A Merchant's Daughter Read online

  A Merchant’s Daughter

  by

  Arabella Sheen

  A Merchant’s Daughter

  Copyright © 2019, Arabella Sheen

  ISBN: 9781949300468

  Publisher: Beachwalk Press, Inc.

  Electronic Publication: August 2019

  Editor: Pamela Tyner

  Cover: Fantasia Frog Designs

  eBooks are not transferable. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations in articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Back Cover Copy

  A merchant’s daughter and a destitute nobleman. Can a marriage of convenience solve their problems?

  Miss Emma Brentry is happy with life, but she feels the time has come to marry. Her father, a wealthy glass merchant, has expectations of grandchildren, and Emma doesn’t wish to disappoint him. Reluctantly, and somewhat halfheartedly, she begins the search for a husband.

  Mr. Aaron Trent, a gentleman of noble birth, returns to England fresh from the Napoleonic war with a scar and limp to prove it. During his absence, his estate, Windhurst Hall, has been pledged by his cousin at the gaming tables. He is now in search of the necessary funds with which to buy back his home.

  Traveling to Bath, Emma finds herself stranded on the road and is compelled to stay the night at The Stag and Hounds posting inn. She encounters Aaron, an attentive, handsome stranger, who offers her some much-needed assistance. Instant attraction is felt by both, and as dusk falls, Emma makes Aaron an offer he finds difficult to refuse.

  With his pride standing in the way, can Aaron stay true to his principles, or will he, with reckless, passionate abandonment, succumb to Emma’s powers of persuasion?

  Content Warning: contains explicit, sensual love scenes

  Chapter 1

  Miss Emma Brentry stood before the wooden door of The Stag and Hounds posting inn. The door itself was shut, but with a bright yellow stagecoach positioned in the inn’s courtyard and the loud noise of chattering voices emanating from the open, latticed windows, it was obvious the place was open for business and full with passing travelers.

  Straightening her crumpled pelisse and adjusting her bonnet, Emma took a steadying breath, mentally bracing herself for what was to come. Never before had she entered a public tavern alone, but her situation was desperate and called for urgent action.

  She was more than a little troubled. A young, genteel woman unaccompanied and on the open road was deemed outrageous, but entering a travelers’ inn without an escort was considered by some to be a far worse offense.

  There was no doubt in Emma’s mind that should her father discover what she was about to do, his blistering wrath would descend upon her head, and his forgiveness would be hard to come by. But she had to chance his anger. Stranded near Corston, and with no immediate means of reaching Bath, she was desperately in need of assistance, and entering the inn seemed her only option.

  That afternoon, Emma had been traveling the Bath Road. Having paid a visit to her younger sister in Bristol, she was returning to her father’s house in Bath and had almost reached her destination when her journey had been abruptly halted. A wheel on the barouche carriage had snapped, and with the spokes broken, she found herself to be at an impasse.

  Unable to travel further, Emma had left her coachman to tend the horses, and she had retraced her steps until The Stag and Hounds had been reached.

  The stagecoach standing before the inn was loaded down with heavy baggage, and by the steamy heat emitted from the horses’ flanks and nostrils, it was clear the vehicle had only recently arrived. Ostlers were busy tightening tack and bridles, and an air of frantic chaos permeated the cobblestoned courtyard.

  Squaring her shoulders, Emma lifted the old, worn, iron latch on the door and boldly pushed it open. She entered. The noise overwhelmed her. Voices were raised and the incessant shouts for service from impatient travelers was almost deafening. The musky smell of smoke from the roaring log fire, along with the stench of stale alcohol that permeated the air, hit her.

  Looking around, Emma tried to discern who amongst these hapless, disheveled persons could be the landlord, but it was difficult to tell. Having come in from the brightness of the sunlight outside, the darkness of the tavern’s interior hindered her search. Everyone looked more or less the same, and all the passengers appeared to be travel-stained and weary.

  Emma bit down nervously on her bottom lip.

