The Summer of You by Kate Noble

Author:Kate Noble [Noble, Kate]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Romance, General, Love Stories, Historical, England, Mistaken Identity, Regency, Nobility, Regency Fiction, Nobility - England, Brigands and Robbers, Lake District (England)
ISBN: 9780425240199
Publisher: Berkley
Published: 2010-04-05T16:00:00+00:00

Jane woke up to the sounds of banging and commotion. She sat up in bed, drew back the bed-curtain just in time to see Mary, her lady’s maid, opening the door. She did not come bearing firewood (which had been unnecessary for over a week now, the temperature remaining high throughout the evenings) but instead, seeing Lady Jane awake, rushed to the wardrobe and fished out Jane’s dressing gown.

“Milady! There’s been a terrible accident!” Mary squeaked before she rushed back out into the hall. Jane had no choice but to follow close at the girl’s heels.

Her first thought was her father. Something happened in the night, something bad. But he had been sleeping so well since coming here. Nancy said he was very rarely wandering the halls at night now . . . but they passed her father’s door, it was still closed, still undisturbed.

Perhaps it was Jason. He had not yet come home by the time she went to bed last night. Jane suspected he had chosen to drown his sorrows over Penelope Brandon somewhere, but what if he had gotten himself injured? What if he had gotten himself killed driving a team, or in a duel, or . . . the highwayman?

Jane quickly shook off that last notion. Goodness, she was becoming as gullible as the locals! Likely Jason had gotten drunk and twisted his ankle or some such thing, Jane thought. Yes, that’s it. He’s fine, a little battered, but fine.

He had to be fine.

So Jane readied herself to see her drunken brother moaning in pain on the settee in the receiving parlor—but she was not at all prepared for the sight that met her eyes.

Byrne Worth knelt, dripping wet and in his smalls, by the unconscious form of Joshua Wilton, who was also wet, and lying on the settee. Michael Wilton stood in a corner, watching a flurry of Jane’s staff bring hot water and pillows and quilts at Nurse Nancy’s direction.

“I need that blanket, thank you,” Nancy said, as a footman handed her a feather quilt embroidered with silk thread, and ruthlessly stuffed it around the boy. “We need to warm him up, keep him breathing. And give them quilts, too!”

Jane saw a young maid wrap a blanket around the stock-still form of Michael Wilton as she rushed into the room. Someone threw a quilt around Byrne’s shoulders just as Jane reached his side.

“What happened?” Jane asked, kneeling at the settee, her eyes raking over the boy.

“He hit his head and fell into the water,” Byrne answered softly, his eyes focused and hard, never straying from the boy, “he took a great deal of it into his lungs, and . . . now there’s blood in his mouth and . . .” He looked at her then, and Jane saw his face crumple for just a moment, in some emotion Jane could not identify—Pain? Fear? His expression was intense, as if he was reining something in, and unleashing it would be disastrous. But it only

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