Ash sighed.
“Right, well, we shall ride off and take our time catching up with the others. We don’t want him to find you too quickly. You need to be a way behind us, so you get some time alone with him. Just don’t waste it. We’ll bring your horse with us and make up a story that sounds plausible.”
“And why haven’t we returned to search for our friend?” Ash asked with the quirk of a dark eyebrow. “A fine fellow he’ll think me.”
“Oh, not for long. Flo will tell him the truth before they get back, won’t you, Flo?”
Florence blanched a little at the idea of admitting what she’d done to Henry, whom she doubted would see the funny side of it, but she nodded gamely. “Of course.”
“Very well, then,” Ash said, with the fatalistic air of one who was in the grip of one of Vivien’s ideas and knew he’d be mown down if he tried to stop her. “If we must, let’s get it over with.”
Vivien gave a little squeal of excitement. “Yes! Let the drama begin. Don’t forget to play your part, Flo. If he doesn’t kiss you before you get back, I’ll be most disappointed in you.”
Florence sighed from her position in the grass and waved them off, wondering just how long she would have to wait for Henry to find her.
“Mr Stanhope!”
Henry turned at the sound of his name. Miss Anson was hailing him from some way back, her brother riding up behind her. How the devil had they got so far behind? He turned his mount, trotting back to them.
“Oh, Mr Stanhope. I just must speak to you about those corn dolls. You know, our grandmother might have something to say about them. You see—”
“Viv! Viv, where’s Florence?” called her brother as he drew up alongside them.
Miss Anson frowned at him. “Flo? Why, she was with you.”
“Well, she’s clearly not with me, Viv. What the devil have you done with her?”
“I’ve not done anything!” Miss Anson replied hotly, glaring at her brother.
“Wait!” Henry interrupted, a sick feeling stirring in his guts. “Do you mean to say Florence has disappeared?”
“Well… I… I suppose so,” Miss Anson said, her expression growing anxious. “Oh, Ash, you don’t think… could she have had a fall?”
At this moment the pretty palomino mare Florence had been riding trotted around the corner without her rider.
“Hell!” Henry said, urging his horse forward. “You, retrieve the horse. You, tell the others,” he instructed each twin in turn, before riding off.
He would not sit about listening to those two twits trying to figure out what to do next. If Florence had fallen she might be hurt or in pain. She would certainly be frightened if no one returned to help her. He glanced up to where thick, smothering clouds were rolling in at an alarming rate, turning the sky a sickly greyish yellow. The glorious day was turning into a very sombre afternoon, and Henry cursed himself for not having taken Sterling’s words more seriously. They would have a storm very soon, judging by the way the wind had picked up, and they would need to get to cover fast.
It took him the next fraught quarter of an hour to find her, the entire time spent with his heart in his throat, terrified he would find her crumpled and bleeding. Visions of her lying broken and bloody filled his suddenly overactive imagination as he rode flat out, searching the ground for any evidence of a fall. When he finally found her, he could have wept with relief, a sensation swiftly overtaken by the urge to wring her blasted neck.
“What have you been playing at, you little nitwit?” he demanded, seeing her walking through the meadow with a disconsolate air and no little difficulty, hindered by her heavy skirts. “I told you that horse was too much for you.”
A look of deep irritation crossed her lovely face, and her green eyes flashed sparks at him that could have ignited the dry grass about her. “No, you did not. You asked if she was too much for me. I said she was not. I was correct, by the way.”
“Then why did you fall off?” he demanded.
“I didn’t,” she admitted, a sudden flush of colour pinking her cheeks in a way that was quite delicious.
Stop noticing her, he warned himself crossly.
“Oh really?” he asked, not bothering to hide his contempt at her lie. “Then why are you on foot?”
“For you, you idiot man!” she exclaimed, the temper erupting in time with an ominous rumble of thunder.
“What on earth…?”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” she said with a dismissive sweep of her hand. “Just go away. You clearly can’t wait to be rid of me.”
“I’m not leaving you here alone,” he retorted.
She sent him a volcanic glare.
“Then send Ash and Viv back with my horse,” she said through her teeth.
“No. Not until I understand what you mean that you did it for me.”
She rolled her eyes as though she were all out of patience with him which, given the circumstances, was rather rich. “Oh, to get you alone, of course. How dim-witted are you? It was a dare.”
Henry blinked at her, thoroughly lost, though the mention of a dare stirred an uneasy memory. “A dare?”
Florence nodded. “Like our mothers did. We’ve been taking turns to draw a dare from the hat.”
“The hat?” he asked in astonishment. “The actual hat? You mean that still exists?”
“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “And all the original dares. Our parents all met and married happily because of those dares, and it worked for Eliza and Elspeth, and Arabella. I thought it might work for me too but… but then I realised it was a rotten trick to play on you, especially as you don’t even want to like me, or anyone come to that. You’re too angry with the world, or at least with the female portion of it, to fall in love. And I knew you’d just be cross, so… it seemed best to tell you the truth at once. I’m sorry if I worried you,” she added, though with an unmistakeable note of defiance as her chin went up.
