Page 12 of A Troublesome Circumstance

Jude’s hand tightened into a fist at his side. “The devil he did.”

“The coach was traveling far too fast,” she went on, her voice trembling only slightly. “It began to tilt when we rounded a corner. I—” She swallowed, closing her eyes for a brief moment. “I threw myself out. I had to. A moment later, it overturned.”

“You’re lucky to be alive.”

“I am,” she agreed. “The driver and footman weren’t as fortunate. I never found Mr. Broderick’s body… so I ran. Into the woods. I didn’t stop until I came across your stable.”

Her voice faltered then, and she sank back into the nearest chair. “I didn’t mean to bring you any trouble. I’d only planned to rest a moment before continuing on my way.”

Jude looked at her for a long moment, feeling something twist deep in his chest. She’d endured all that, alone and terrified, yet still spoke with grace and gratitude.

Trouble or not, she wasn’t leaving—not while the storm raged and certainly not while a man like Broderick might still be out there.

Not if he could help it.

Jude dragged a chair across the wooden floor, the legs scraping softly against the worn planks. He positioned it beside her and sat down. “I will keep you safe,” he said. “At least until you are back with your family.”

“You don’t know Mr. Broderick,” she responded. “You don’t know what he is capable of. He is a vile man who refuses to take no for an answer.”

The way she said it—quiet but firm—sent a wave of anger rolling through Jude. He’d met men like that before, men who believed power gave them rights over others. “You’re safe now,” he said, though even as he spoke, he hated how hollow it sounded.

Her lips quivered. “Perhaps,” she murmured, “but for how long?” Tears pooled in her eyes, catching the flicker of the fire. “If anyone saw me leaving with Mr. Broderick, I am ruined.”

Jude’s stomach twisted. “Don’t think on that now,” he said. “Focus on what you can change. The first thing we do is get you home to your family.”

Her gaze dropped to her lap. “They will be so disappointed in me.”

“You did nothing wrong.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “I should have known better. I should have⁠—”

“Should have what?” Jude interrupted. “Foreseen that a man would betray his own honor?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You cannot blame yourself for another man’s wickedness.”

She gave a small, humorless laugh, wiping at her eyes. “That is kind of you to say, but Society does not see it that way. To them, the mere appearance of impropriety is enough to condemn a woman.”

“Then Society is full of fools,” Jude said, his voice much harsher than he had intended. “Forgive me. I just… I cannot stand the idea of you believing this is your fault.”

Her tears slowed, her breathing steadied, though her eyes still shone with worry. “You are unlike anyone I have met before, Jude.”

“I hope that is a good thing.”

“It is,” she rushed out.

For a moment, neither spoke, both retreating into their own thoughts. The storm still raged outside, but within the tiny cottage, something fragile and unspoken began to take root—a trust he hadn’t expected to feel, and one he feared might cost him dearly if he let it grow.

3

Josephine sat by the window, her book resting lightly in her lap as her eyes moved over the page without truly seeing the words. The steady crackle of the hearth and the faint patter of rain against the glass made the small cottage feel like a world apart—safe, peaceful, and entirely unexpected.

It was strange to think that only last night she had been running for her life. Now she sat in warmth and quiet companionship, in the home of a man who had quite literally saved her life. Whether Jude considered himself a hero or not was of no consequence. She did. And she would make certain he was properly thanked for it.

Her gaze drifted to the tall bookshelf tucked into the corner. The sheer number of volumes astonished her. The spines gleamed in the soft candlelight—many of them first editions, if her eyes did not deceive her.

“May I ask,” she began, glancing over at him, “how you came to possess such an impressive collection of books?”

Jude looked up from his armchair near the hearth, where he sat reading. His dark hair caught the firelight, and the faintest hint of amusement lit his eyes. “My mother was an avid reader,” he said simply, as though that explained everything.

“Yes, but these are rare editions,” Josephine pressed, gesturing to the shelf. “Surely they were not all hers?”