched shirt linen between the lapels of an austere dark blue superfine coat.

He ran his fingers through his dark hair and replaced his lustrous brushed-beaver hat before he finally glanced down at her. His brows drew together.

Victoria’s breath caught in her throat. Good Lord. His eyes were the most arresting shade of pure blue—deep and devastating. They spoke of seduction even in this overly sunny, flower-filled florist’s fantasy of countryside buzzing with all manner of perverse insects.

Not that she knew the smallest particle about seduction. The closest thing to temptation unleashed had been her introduction to chocolate several months ago courtesy of her benefactor the Countess of Sheffield.

He perused her form in a slow, unsettling fashion, appraising her from the top of her sensible and very old chipped straw hat down to the toes of her very new and very fashionable calf skin half boots, courtesy of another good friend.

“Well?” she asked, collecting her wits in the face of such magnificent masculinity. From the expression decorating his extraordinary face, it occurred to her that he had probably rarely been brought to heel for anything in his life.

“I should like to apologize for the ill example of driving my heretofore excellent coachman just exhibited, madam.”

“I’ve seen drunken sailors after a decade out to sea show more care behind a team.”

He pursed his lips for the barest moment and Victoria was uncertain if it was in annoyance or in humor. “You’ve the right of it, madam. Shall I have Mr. Crandall keelhauled at the next port, or shall I have him tied to the nearest tree so you can lash him, yourself, straight away?”

She snorted.

“My thoughts exactly.”

He undoubtedly agreed with her only to deflate her. But she refused to retire her displeasure. The day had been far too awful and this was the proverbial last straw. “It’s easy to accept guilt when it falls on another’s shoulders and not your own.”

“Quite right. That’s just what I told Mr. Crandall when he tried to blame the poor pheasant running across the road just past your party. Shall I dismiss him without reference?”

“Of course not!” She nearly shouted in frustration.

“Or perhaps you’d prefer me to go after the bird?”

She ground her teeth together.

“Well, then, since you clearly possess the heart of a saint—” she would swear the corner of his lips twitched just the barest bit “—the matter is settled. I’m so glad you escaped injury, madam. Good day to you. I do apologize again for any inconvenience.” He bowed and began to turn away.

It was her muttering which probably stopped him in his tracks. “Did you have something further to say?”

That habit had always got her into trouble in her youth. There was no excuse for it really. “Nothing, nothing whatsoever.”

“Are you in need of aid? Perhaps a bit of compensation is in order for all the trouble?” She could sense rather than see the wariness in his eyes as he fished in his darkly patterned waistcoat and produced a gold guinea.

She gripped her beloved book to stop herself from taking the much needed coin. “Absolutely not.” Her voice sounded tense and high-pitched to her own ears. “I don’t need money and I certainly would never accept it from you if I did.”

“Are you sure? You would be doing me a favor, really—easing my conscience.” His blue eyes appeared even more vivid as he finally displayed a dazzling smile, which only served to irritate her further since it caused the most annoying fluttering in her stomach. It must be hunger.

She tried to shrug off the importance of his offer—and wavered. Pride lanced need. “No, thank you.”

He raised the handsome quizzing glass to his eye and stared at her.

She felt rather like a moth under a magnifying glass. A dusty one. She had never been good at hiding her emotions. And today was obviously no different.

“Here, take it,” he said quietly as he advanced the coin and lowered his eyepiece.

The man hadn’t even condescended to ask her name. Only her tacit forgiveness had been required, and a guinea offered to enable him to forget her all the faster. But then, on the playing fields of the rich and titled, mere mortals of the working class did not require names. She should know that much by now. She turned on her heel to see to the boys. “Good day to you, sir,” she tossed over her shoulder.