  “What can I do for you, my good lady?” A short, thickset man approached. As he did so, he wiped his hands on his work-soiled apron.

  “I am looking for the innkeeper,” she explained. A note of desperation trembled in her voice. She wasn’t used to rubbing shoulders with so many persons at once. The nearest she came to such a tight squeeze was generally when she attended the theatre or a gala ball of an evening, in Bath.

  “You’ve found him.” A wide, near-toothless grin appeared, followed by a wink. “Can I get you something to eat or drink before the stage departs, miss?”

  “No, thank you. Nothing for me. And I am not with the stage. I’m traveling with my own carriage, only we have lost a wheel and we are now at a standstill. Two spokes have snapped, and we dare not go any further. I wonder, can you give directions to a wheelwright?”

  The innkeeper couldn’t know how much it had hurt her pride to admit she no longer had control of her life. Fiercely independent, and with a dislike of being reliant upon others, Emma was now seeking help. It went against the grain.

  “Are you sure you don’t want something to drink?”

  Emma hesitated. She was thirsty, but she didn’t want to linger too long inside the inn and draw attention to herself. It seemed impolite to refuse, but she knew that the sooner she left the tavern, the less likelihood someone would discover she had erred beyond the bounds of respectability.

  “Umm…all right. Yes, please. A glass of lemonade would be very nice. But about the wheelwright…”

  “I’m afraid you won’t have much luck finding a wheelwright in these parts, young miss. You’re just outside Corston, and our nearest wheelwright is in Saltford.”

  “Saltford? But Saltford is miles away. Surely there is someone in this village who can mend my carriage wheel.” She was anxious at the thought no one might be found to fix the carriage, and she would be stuck in Corston.

  The innkeeper reached for a tray on the counter. Collecting several empty ale tankards from a table, he placed them on the tray he held in his hand and shook his head solemnly.

  “There ain’t anyone hereabouts with skills to mend a wheelbarrow, let alone a big thing like a carriage. We ain’t got a smithy either.”

  “Then what am I to do?” Emma kept her voice steady.

  The danger of her plight had become apparent. She could be stranded at The Stag and Hounds for days on end, or perhaps even longer.

  “I can’t rightly say, miss.”

  From outside in the yard, a postilion could be heard shouting. “Coach… Stagecoach leaving.”

  Chairs scraped against the hard, wooden floorboards, and eager to be gone, passengers left the remains of their meal unfinished. Shrugging into their tailcoats and grabbing their belongings, they then rushed toward the door, making haste to board the coach before it departed.

  Looking through the open doorway and out into the stable yard, Emma watched as a sprightly postilion sprang onto the nearside leader. Behind him, a coachman sat perched high on his driving box.

  With all the passengers squeezed tightly on b
oard, a crack of a whip hit the air above the horses’ heads as the coachman signaled departure. The stagecoach lunged forward, and once beneath the arched gateway of the inn, it soon vanished from sight. All that remained of the chaos was a cloud of settling dust and a sudden deafening silence in the air.

  Meanwhile, the landlord had fetched a glass of lemonade, and returning to where Emma stood, he set it down on a nearby table.

  “There you go, miss,” he said.

  Emma clutched her reticule nervously in her hands.

  “How am I to get to Bath?” she asked, distressed.

  The landlord looked out of the mullion windows and pointed to the empty stable yard. He turned to Emma and shrugged his shoulders.

  “I’m sorry. That was the last stagecoach to Bath, and there won’t be another passing ’til morning. If you care to stay the night, I’m sure my good lady, Mrs. Griffin, has several spare rooms upstairs. They’re nothing fancy, but they suit most travelers in need of a bed. Many a fine lady caught between here and Bath has stayed the night under our roof.”

  Unusually despondent, Emma sank down onto the nearest chair. With her elbows resting on the table, she placed her head wearily in her hands and gave a long, drawn-out sigh of despair. She was marooned, and there was nothing for her to do except spend the night at the posting inn.

