Today's Reading
CHAPTER TWO
There are three creatures beyond ruling—a pig, a mule, and a woman.
Irish proverb
Consciousness came to Christopher Fitzhugh-Cox, Duke of Winderton, with a gasping start.
He lay a moment, disoriented. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to move, and he didn't understand why.
He first believed he was in his bed at Smythson—except he wasn't lying on a cotton-stuffed mattress. There were no fine sheets, no fire in the hearth. Interesting. It had been some time since he'd woken with that confusion. Of late, he'd always known exactly where he was—in a hell of his own making. No soft sheets there.
But this time, he'd apparently outdone himself. The question was: Was he sober?
That was always the first question he asked himself in the morning. This wasn't morning.
All was wet and gray. His head pounded, the rhythm echoing in the pumping of his own veins.
Something ran down his temple, tickling him. He attempted to raise a leather-gloved hand to check it, and realized he was wedged into a tight space. He lay on his side. Apparently, water was everywhere, soaking into his clothes where his oilcloth greatcoat didn't protect him.
His wits began to return, a sign that his brain wasn't completely addled.
Kit took stock of his situation. First, he hadn't been to Smythson in close to a year. Nor could he recall the last time he'd slept peacefully in a bed. And he obviously wasn't going to do so this night.
Instead, he was surrounded by an eerie silence. Where the devil was he?
He attempted to move and discovered more aches and pains—
The lightning strike.
Memory returned: the wildly swerving coach, the crash, and the feeling that he would die here...
Kit forced himself to swallow, to draw one full, deep breath. His ribs pressed back, sending a sharp twinge through his side. If he'd questioned whether he was alive a moment ago, pain gave him the answer. Blessedly, and painfully, alive.
And sore ribs and bruises were the price he paid for tempting Fate. And for climbing into a coach everyone else was deserting, because there was a group of men on his trail and he had no desire to let them catch him. Besting them had become a source of pride.
But actually, Kit had not been in a good mood when he'd decided to take this stage of the Mail, going wherever it was going. His horse had taken lame. The beast was little better than a nag, but he'd liked the rascally thing. He'd left the gelding with the stable master and thought he might come back for him.
He also might not.
Such had been his life for the past year.
Kit had run away—from expectations, from women who rejected him, from women who gave too much of themselves to him. He'd started off this trip with some drunken idea to emulate the stories of Prince Hal. It had sounded like good fun and Kit had needed to do something. He was a complete disgrace to his family and his title. He'd gone from being a shallow but obedient duke to somewhat of a rake, but without any of the questionable redeeming qualities of one.
A year ago, when he'd found himself in a fistfight with the local doctor and had lost, Kit knew he'd reached the bottom. The only woman he'd ever loved had married his uncle, he had started drinking too much, he played cards as badly as his father, and he had been deserted by anyone he could call a friend. Worst of all, the only person he mattered to was his blessed mother, and she deserved better.
So, Kit had come up with a plan to save himself. Prince Hal had not been a bad idea. The tale was his favorite as a schoolboy. They said before Prince Hal had become King Henry V, he'd lived in disguise among the commoners. He'd consorted with petty thieves and criminals. He'd seen firsthand how the classes differed. And, he'd enjoyed himself.
As had Kit.
He rather liked living by his wits. He'd changed his name from the weighty Christopher to Kit and followed one rule—he could not use his title or its money. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right.
Would this experience be the making of him? Kit wasn't certain. He'd always felt inadequate. Inheriting a dukedom at a young age hadn't helped.
Over the years, he'd been told he was too inexperienced, too old, too young, not his father, too much like his father, featherheaded, too serious—the list of criticisms was tiring.
However, tramping around the country, he'd come to learn that most people, whether of the highest of the upper classes or lowest of the lower, were very much the same. There might be a difference of education, but they were all motivated by self-interest. Greed ruled mankind, he had decided, and felt both soiled and worldly for the knowledge.
Suddenly, Kit remembered The Girl.
They had been in the coach together. Where was she?
This excerpt ends on page 17 of the paperback edition.
Monday we begin the book Savor It by Tarah DeWitt.
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