After the Cavendish-Mayhews’ New Year’s Eve Ball, Adrian Andrew Hawsley, sixth Viscount Dere, swore off women. He had had enough—figuratively and literally.

Slowing his blacks for a turn, Adrian drew in the chill air, then exhaled; his breath misted instantly.

"There ‘tis." From his perch behind him, his tiger, Bolt, a grizzled veteran, pointed to a sign.

Adrian nodded. Although it was past midday, the grip of the early morning freeze had yet to slacken; he kept his horses to a wary trot as he set the curricle down the road to the southwest.

Despite the weather, he was determined to press on. With every mile that passed he felt better, as if a vice locked about his lungs for so long he’d forgotten it was there was finally easing open, as if a weight he’d forgotten he was carrying on his shoulders was lifting away.

By the end of last night’s ball, he’d been fed up—overwhelmingly bored and not a little disgusted. If a crown existed for the premier lover in the ton, he could probably legitimately claim it—indeed, it would very likely be offered to him on a purple silk pillow. Discretion, absolute and inviolate, might have been his watchword for years; despite that, the ton had learned enough to form its own opinion of his prowess, his expertise. Much of the gossip was true, which left him with little doubt as to the sources of the information. As a result, a competition had developed with ladies vying to see who next could command his highly-regarded attentions. Over the past few years, he had never lacked for invitations to ladies’ beds.

Bad enough. The Cavendish-Mayhews’ ball had been worse.

Ladies of amorous intent had surrounded him until he’d felt hunted. He did not appreciate the inversion of roles—as far as he was concerned, he was the hunter, they should be the prey. These days, that wasn’t how it was. Two sorts of women lay in wait to ambush him—most were married ladies whose only interest was in trying out his paces so that they could say they, too, had partaken of the latest acclaimed experience. Such mesdames jostled check by jowl with unmarried ladies plotting his matrimonial downfall, their calculating eyes fixed on his title and burgeoning wealth rather than on his more personal talents.

He didn’t know which he disliked more. He’d felt like a fox cornered by slavering hounds.

Enough. More than enough. It was time to take charge of his life and steer it...into deeper waters.

He uttered a short laugh. The superficiality of his life did, indeed, grate. He was thirty today—it was his birthday. What had he thus far accomplished in his life? Nothing. Where was his life headed? He didn’t know, but he was determined to set his wheels on a different road.

At present, his curricle’s wheels were rolling down the road to Exeter. He’d left the Cavendish-Mayhews’ mansion outside Glastonbury early that morning while all the bejewelled ladies were still snug in their beds. None had shared his, which fact had caused no little confusion and even some annoyance. He was there, wasn’t he? They expected him to perform, to live up to his scandalous reputation, all for their amusement. The ton, as he well knew, could be a demanding world. They could demand all they liked—he was no longer interested in playing their games.

Around him, the countryside lay silent, a dappled world of dark browns and white, the bare branches of trees and the patches of cold earth contrasting against the light covering of snow. There was more on the way, but he knew whither he was headed, knew the road like the back of his hand.

He was going home.

He hadn’t been back to Bellevere since burying his father nearly seven years before. His childhood home was like a ghost to him now, all the warm, happy memories overlaid by the acrimony and dissension of his father’s last years. His wildness was not something his father had understood, nor been able to counter; his sire’s vain attempts at forcing his only son to toe his line had met with resistance and led to estrangement. Now he could admit that he regretted that break as bitterly as he’d at one time resented his father’s wish to tame him. To change him. His father had failed, but so, too, had he. Bellevere had represented that failure; he’d closed the house, turned his back on it and left it—his principal estate and ancestral home—to decay.

It was time to go back. Time to rebuild. To pick up the shattered pieces of that earlier life and start again.

And see what he could make of it this time.

He’d accepted the Cavendish-Mayhews’ invitation out of all those sent him for the simple reason that their house had been a perfect staging post for his drive down to Dartmoor. From the first, he’d intended heading west when he left; he hadn’t, however, expected to leave today—the day after the ball, the first day of the year.

