Her Wicked Proposal novel Chapter 42

Sean Hartley, the footman, heard the crash from one floor below in the dining hall where he was polishing silver. The echo of shouting rumbled through the manor. It was not the kind of shouting he'd expected to hear on a honeymoon. This was all fury and rage. Sean got to his feet and headed for the dining hall doors. Viscount or not, no man would be hurting Lady Sheridan, not if Sean could help it. Raised by a single mother, he respected women and their defenselessness against the all too often violent temperaments of men. He would protect Lady Sheridan, even against his own master, consequences be damned.

"Hartley!" Lord Sheridan bellowed. "Get up here!"

Sean dropped the spoon in his hand and ran for the stairs. He passed Lady Sheridan on his way up. She appeared distraught. He paused to follow her, but his master shouted again. With a growl he turned back and continued on his way.

Lord Sheridan was in a fine fury. Pacing his room like a caged beast, he kept kicking the scattered and broken china cross the floor. The ivory shards were like crushed pieces of a broken dream, never to be mended, never to be used again.

"Here, my lord," Sean said from the doorway. Lord Sheridan spun in his direction.

"Prepare my traveling coach at once. Have the team ready within half an hour and pack me a valise. I am off for London."

"Of course. Shall I have a maid pack Lady Sheridan's things?" Sean asked carefully.

"That woman is not welcome here. Tomorrow I want her to be returned to Chessley Manor. But be quiet about it. I don't want a hint of scandal until I can arrange for an annulment."

Sean frowned, but did not argue with his master. He hoped whatever had divided the new couple was temporary. Perhaps a few days apart would cool the fires of their argument. Sean slipped out of his master's room and headed back downstairs to the servants' quarters. He roused the coach driver, Taylor Higgins, a young man of Sean's age.

"What is it, Sean?" Taylor grumbled, barely awake.

"Lord Sheridan wants his coach ready to leave within a half hour."

"You've got to be bloody joking." Taylor crawled out of bed and dressed, muttering all the while about crazy viscounts.

Sean didn't linger-he had a funny feeling in his gut. He woke Cedric's valet and sent him up to pack a valise and then turned his attention back to his increasing concern. He had a bad feeling about Lady Sheridan.

The viscountess's new rooms were empty. Her trunk had not yet even been opened. Sean's frown deepened. As he came back down the stairs, he noticed a footman staring out into the darkness.

"What is it, Henry?" he asked the other footman.

Soon he was shivering and cursing the rising wind. He wouldn't be able to last much longer out in the dark.

And that's when he saw her.

Bathed in a momentary flash of lightning, she looked small and frail. She was lying halfway in the shallows of the lake, her clothes soaked clear through.

When Sean reached her, his first fear was that she was dead. Her face, too patrician to be called lovely, was drawn tight. Her lips were parted as though her last breath had escaped long ago. Blood oozed near her temple. He glanced up the small hill, seeing the myriad rocks and tree roots that could have been the cause of her injury.

He bent his knees and slid one arm behind Lady Sheridan's back and the other under her knees to scoop her up into his arms. At the close and sudden contact of her body to his, she stirred.

"Cedric... Please forgive me..." she murmured softly before her head lolled back onto Sean's shoulder.

"Hold on, my lady. I am taking you home," Sean soothed in a gruff tone. He only prayed he wouldn't be too late.