  She hoped her father wouldn’t be too distressed about her delay, and she felt thankful she hadn’t sent word ahead to let him know she would be arriving that evening. If she had, she was in no doubt he would be sending out a search party to scour the roads and comb the hills from Bristol to Bath for her ravaged remains.

  As her situation was made clear, Emma became resigned to the fact she would not be leaving The Stag and Hounds anytime soon.

  Action was needed, and she couldn’t delay as her coachman and horses were at risk. A decision was required about what she was to do, and in an instant, she made it.

  Tilting her chin bravely upward, she said, “Landlord, I need to hire transport from you so I might fetch my belongings from my carriage.” She took a few sips of the lemon drink and felt refreshed. “My coachman and horses must also be collected, for they cannot spend the night at the roadside. May I stable my mares here for the night?”

  From behind a high-backed, wooden bench placed near the open fire, a tall man emerged. Until now, Emma had been unaware of the gentleman’s presence. He had been hidden from view. Dressed in a greatcoat with many capes, he drew near and extended a booted leg. He gave an eloquent bow in her direction.

  “Perhaps I can be of assistance,” the man offered good-humoredly.

  His voice was deep and sensuous, and when his piercing, blue eyes honed in on her, she became somewhat flustered. She hadn’t expected such a penetrating stare.

  As he stood before her, Emma was struck by the painfully perfect handsomeness of his features and the way his thick, dark hair fell onto his brow. Even in the dim light of the tavern, she thought him to be one of the most striking men she had ever seen. His tall height and the breadth of his wide, powerful shoulders were eye-catching. Irrationally, she felt an instant attraction, and her heart thumped excitedly against her ribs. It wasn’t often that a man could hold her attention, but he did.

  This man was a gentleman of breeding, and not at all like the sort of merchant friends her father associated with. He was clearly a man of class and refinement, and judging by his mannerism, he appeared to be a person of some social standing. She knew the type well and had often seen them from a distance when visiting her Aunt Rose in London. But except for Lord Stratton, she’d never actually rubbed shoulders with someone of this noble caliber, until now.

  Lord Stratton was one of the many suitors wishing to marry her, and not the sort of gentlemen she was usually introduced to. Generally, her suitors were young bucks of new-moneyed merchants. Merchants like her father. Not persons of the nobility.

  Even though Emma had attended Miss Witherington’s finishing school and was well-educated in the ways of the upper-class, she’d never actually mingled in a social sphere with the sons and daughters of the landed gentry. She was a commoner. A merchant’s daughter. And despite the fact that her father was affluent beyond the norm, she simply didn’t mix socially with families of noble birth. It wasn’t the done thing.

  A young lady wishing to enter into the world of the elite and attract the attention of rich aristocrats or noblemen of birth would first have to be presented to the Royal Court and then to members of the ton at Almack’s Assembly Rooms. And Emma had done neither.

  In one swift, all-encompassing glance, she realized the man before her was above her station. Knowing he wouldn’t look twice at her if they were to meet at a ball or rout, she felt decidedly unattractive and somewhat deflated.

  The landlord shuffled forward. “Major Trent,” he said. “I hadn’t realized you were still here, sir. I’ll ask Mrs. Griffin to show you to your room straight away. As I was saying to this delightful, young lady, the rooms are nothing fancy, but they ought to suit your needs.”

  The man moved and was about to leave the ale room, but turned and asked again, “Can I be of service to you, Miss…” He paused, waiting for her to tell him her name.

  Emma felt flustered and out of her depth. Approached by a stranger, she had no idea how she ought to react. Should she be affronted, or should she simply ignore him? If he was prepared to assist, she decided that perhaps she ought to be civil in case she was compelled to accept his offer of help.

  “My name is Emma Brentry, and I’m from Bath, sir.”

  Emma stood and dropped a curtsy. She wasn’t used to introducing herself to strangers. Then again, neither was she used to frequenting posting inns.

