The Captain of Her Fate: A Sophisticated Regency Romance

Chapter One

The road to Much Wenlock

County Shropshire, England

March 20, 1815

From across the carriage, Captain Theobald Raynalds, formerly of the Royal Navy, regarded the sleeping figure of his closest friend with a critical scowl. Christian Churchill's fashionable clothes were wrinkled, his dark hair stood out in all directions, and his open, drooling mouth made him look more like a village idiot than the well-favored dandy he was when awake.

He turned to his sister, Winnifred, who'd been no better company throughout the carriage ride to their new residence. She'd raised her eyes from her book only to look out at the rain or inquire how much longer they would be on the road.

"Pray, what are you reading that engrosses you so?" This time, he was determined to engage her in conversation, as a distraction from his worries, if nothing else.

"Pride and Prejudice," she answered without looking up.

"I see," he said, "and may I know what sort of book it is?"

"A romance, of course," she intoned with impatience. "What else do I read?"

While he knew her tastes quite well, he'd hoped she might abandon the book in favor of discourse. Talking, no matter how banal the subject matter, would take his mind off the worries eating at him.

Chief among these was his choice of Much Wenlock as his primary place of residence. Would it turn out to be a regrettable error in judgment? If the local gentry treated him with the same condescension as had the bluebloods of Portsmouth and the gentlemen officers in the Navy, it certainly would.

But surely the house he'd leased would create the right impression. Of all the properties in his price range, Greystone Hall was by far the most grandiose—or would be again after a bit of sprucing up.

Scraping his teeth across his lower lip, he turned back to the window. Catching his own reflection in the glass, he saw red-rimmed blue eyes and sandy hair molded to the shape of his hat. He'd set it beside him in the hope it would dry before he arrived at Greystone Hall, but it still reeked disagreeably of wet beaver.

He licked his lips and looked out at the rain-dappled view. They were passing through the heart of the village, which consisted largely of medieval buildings with dark, crisscrossing timbers.

With much creaking and swaying, they proceeded down what appeared to be the main thoroughfare, crossed over a narrow bridge, and continued along a country road. On either side, cottages, farmhouses, and barns were painted upon a background of every shade of green imaginable.

A gang of urchins in wet, filthy rags appeared out of nowhere and chased the landau down the cobbled road. Theo, reminded of his impoverished beginnings, reached into his pocket, cracked the window, and tossed a few coppers out to the children.

When at last the landau drove up the circular gravel drive leading to his new home, Theo was surprised and somewhat dismayed to see a barouche parked near the front portico. His head ached, his stomach burned, and his war wound throbbed like the devil. He was, in fact, so little disposed to be in company of any sort, it vexed him greatly to be thus importuned.

Regrettably, his goal of social acceptance obliged him to play the hospitable host. For he dared not risk giving offense to any of his new neighbors, however presumptuous they might be.

As they drew nearer, he saw that the barouche was an exceptionally fine one. There was a postilion astride one of the four chestnut horses, a coachman in the driver's box, and a footman leaning against the rear rails. All wore long rain-drenched cloaks, dripping tricorn hats, and damp white wigs.