Never Fall for Your Fiancee

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For Greg, the long-suffering Mr. H

Who is always there to lend me his shoulders to stand on every time he pushes me to reach for the stars

LATE NOVEMBER 1825 …

The trouble with lies is they have a tendency, if not well managed, to catch a man out. Hugh’s out-of-control, grossly overembellished falsehood was like a snarling, rabid dog about to sink its foaming teeth into his behind, and there was not a damn thing he could do about it.

He stared at the letter again, pathetically hoping he had misread his mother’s flamboyant, sloping handwriting—but alas, he was doomed. She had booked passage from Boston to leave on the first and, if the tide and the current and the trade winds complied, intended to be in Hampshire for Christmas. Which meant he had received her blasted letter far too late to put a stop to it, no doubt on purpose, as his mother, stepfather, and a whole heap of trouble were currently bobbing somewhere ever closer on the Atlantic Ocean. Worse—if indeed things could get worse—there was only one purpose to their spontaneous and wholly unwelcome trip.

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