Miss Carlyle's Curricle: Signet Regency Romance (InterMix) by Karen Harbaugh Read Free Book Online Page A

“Here—please give this to your aunt, in case Bob needs to see a doctor. Bob’s a good young man, and I would like to have him return.” The youth’s face fell, and she continued hastily: “Though I’m sure you’ll do good work and prove yourself capable—” She paused, for she realized she did not know his name.
    “Nate, miss, Nate Staples,” he said.
    “Nate, then. I am sure the new Lord Brisbane will need more servants, and if you show yourself to be a hard worker, I can recommend you,” she said, recklessly committing Mr. Sinclair’s—she bit her lip—the new earl’s resources to the upkeep of the stables. But she had continued supervising them as she had when her uncle was alive, and the earl must know of it by now. However, he had said nothing to stop her.
    Nate’s face brightened and he bobbed his head in a respectful bow. “I’d be grateful if you could, thank you, miss.”
    Diana smiled, then proceeded into the carriage house just behind the stables.
    The curricle sat propped up and leaning to the side, a little like a boat that had been tossed ashore against rocks after a storm. The fine wood of the carriage body was marred from the overturning that day of the accident; she could see the clawlike scars where it had been dragged for a short distance after it fell.
    Fell . . . She closed her eyes, blocking out the sight of the damage, but it only brought horror-tinged images of how the horse had gone wild, and how the carriage had overturned—slowly, it seemed in her memory, though she knew it must have been too quick to let her uncle jump free.
    Tentatively, she put her hand out as if the curricle were a wild creature with fur and teeth. Silly, of course. She pressed her hand firmly on it. The wood was smooth and cool to the touch, rough where it had been scored by the rocks in the road. It is just a curricle, Diana thought, a carriage. Not a deadly monster ready with gaping jaws to tear and destroy. Her mother clearly felt as if it were, and for that reason would not go near the carriage house, at least for now.
    Diana could understand her mother’s feelings; the accident had torn a hole in the fabric of their lives and it was not a thing so easily stitched up. But she had other memories: memories of her uncle handing her the reins, and how nervous she had been, yet happy and proud that he had such confidence in her; the first tentative lurch of the carriage; and finally after several practice drives, the thrill of increasing speed over the newly macadamcd road.
    She could not look upon the curricle with horror when she also remembered so much joy. Her uncle had felt confident enough in her abilities to bequeath it to her. She would have it repaired immediately, perhaps try it out a few times to make sure it drove as well as it used to, and out of respect for her mother’s grief, sell it. Perhaps, if she and her mother could still stay at Brisbane House, she could use the money to buy a less expensive and more sedate carriage. A gig, for example. She grimaced at the thought of “sedate” then grinned. A high-perch phaeton, perhaps. Not as sporting as a curricle, but certainly not sedate, and certainly quite fashionable. There! That should keep her family from criticizing, and she could turn her thoughts to other matters.
    Such as the very annoying and embarrassing stipulation in the will regarding her
possible
marriage to Mr. Sinclair—or rather, Lord Brisbane. She thought of the man who wore the title, and it sat ill on her tongue. Such a frivolous man could not be worthy of it, or at least not as worthy of it as her uncle had been.
    “Miss Carlyle—”
    Diana jumped, then gasped as she quickly turned, for her hand caught hard on a large splinter of broken wood. It hurt, even with the strong kid riding glove she wore, and she cradled it in her other hand.
    It was Mr. Sinclair—Lord Brisbane. He raised his brows. “You have injured yourself . . . because I have startled you, I am