The Defiant Lady Pencavel by Diane Scott Lewis Page A

feelings. That dumpy duchess is correct in that I will harm my family name if I don’t do things properly.” She stretched her sore back muscles, regretting that she should have to bow down to any propriety—and she wished she’d ever met the handsome viscount.
    “An’ what o’ goin’ off to Italy to dig?” Her abigail watched her with probing eyes as she groaned at another bump. “Won’t that harm your father’s name?”
    “That’s why I’ll go as a widow...a faux widow of course. It would take too much time to marry, and then pray my husband dies the day after.” The thought of Lambrick dying filled her with a sudden sadness. Melwyn had feelings for the man she didn’t want to have. Just remembering his kisses heated her inside like a coal brazier. His deep voice made other parts of her body sizzle as well.
    “I think ‘ee likes the viscount more than ‘ee will admit.” Clowenna grinned provokingly. She glanced at the book’s illustrations. “What’s this epic called again, since ‘ee still hasn’t taught me to read?”
    “It’s titled Excavation Exposé , or How to Sneak off to Italy to Explore ancient Strata during Wartime with the Loathsome French .” Melwyn had been thrilled to purchase this tome at Joseph Johnson’s in St. Paul’s Churchyard. She prayed she could put it to good use.
    “An’ what’s this pot o’ cream for?” Clowenna lifted up the glass jar beside the book.
    “Aunt Hedra insisted I take it. It’s to keep the skin soft. In countries like Italy and Egypt, the sun is supposed to be merciless.” For the first time, Melwyn wondered if she’d ever have the right, or monies, to leave England. Her spirits sagged like wilted petals. Would her father let her have her dowry money? She stuffed away her doubts like swatting at bees. “The cream has spermaceti in it; a product I should know nothing about.”
    “Ess? I might know somethin’, given the nature of me mam.” Her abigail said it softly, with a derisive edge to her voice.
    “What about your mother?” Melwyn straightened in the seat, her curiosity growing. Clowenna had come to her at the age of almost sixteen, when Melwyn was but ten, and never had mentioned her past before.
    “Never mind, m’lady. She’s not important.” Clowenna’s normally ivory skin flushed a shade of pink. She grabbed the wrist strap as the coach lurched. “I’d rather talk o’ his lordship.”
    Melwyn slumped back again, and reluctantly ruminated more on the viscount. “If I do like the man, which I couldn’t possibly, it’s only a passing fancy.” She dug her fingers into the buttery leather seat and hoped to be right. She scanned the road, imagining that a man in a dark cape would ride up at any moment, pretending to be a highwayman, but in actuality would be Lord Lambrick. She shook off that silly fantasy. “Love, or rather I should reiterate just plain ‘like’ is a weakness that deters one from their true purpose.”
    “I never said nothin’ ‘bout love .” Clowenna snickered in that self-satisfying way of hers.
    “A trip of the tongue, you witchy jade.” Melwyn crossed her arms in disgust, or was it something else? Why did the mere idea of Lambrick put her out of sorts, trouble her sleep, discombobulate her? She should be eager to end their association.
    The coach slowed at a mushroom shaped building, a toll house. The toll-taker ran out and demanded payment from their coach driver. When given, the official opened the gate, which had pikes inserted in the top to prevent people from jumping the gate to avoid paying their fares.
    Their coach rambled on, jolting through a rut. “These turnpike trusts are supposed to keep up the roads, but do a poor job,” Melwyn grumbled, her mind hardly on road issues, but straying to firm clutches in gardens, on terraces, and on the back of horses.
     
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    In the shearing shed of Merther Manor, Griffin watched the men, hired shearers who roamed the countryside in search of