Then again, what better day to make a fresh start, with a whole new year stretching ahead of him? And it was his birthday as well—the first day of his fourth decade; he could only hope it would prove more fulfilling than the last. His mind full of memories, of prospects and plans, he drove on.

Exeter was an hour behind them, the long climb up to the moor at their backs, when Bolt leaned close to shout over the whipping wind, "Don’t like the look of that up ahead."

His gaze fixed between his leader’s ears, Adrian hadn’t been watching. Now he lifted his gaze, and swore beneath his breath. Leaden clouds puffed and swelled and rolled toward them, blotting out the horizon. Beyond, all the sky was that same ghostly, gray-white hue. Both Adrian and Bolt had been born and raised on Dartmoor; they both knew what they were facing.

"Damn!" Adrian’s mind raced. They’d already turned into the lane to Widecombe, the small village beyond which Bellevere stood. They were equidistant from four small villages with no other shelter near. "Nothing for it—we’ll have to go on."

"Aye." Bolt huddled in Adrian’s windshadow. "That, and pray."

They did pray, both of them. They knew how treacherous the moor could be, especially in winter. Snow started to fall, then thickened; the wind rose, swirling the flakes, making it harder to pick out the road. As the clouds lowered, the temperature dropped. The light started to fade.

Adrian concentrated on keeping the blacks plodding steadily, concentrated on keeping them on the road, all the while squinting through the whirling white, searching for landmarks to guide him. The cold intensified. Even through his thick greatcoat, he could feel the icy fingers of the wind. He wore no hat; snow covered his hair—he was almost grateful it was cold enough to freeze.

They would die if they didn’t reach shelter. The nearest roof of any sort belonged to Mallard Cottage on the outskirts of Widecombe, still more than a mile away over an exposed ridge. The horses had slowed to a crawl; the temptation to push them on grew, but Adrian knew better than to give in to it. If he missed the road, they’d end in a drift and perish for certain. Their only hope was to keep doggedly on—and pray.

When the ridge finally ended and they found themselves at the top of a white slope with the roofs of Widecombe-in-the-moor dotting the opposite rise, just discernible through the falling snow, Adrian allowed himself a sigh of relief. Looking down the slope, he could see a pair of parallel ridges—the low stone walls bordering the lane, a white ribbon leading to safety. All they had to do was follow it.

It would be safer to walk, but his hands, even in leather gloves, were all but frozen to the reins. The reins themselves were heavy with icing snow. The horses were growing weaker every minute he dallied. And Bolt had stopped talking long ago. Dragging in a short breath, Adrian eased the horses onto the downward slope.

Their hooves were freshly filed. Both horses were well-broken and experienced. He held them steady and let them pick their way down, one hand on the brake, ready to slam it on if need arose. Every foot seemed a mile, every yard an eternity, but they slowly descended without mishap.

At the bottom of the slope the lane crossed a shallow stream via a narrow ford. The horses reached the wider, flatter area before the ford; Adrian headed them toward where he remembered the ford to be.

Only at the last instant, scanning ahead through the wind and snow, did he realize the ford had been remade.

The curricle rocked, then pitched as its wheels twisted and slid among the icy, snow-covered rocks. A loud crack broke the stillness. The horses neighed, then pulled—the curricle slid and slewed.

"Bolt! Get out!" Adrian held the reins until the last moment, then flung himself from the wildly tipping carriage.

He landed in a snow drift.

Gasping, shaking his head free, spitting out snow, he heard a crash; turning, squinting, he saw the curricle land almost all the way over on the rocky stream bed. One wheel was kindling; the other rotated crazily in the air.

The blacks were still tugging, but were trapped in the harness. Crooning to quiet them, Adrian struggled free of the snow and managed to get to his feet. The ground was icy—it was a wonder they’d got as far as they had.

"Bolt?"

