Free Once Upon a Moonlit Night: A Maiden Lane novella by Elizabeth Hoyt

feminine shoulder to lean on.”
    Hippolyta opened her mouth…and then didn’t know what to say. What a truly ghastly thought.
    Lady Whimple seemed to understand what she was thinking. She patted her hand. “But as it turned out, I wasn’t needed for that , was I?”
    “ No. Thank goodness.”
    “Indeed.” The elder lady sipped her tea serenely.
    But Hippolyta still worried her lip, thinking. “Then my kidnapper didn’t leave any sort of note behind?”
    Lady Whimple shook her head.
    “Do you think I should tell Papa who kidnapped me?”
    “No, indeed,” Lady Whimple replied. “Not unless you wish your father dead. He’ll be forced for honor’s sake to call out the man, and then…” She shrugged fatalistically.
    Hippolyta shuddered. She didn’t doubt at all that the horrible Duke of Montgomery would accept a challenge from her poor father. The duke would kill Papa without turning a golden hair on his head.
    No, Lady Whimple was right: far better for Hippolyta never to tell who had kidnapped her. Of course Papa might have his suspicions—the Duke of Montgomery had been making a nuisance of himself—but as long as Papa had no confirmation, he need not make a move against the duke.
    A male voice shouting suddenly rose from somewhere outside. But the sound was muted enough that Hippolyta couldn’t tell if it was from Papa or Matthew.
    “Whatever can be taking this long, do you think?” she asked.
    “Oh, gentlemen.” Lady Whimple waved a dismissive hand. “They might take hours coming to terms over a marriage contract.”
    Hippolyta’s gaze snapped back to the elderly woman’s face. Lady Whimple was in her eighth decade and had a sweet, gently crinkled face, made soft with white rice powder and pink rouge on lips and cheeks. The lady herself, however, was neither soft nor sweet. Her gray eyes were every bit as sharp as her grandson’s.
    On the whole Hippolyta found herself rather liking the old woman—especially since, by her own admission, she’d come to rescue her. “Do you think then that my father will accept Mr. Mortimer’s proposal?”
    Lady Whimple snorted. “He will if he has any brains—and your Papa didn’t make a fortune in India by luck alone, girl. No, once he calms down he’ll see this is an excellent outcome.”
    “But…” Hippolyta paced the little room. “Mr. Mortimer will be so angry. No man likes being forced into marriage.” And forced he was being, even if he’d made the announcement himself. As a gentleman and a man of honor, he’d had no other choice once he’d so thoroughly compromised her in front of witnesses.
    “If he were being roped into a partnership with a penniless nobody, perhaps,” Lady Whimple replied. “But don’t pretend unnecessary naïveté, dear. Some see it as charming in the young, but I’ve always found it cloying. You’re an heiress. He’s got a title and debts from the previous earls. He might’ve spent years trying and not found a better bride than you.”
    Hippolyta swallowed, feeling something settle deep in her stomach. “The earldom is in debt?” That must be the “family business” he’d spoken of in the carriage.
    “Yes.” Those sharp gray eyes examined her. “You didn’t know? Well, I suppose he wouldn’t have announced it to you, would he? But don’t fret. Your dowry will be enough to repair the Paxton fortunes. Aristocratic marriages have been built on far less, I assure you.” Lady Whimple poured a second cup of tea. “Now, come and sit, my dear. Soon you’ll be married and this will be all over.”
    But as Hippolyta obediently sat she felt something inside crack a little. This wasn’t how it was meant to be, a small voice cried. This wasn’t how she and Matthew should’ve come together.
    If they’d only kept driving instead of stopping at this inn.
    If they were still inside that carriage, bumping over rutting roads.
    If they were just Mr. Mortimer and Princess.
    But they had stopped. They were the Earl of