Henry did not know whether to laugh or put her over his knee, too stunned by her precise summation of his state of mind to think clearly. In lieu of a response, he asked, “What was it?”
“What was what?” she asked, her voice dull.
“Your dare.”
“Oh,” she sighed, staring out over the acres of meadowland around them. “To tell a lie to someone I loved. I suppose I failed the dare too,” she added with a huff of unhappy laughter.
Henry felt his heart squeezed in his chest. The foolish child believed she was in love with him, and, God help him, she looked so forlorn. “Well, you can’t stay out here by yourself, and that storm will be upon us at any moment.”
He dismounted and walked his horse over to her. She gave him a frowning glance, which for some reason made Henry desperate to kiss her, to chase away the woebegone expression that dulled the brightness of her eyes.
“Come on, up you get.”
“But you’ve not got a side-saddle,” she objected.
“No, so you’ll have to make do.”
Before she could object, he picked her up, throwing her up onto the saddle as he’d done this morning.
“Oh!” she said, scrambling into place before she slipped off and glowering down at him. “I do wish you would stop manhandling me.”
“But I thought that was what you wanted,” he returned before he could think better of it.
She blushed again, brighter this time, and he found he could not regret his words. The pink of her cheeks was perfectly charming. He climbed back into the saddle, and she gasped as he tucked her in front of him. Though Henry suspected it was not terribly comfortable, she did not complain, though he regretted the position at once, for he was obliged to put his arm around her to hold her steady, pulling her against his chest. She was too close. Her softness pressed against him, the scent of her teasing his nostrils. He was uncertain whether she wore perfume or if it was simply the soap she used, but the faint scent of roses enveloped him. It beckoned him, tempting him to press his nose to her hair, the
tender skin behind her ear, or the curve of her neck and inhale, to see if he could find the source of the delicious aroma. He wanted to search everywhere until he was certain. Instead, he reminded himself severely of what he wanted from his future, and tried to get a grip on his sanity before it unravelled.
“You don’t love me.”
She turned her head, the ridiculous feather on her hat tickling his chin as she did so. “How can you be so sure?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been home more days than weeks; we’ve had a handful of conversations. You don’t know me.”
“Perhaps not,” she admitted, and he could feel the weight of her green gaze upon his face, avoided it for fear of what he might see there. “But I know you are kind and loyal and I admire your opinions, and I know how you make me feel.”
He frowned at that, his eyes finding hers despite his reluctance.
“How?” he asked, even knowing he ought not, that he did not want to know the answer.
You damned liar, Henry.
“Safe,” she said softly. “You make me feel safe.”
Henry looked away, trying to scoff at her answer and finding himself unable to do so. The word seemed to creep beneath his skin, to invade his blood, to settle in his heart.
“Why?” His voice was too rough, but something primal and possessive was thrashing about inside him and he couldn’t stop it. She was looking for a man who made her feel safe, but why? Who had made her feel less than safe? If someone had hurt her, he’d….
“Because the future scares me.”
He could not help but meet her eyes again, even though he knew it was dangerous. He saw the truth shining there, the fear.
“Why would you fear the future? You’re young and beautiful, you’ve a vast dowry. Surely you could have anyone you wanted?”
She snorted at that, a flicker of scorn showing in her lovely features. “Oh, yes, because an heiress will always attract the best men.”
Henry felt his brows draw together. “Well, yes. Obviously, there will be fortune hunters, but there are decent men too, aren’t there?”
He felt rather than saw her shrug. “Decent men who will control me, own me, take my money and dictate who I see and when, what I may wear, what I may speak of… Oh, yes, there’s plenty of those.”
The despair in her words was unmistakable.
“You’re young yet, Miss Knight, give it time….”
Her laugh was bitter, and he wanted never to hear such a sound from her again, this vivacious young woman who ought always to be full of joy.
“Perhaps another three years, and then I’ll be considered an old maid. You know it’s true as well as I do. I just—” Whatever she’d been going to say, she bit off the words and shook her head. “Never mind.”
“Tell me,” he said, when he ought to have kept his mouth shut. He did not want to know about her troubles, her fears for the future, for there was not a damned thing he could do to help her. It seemed he could no longer control his wretched tongue, though, nor his desire to discover more.
She took a breath. “You’re always so proud of Harriet and never in awe of her cleverness. So many men dislike women who like to think for themselves, but from what I have seen you enjoy a spirited discussion, a woman who challenges you instead of agreeing with your every word. I feel you are the sort of man who would not crush the woman he married but… but be a friend to her as well as a lover. A man who would encourage her freedom but always remain a… a shelter from the storm.”
Henry cursed the sensation that lanced through him at her words: the unacceptable but undeniable desire to be everything she wanted, to be her shelter. Jasper was right, she was no child, but a woman with a mind of her own, one that would test him, that would never allow him to be complacent, one who would remind him what it was to live, to love….
No.
No.
That way led to misery and despair, for she would soon realise her mistake, realise she wanted a younger man, one her own age, not a fellow nigh on two decades her senior. He tried for an amused tone in reply.
“Well, I think a more tangible shelter from the storm is required, Miss Knight, and sooner rather than later.”