No answer. Adrian strained his ears through the whine of the wind but heard nothing. He squinted against the driving snow, and saw nothing. He started to search.

He found his old tiger face down in the snow on the other side of the ford. Like him, Bolt had flung himself into the nearest drift. Unfortunately, the drift Bolt had chosen had concealed a large rock. With shaking fingers and frozen hands, Adrian checked for signs of life—and heaved a huge sigh when he felt Bolt’s chest rise. He was alive, and the cold had already stopped the bleeding from the gash on his head.

Bolt was, however, deeply unconscious.

Adrian looked up the slope to the houses of Widecombe, still half a mile away. He could see Mallard Cottage. Old Miss Threave would give him and Bolt shelter. All they had to do was get to the cottage.

All he had to do was get himself and Bolt—and his horses, for he would not leave them to die—up the icing slope. Luckily, the snow was coming down thick and fast—a crisp coating would make the going easier.

Adrian didn’t waste time refining his plan—the longer they remained exposed to the storm, the more likely they were to become its victims. If he collapsed one foot from the cottage door, it would all be in vain—they’d die just as surely as if they stayed here. One foot or one mile, the storm wouldn’t care. Hefting Bolt, he dragged the tiger across the ford and laid him in the lee of a drift. Then he unharnessed the horses, cursing as the ice and his frozen fingers made the task impossibly difficult, impossibly slow. Finally, it was done. He tied the reins about his upper arms, then dragged Bolt upright again.

And set out.

How long it took him to cover that last half mile he had no idea. The mixture of snow and ice on the upward incline made the going treacherous; even the horses had difficulty gaining purchase on some stretches.

But he wouldn’t give up—giving up meant death. Even resting was too risky. With one arm frozen around Bolt, he dragged the tiger along. Bolt was a lot shorter than he but much stockier, nearly the same weight; it was an effort to pull his unconscious form along.

Step by step; he stopped checking his progress—it didn’t matter how far along he was. The only thing that mattered was getting there. Surviving.

He was so cold he hurt—ached—all the way through. When he could no longer lift his feet, he shuffled them. He refused to think of death.

He thought of his mother, his father...

He staggered and hit a post. Snow fell off it; green paint showed through. Gasping, Adrian struggled to lift his head. Ice cracked down his nape.

Windows glowed warmly through the whirling white. He’d reached Mallard Cottage.

But he hadn’t yet reached the door.

The gate was closed with snow piled behind it. He had to lay Bolt down, then unwind the stiff reins from his arms. He wrapped them around the gatepost, concentrating, concentrating. He didn’t dare stop concentrating.

Shifting the gate took the last of his strength; when he’d pressed it back, he collapsed on his hands and knees. He felt the flags of the path under his gloves. It took the last of his will to push himself back up, to drag Bolt to his side, and stagger up the path to the door.

He tripped on the step, concealed in the snow, and sprawled on the stone stoop. Chill darkness threatened; he fought it back. Silently swearing—anything to cling to consciousness—he reached up, up, scrabbling with fingers that could no longer feel. Pressing himself back from the painted wood, he regained his feet, then lunged and caught the bell pull.

He gave mute thanks when he heard it ring.

There were sounds inside—footsteps hurrying, more light gathering in the fanlight over the door. He swayed on his feet, clamping Bolt to his side as he heard the locks shot back.

The door was pulled open by a large woman with flaming red hair.

Not Miss Threave was all Adrian could think.

Then he heard a gasp. A slighter female pushed to the fore. "Adrian?"

He recognized her voice, her eyes and her hair—the rest had changed. His gaze dipped, steadied, then he fought to raise it back to her face. And still he stared. "I was coming home..."

It was the final shock. He went to gesture and felt himself falling. The cold blackness rushed in. He pitched forward at the feet of the sweet innocent who’d seduced him eight years before.

--From "Scandalous Lord Dere" by Stephanie Laurens, one of three stories in Secrets of a Perfect Night
© December 2000 Stenphanie Laurens used by permission