Dakota Territory, 1876

​

The Honorable Marcus Lindquist cursed inwardly as another bump almost unseated him. What did this idiot of a driver think he was doing? He had been forced to leave England to save the Lindquist name from being dragged further into disrepute, now he was exiled here in the American wilderness.

Sylvia had ruined his life, betrayed him. Cast him aside to marry the heir to a Dukedom. He had been contemplating marriage and settling down to produce heirs, when he had met and become infatuated with Lady Sylvia Hayworth. The thought of her full lips and lush, ripe body being given to another man almost destroyed him.

“Ya have to stay the night here.” Their uncouth driver poked his head through the stagecoach window.

“Too late to travel on the road now,” growled the man who was riding shotgun.

“Road!” Marcus bit off an oath. Is that what they called it? Rutted track seemed more appropriate. Stepping stiffly from the stagecoach he waited for the other occupants to alight.

He stamped his feet to get his circulation moving again after eight hours in the cramped stagecoach. They had stopped only to eat and change the horses; now he was forced to spend the night in some revolting, bug-infested establishment, undoubtedly run by villainous riff raff. At least he hadn’t been scalped by marauding Indians or robbed by outlaws.

A good night’s sleep would help. The voyage from England had been nothing short of a disaster. Still, it did have a few lighter moments, including a troupe of eight painted, pretty chorus girls who had kept him entertained.

“This way.” The driver left his passengers to pick up their own hand luggage.

The roadside inn, he wasn’t sure what the American’s would call such a place, looked anything, but impressive although light spilling out on to the porch offered a little reassurance. A slovenly looking man met them at the door, and Marcus shuddered with distaste. Fastidious in his own habits, if this oaf’s appearance was anything to go by, he teetered on the brink of a hideous nightmare. Their driver, having dumped them like pieces of flotsam, disappeared without a word. Not even bothering to hide his disdain, Marcus stepped across the threshold.