ANNE ASHLEY – An Ideal Companion (страница 1)
Ruth was about to demand the gentleman’s name when the person in question strolled boldly into the room, taking her completely by surprise in much the same way as she had done to him the previous day.
‘Why, Colonel Prentiss! This is an unexpected pleasure!’
‘A pleasure, I sincerely hope, Miss Harrington. But not unexpected, I trust? Surely you didn’t imagine I would permit you to embark on your quest unaccompanied? What a very poor opinion you must hold of me if you did!’
Although nothing could have been further from the truth, Ruth could scarce own as much without seeming forward, or causing a deal of embarrassment to herself. Moreover, she wasn’t altogether sure she had understood him correctly. So she merely asked, ‘Did I understand you to say that it is your intention to accompany me to London, sir?’
A love of history, coupled with little desire to return to clerical work after raising two sons, prompted ANNE ASHLEY to attempt writing romantic fiction. When not working on a new story she can more often than not be found—weather permitting!—pottering in her cottage garden. Other interests include reading, and a real passion for live theatre. She also very much enjoys relaxing on warm summer afternoons with her husband, watching the Somerset team playing cricket.
Previous novels by the same author:
A NOBLE MAN*
LORD EXMOUTH’S INTENTIONS*
THE RELUCTANT MARCHIONESS
TAVERN WENCH
BELOVED VIRAGO
LORD HAWKRIDGE’S SECRET
BETRAYED AND BETROTHED
A LADY OF RARE QUALITY
LADY GWENDOLEN INVESTIGATES
THE TRANSFORMATION OF MISS ASHWORTH
MISS IN A MAN’S WORLD
THE VISCOUNT’S SCANDALOUS RETURN
HIS MAKESHIFT WIFE
*part of the Regency mini-series
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
An Ideal Companion
Anne Ashley
ISBN: 978-1-472-04391-7
AN IDEAL COMPANION
© 2014 Anne Ashley
Published in Great Britain 2014
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of Harlequin (UK) Limited
Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ®are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.
Version: 2018-07-18
Contents
Chapter One
‘Oh, my dear girl, you look positively frozen! Do come over and join me by the hearth!’
After reducing the contents of the decanter containing a fine Madeira, Miss Ruth Harrington accepted the invitation. Although not inclined to imbibe so early in the day, after her walk into the market town in unusually inclement weather for the time of year, she felt the need of a little something to revive her, and so decided to join Lady Beatrice in her customary before-luncheon tipple.
As she took the chair on the opposite side of the hearth and began to sample the contents of her glass, Ruth couldn’t help reflecting, yet again, on the unusual relationship she enjoyed with the middle-aged widow seated opposite.
Seeing them together, anyone might be forgiven for imagining they were in some way related, that she was perhaps a favoured niece, or possibly some distant, much younger cousin. No one would suppose for a moment that she had come to Dunsterford Hall, almost a decade before, to take up the position of humble paid companion. Yet, not once in all the years that she had done her utmost to fulfil the duties for which she had been engaged had she felt like a servant, or, indeed, ever been treated as such.
In truth, her employer behaved to a certain extent like a thoughtful godmother, treating the girl she had rescued from a decidedly uncertain future with a kind consideration that some might have supposed bordered on love. In more recent years, though, Ruth had come to believe Lady Beatrice incapable of feeling that most tender emotion, not even to the smallest degree. Yes, she could be considerate when she chose to a favoured few. But she could also be thoughtless and intractable, thinking only of herself and her own comfort.
But little wonder, Ruth continued to reflect, when one considered her unfortunate marriage to Lord Charles Lindley, a cruel and unfeeling tyrant by any standard. No doubt any capacity she might once have had to give and receive love had long since withered.
‘You look very thoughtful, my dear,’ Lady Beatrice remarked, after raising her eyes to discover her young companion staring pensively down into the fire. ‘I was surprised to discover from Whitton, earlier, that you’d taken your customary walk this morning. It’s so uncommonly cold for the start of October. More like midwinter, I should have said.’
Only the fiercest elements had ever dissuaded Ruth from getting away from the Hall for an hour or so. It wasn’t that she disliked the place, even though it couldn’t be denied that the grey-stone house distinctly lacked any architectural merit to speak of and, worse still, always appeared to be shrouded in an atmosphere of impending doom. At least that was the impression most visitors held when turning into the driveway and catching their first glimpse of the building, surrounded as it was by tall trees that blocked out much of the natural light.
Not that Dunsterford Hall received many visitors, of course, Ruth reminded herself, at least not during the years she had dwelt beneath its slate roof. Its situation on the edge of the moor made it somewhat isolated, of course. Moreover, Lady Beatrice didn’t encourage visitors as a rule. Apart from the parson and the doctor, and two or three favoured middle-aged ladies living in the locale, very few people ever called at the house.
And that was precisely why she herself would brave all but the most inclement weather to make an almost daily visit to the small market town situated within a mile or so of the Hall. Apart from her employer, and the servants, of course, she would never see a soul, else!
‘You’re right. It is unseasonably cold,’ Ruth agreed. ‘Dan Smethers predicts snow before evening.’
Above the rim of her glass one of Lady Beatrice’s brows rose in a decidedly haughty arch. ‘And who, pray, is Master Smethers, may I ask?’