As they’d been talking, the sky had turned the colour of pewter and the temperature plummeted. The first fat drops of rain fell heavily, hitting the dry ground with distinctive thuds that came faster and faster. Henry muttered a curse under his breath, knowing they would need to shelter from the storm. Now he was in for it.
Chapter 6
Dear diary,
I am in despair. I am wearing a jovial mask, trying to be brave, to pretend all is well and my life does not hang in tatters. I am so frightened when I consider my future, of living in obscurity to hide my shame. I do not know how long I can keep up this façade, but I am afraid to face those I love most with the truth. Not because they will be angry, or condemn me, but because they will be heartbroken on my account, and I cannot bear to hurt them so.
―Excerpt of an entry to the diary of Miss Grace Weston (daughter of Jemima and Solo Weston, Lady and Baron Rothborn).
Still the 15th of August 1839, en route from Hever Castle to Holbrook House, Sussex.
“Hell!” Henry muttered, as thunder rumbled overhead. They could not shelter beneath a tree in a storm, but they were miles from any village yet. “I think I saw a shepherd’s hut not far from here. We’d best take cover until this passes. Hold on.”
Cursing the fates and the far too tempting young woman in his lap, he urged the horse into a canter as the rain fell with ever increasing vigour. In a matter of minutes they were soaked to the bone and the daylight subsumed in an unhealthy dirty grey glow as the sky glittered and cracked overhead. Henry urged his horse on, grateful that the lightening lit the way for long enough to show the low shape of a rustic wheeled hut up ahead through the torrent of the rain.
“Get inside,” he yelled over the din to Miss Knight as he towed the unhappy horse around to a rickety shelter. It was not in the best of upkeep, but it afforded the poor creature some respite from the wind and rain.
Henry relieved the beast of its saddle and settled it as best he could before hurrying back to the hut. He paused inside the door, a little surprised to discover Miss Knight had set about lighting the fire and got a creditable blaze going.
“What?” she asked, a defensive angle to her chin as she glared at him. “I know fashionable women are supposed to be defenceless and swoon at every opportunity but I’m simply not the helpless kind.”
“So I see,” he said dryly. “That must be why you’re making such heavy weather of finding a husband.”
She covered her heart with her hand and gasped, a theatrical gesture that did not lack for sarcasm. “My word, Mr Stanhope, do you really think that could be it? Why I would never have guessed.”
“Or that sharp tongue of yours puts them off,” he added wickedly, earning himself another glare.
He smothered a grin, unable to deny the delight he took in provoking her. She was too delicious when she was cross with him.
“You are a very rude man,” she observed.
Henry nodded gravely. “I am, which begs the question of why you like me so much?”
Idiot!
Henry wanted to bite his tongue out. For the love of God, they were alone, unchaperoned in a damned shepherd’s hut with a storm raging overhead. It was the basis of a dozen or more overblown romantic Gothic novels and would end with him caught in the parson’s mousetrap if he weren’t very careful. He must pray the storm would blow itself out quickly and they could catch up with the rest of their party. The last thing he needed was to go encouraging the growing intimacy between them, but it was too late. He’d asked, and he could not deny that he wanted to know the answer.
She placed another piece of wood on the fire and then stood, dusting off her hands. She was wet through, her riding habit moulding itself to her lush form. He tried not to notice the hard peaks of her nipples beneath the sodden fabric and
failed, too aware of her proximity, and of the fact they were all alone. He swallowed, reminding himself that this was everything he did not want, and so closing the gap between them would be utter madness.
It didn’t matter. She came to him before he even had the chance to give in to idiocy, and Henry found he could not move away. No matter how the panicked voice in his head screamed the risks at him, reminded him of weddings and tenants for life and squalling babes and an end to freedom, his feet remained planted to the floor. Before he could come to his senses, her hands smoothed over his chest. Desire speared to his loins like an arrow thwacking a bullseye. Dead centre.
“I don’t know,” she whispered, answering a question he could no longer remember while need uncoiled low in his belly, his blood heating and surging in his veins. “I only know I have wanted you to kiss me from the first moment I saw you, but as you won’t oblige….”
She grasped his lapels and tugged and, fool that he was, he bent his head, too weak to resist the lure of her sweet mouth, too lost in wanting her to remind himself he did not want her at all.
He knew the depth of his mistake the moment his lips touched hers. It was like being struck by lightning, but with way more force than the storm raging outside could possibly muster. It stole his breath, set his blood on fire, and had his cock standing to attention and demanding he take action.
Now, damn it.
It was such a brief touch, barely a kiss at all, yet it shook him to his bones, rattled his composure, and reminded him with a cacophony of alarm bells just why she was so bloody dangerous.
She’ll make you act the fool for her, Henry.
For a moment, fear overrode passion and Henry wrenched free, putting distance between them. He stared at her in bewildered shock, as though she were some foreign species of creature that he’d not known existed before.
No. No, no, no. Not happening. Bad, bad idea.
“Henry,” she said, and the sound of his name on her lips, the intimacy of it….
Dare it all for Love (Daring Daughters Book 5) Page 7