Page 7 of His Runaway Duchess

A fence means farms and fields, which likely means houses. And, of course, roads. Perhaps I might find a stagecoach to take me back to town.

She had no money for a stagecoach, of course, but it was better not to think of that. She would cross that bridge when she came to it.

With her first step forward, Daphne noticed to her chagrin that she had somehow twisted her ankle in her fall, in addition to themany new bruises and cuts she had acquired. It was not broken, or even badly sprained, which was fortunate, but now every second step hurt.

Just a little further,she told herself, even though she had no idea whether it was much further or not, or even where she was going.

Climbing the fence was a tricky business. There was an ominous tearing sound from her skirts, but she ignored it.

She trudged onwards, hoping to come across some cozy little farm cottage. After only a few minutes, she spotted a little folly peering out of a clearing. Brightening, she hurried towards it.

I’ll be out of the rain, at least.

The folly was made in the Grecian style, circular, with a few artfully weathered pillars and a domed roof, half-covered in moss. She stepped out of the rain with a sigh of relief and set out wringing out her hair and skirts.

In the silence that followed, Daphne distinctly heard a long, miserable sniff. She froze.

“Ahem!”

There was no answer to her questioning cough.

She peered around a pillar. “Is anybody there? Show yourself!”

There was a shuffling sound and another half-smothered sniff.

Daphne inched forward, peering around the next pillar.

“I warn you,” she said, hoping to sound confident and unafraid, “my sister and I often engaged in fisticuffs, before she decided it was not ladylike. I was rather good at it!”

A small figure appeared from behind the pillar in front of her, making her jump. It was a young boy of about eight or nine, his face blotchy and red. He sniffed disdainfully.

“Is that supposed to scare me?” he demanded. “Telling me that you used to play fisticuffs with your sister?”

Daphne put her hands on her hips. “It was all I could come up with on such short notice.”

“Well, you might want to think up something better next time. If I werea robber or a murderer, I would have split my sides laughing at that.”

She snorted. “I’ll bear that in mind. And whoareyou, if you don’t mind my asking? And what are you doing here, all by yourself, in the rain?”

The boy dragged a long, pointed glance over her bedraggled frame, lingering on the pool of water growing around her feet. She tried unsuccessfully to pull her wet hair up from her neck.

“I was caught in the storm,” she said, a trifle defensively.

The boy sniffed. “My name is Alex. I came out here because I like it here, and I wanted to be by myself.”

“Why were you crying?”

He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I was not crying.”

Daphne decided not to push the issue. “Well, my name is Daphne. I have a niece only a few years younger than you, and it would upset me very much if I saw her all by herself in such weather, and in such distress.”

“I’m not in distress,” Alex muttered, somewhat half-heartedly.

“I see.”

Daphne eyed the boy closely. He was dressed well, his clothes only a little damp, and had black curls all over his head and large deep blue eyes. He was the sort of sweet-looking, little boy that artists liked to depict as cherubs and small angels, or rosy-cheeked, angelic children of indeterminate gender.

At least, they would have, were he not in the middle of crying his eyes out, with snot running liberally down his face. Daphne wished she had a handkerchief to offer him. He dragged his sleeve across his nose, and she winced.

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