  “Miss Brentry.” The gentleman bowed. “Mr. Aaron Trent at your service. I was about to suggest I collect your belongings. My curricle is outside, and as I have yet to stable my grays, it will be no hardship to drive a mile or two and retrieve your luggage. Is that idea acceptable to you?”

  The man before her was olive-skinned and unfashionably bronzed, as if he’d spent much of his time outdoors in the sun. He had a strong jawline and a straight nose that hinted of noble birth. For some unknown reason, Emma felt the immediate pull of his undeniable magnetism and was instantly attracted.

  “The idea of you collecting my luggage is more than acceptable, sir. But might I be so bold to suggest I accompany you? You see, my father’s coachman, Gresham, is suspicious of most people we encounter, and he might not relinquish my belongings to you. I would also like to assure him that I am all right. He’s such a worrier, and as you and I are not known to one another…”

  “I’m pleased to hear you have a coachman. To be honest, I was beginning to doubt your story. I could not envisage you driving a barouche or tackling the problems of a broken wheel alone. Certainly, you may ride with me. As for my credentials, here is my calling card.” Aaron’s hand delved into his pocket and emerged with a delicately engraved silver card case. He flipped the lid open and handed her a card. “Griffin will also vouch for me. Will you not, Griffin?”

  “Course I will, Major Trent, sir. I’ve known you nigh on ten years or more. You’ve often stayed in Newton Saint Loe with your uncle, Lord Merton―God rest his soul. Merton Manor is just down the road. His lordship was always well-respected hereabouts. It’s a shame he passed away. And now that your cousin has―”

  “Thank you, Griffin. I’m certain Miss Brentry has no need of my life history. If you could see your good wife prepares a room for her, and also somewhere for the coachman to sleep, we shall be indebted.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll ask Mrs. Griffin to see to it right away.”

  Aaron placed his hand beneath Emma’s elbow, and he steered her carefully toward the door. As they stepped away from the inn and emerged into the bright sunlight and fresh air, she was made aware of exactly how dark and musky it had been inside. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she turned to face Aaron.

  Glancing briefly at his calling card, sh
e read his details before placing it in her reticule for safekeeping. He seemed an honest enough person, and her instincts told her she could trust him.

  “Well, Mr. Trent…what now, sir?” she asked.

  Emma tilted her head to look up at Aaron. She estimated he was all of six-foot-two inches, and in the afternoon light, she could see that what she had thought to be dark brown curls were in fact jet-black locks. And then she noticed the rough, jagged line of a scar across his left cheek. It looked raw, fresh, and ugly.

  As his eyes looked searchingly into hers, seeking her reaction to his injury, she only just managed not to turn her gaze away with unthinking revulsion. When inside the inn, she had not seen the scar, but perhaps that was because Aaron had intentionally kept his face averted in order to conceal the unsightly wound.

  Emma looked across the cobbled yard and noticed an ivory-colored phaeton with two matching grays. It was standing near the water trough.

  She hadn’t noticed the carriage earlier and surmised that the stagecoach, while waiting to depart, had blocked her view. It was a fine piece of equipment, and if she was of a sporting nature, which she wasn’t, she would be full of admiration for the elegance of the carriage and the thoroughbreds attached.

  “Your carriage awaits, my lady. Shall we?”

  As they walked toward the phaeton, Emma detected a slight limp in Aaron’s gait. At first, she’d thought the ivory cane he held was purely a fashionable accessory, as most dandies and coxcombs carried such a thing with them, but she’d been wrong. Aaron wasn’t using the cane for effect; he used it for support and as a walking aid.

  Thinking it best not to comment on his disability, Emma remained silent. She didn’t want to offend. If she offered assistance, he might feel affronted.

  Reaching the carriage, and without further ado, Aaron took her hand, and then, placing an arm around her waist, he assisted her onto the high seat of the phaeton. It felt strange having a man touch her. But there was no one to see. No one to chaperone, and no one to condemn their actions either. To Emma, it felt excitingly illicit. Being so free with a man and behaving in such a way was not her normal behavior.