CHAPTER ONE
Oxfordshire, December 1817
Hunted. That’s what he was. Hunted like a fox. And just like a fox, he’d been forced to . . . run.
Oliver Townsende skidded across the perfectly polished marble floor in the foyer of Lord Medford’s country house. He rounded the imposing column at the edge of the space and took off down the nearest corridor. Behind him, the slapping of slippers against the parquet floor indicated that his flight was not in vain. He was, indeed, still being chased.
He glanced to his right. By Jove, was that a cat hurrying alongside him? He resisted the urge to rub his eyes. He looked again. Yes. There was indeed a furry feline romping to his right. Medford owned a cat? And more importantly, who was the cat hoping to avoid? Surely not the same young lady?
Oliver smiled to himself as he continued his flight. Why exactly had he agreed to attend Medford’s Christmastide house party? Yes, he’d become friendly with Lord Perfect and his wife Kate in the last year since Kate had been acquitted of his cousin’s murder. Oliver had inherited the dukedom, but he knew better than anyone how hunted he was in Society. He was an eligible young duke, for heaven’s sake. Of course Medford’s house party would be filled with young, eligible ladies with their hearts set upon becoming a duchess. Hence, the running.
Oliver and the cat rounded the bend in the hall, the slap of Lady Selina Kinsey’s slippers still echoing somewhere behind them. She was gaining on him. He could hear it in the steady increase of the slaps. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think the earl’s daughter had picked up her skirts to run after him full tilt. This particular young woman had somehow caught him under a bough of mistletoe. She’d not so subtly demanded a kiss just before Oliver had unceremoniously ripped the offending plant from the doorframe upon which it hung. Mumbling something about how he was quite certain Lady Medford had been looking for this particular bough, he’d taken off as quickly as his legs would carry him. Only to realize soon after that Lady Selina was not one to give up easily.
There was nothing left for it. He must find a way to gracefully leave this party. Lady Selina was only one of several young women who refused to take no for an answer. And their mamas? Those formidable matrons were even worse.
Oliver nearly slid past the next corner before he noticed the cat had stopped running and was sitting next to a small door inlaid in the wall, licking its paw as if it hadn’t a care in the world. The glint of a brass door handle caught Oliver’s eye. He examined the door. The silver closet! An excellent place to escape. Lady Selina would never think a duke would hide inside a silver closet. Please don’t let it be locked.
He wrenched open the door with his unoccupied hand. Ah. Unlocked. Such luck. No doubt Medford’s servants were too perfect to even consider stealing from the butler. Oliver skated inside the closet. The cat promptly followed him, twitching its tail proudly. Oliver shut the portal behind him, leaned against the solid wood with his empty palm (the other still clutching the mistletoe bough), and willed his breathing back to rights.
It was dark in the closet and a bit stuffy. It smelled like silver polish and the tang of metal. Not a bit of dust, however. Of course Lord Perfect wouldn’t stand for a dusty silver closet.
“You’d best not meow and give me away, cat,” he warned in a whisper. The cat, wherever he was, remained silent.
Oliver waited, holding his breath. The slap of slippers drew near, paused for a bit in the corridor outside, and then continued their slap-slap-slap, completely passing him by.
He expelled his breath. Excellent. He’d done it. Evaded Lady Selina. For now.
But it was only wise to wait a few more moments. Lady S was not one to be underestimated. She might swing back around and surprise him. No. He’d linger in the silver closet until he was absolutely certain he was entirely out of danger.
