by Lisa Kleypas
“They say that with Brutus, Westcliff needs no second horse,” remarked one of the guests.
Lillian, who stood at the mounting block, glanced at the speaker curiously. “What does that mean?”
The auburn-haired man smiled a bit incredulously, as though it were something everyone should know. “On a hunting day,” he explained, “one usually rides his first horse in the morning, and then changes to a fresh replacement horse in the afternoon. But it seems that Brutus has the stamina and endurance of two horses.”
“Like his owner,” one of the others remarked, and they all chuckled.
Glancing around the scene, Lillian saw that Westcliff was involved in a conversation with Simon Hunt, who was quietly relating something that had caused a slight frown to appear on the earl’s face. Standing beside his master, Brutus shifted and nuzzled the earl with rough affection, calming as Westcliff reached out to rub his nose.
Lillian was distracted as a stable boy, one of the ones who had engaged in the rounders game yesterday, brought a sleek gray to the mounting block. The boy winked conspiratorially at Lillian as she ascended to the top step. Winking back, she waited as the stable boy checked the tightness of the girth and the balance strap of the detested sidesaddle. Assessing the horse with an approving gaze, she noted that the gray was compact and refined, with flawless conformation and a look of lively intelligence. He was no more than thirteen hands high…a perfect lady’s horse.
“What is his name?” Lillian asked. At the sound of her voice, one of the horse’s ears pivoted toward her attentively.
“Starlight, miss. You’ll do well with him—he’s the best-mannered horse in the stables, next to Brutus.”
Lillian patted the horse’s silky neck. “You look like a gentleman, Starlight. I wish I could ride you properly instead of bothering with a silly old sidesaddle.”
The gray inclined his head to glance at her with reassuring calmness.
“Milord made a point of telling me that if you were to ride, miss, you should be given Starlight,” the stable boy said, seeming impressed by the fact that Westcliff himself had condescended to choose a mount for her.
“How kind,” Lillian muttered, slipping her foot into the stirrup and hoisting herself lightly onto the three-pommeled saddle. She tried to sit squarely, with most of her weight carried on her right thigh and right seat bone. Her right leg hooked around a pommel with the toe pointing downward, while her left leg hung naturally in the stirrup. It was not uncomfortable at the moment, though Lillian knew that in a while her legs would ache from the unaccustomed position. Still, as she took the reins and leaned over to pat Starlight once more, she felt a thrill of enjoyment. She loved to ride, and this horse was superior to any in her family’s stables.
“Er…miss…” the stable boy said in a low tone, and bashfully indicated her skirts, which were still buttoned. Now that Lillian was mounted, a good portion of her left leg was displayed.
“Thank you,” she said, unfastening the large button at her hip to let the skirts drop over her leg. Satisfied that everything was as it should be, she gently urged the horse away from the mounting block, and Starlight responded immediately, sensitive to the slightest pressure of her boot heel.
Joining a group of riders who were heading toward the forest, Lillian felt a rush of anticipation at the thought of the jumping course. Twelve jumps in all, she had heard, all cleverly arranged on a track that wound through forest and field. It was a challenge that she was certain she could master. Even with the sidesaddle, she had a firm seat, her thigh snug against the curved leaping horn that would assist her balance. And the gray was a marvelously well-trained horse, spirited but obedient as he broke easily from a trot into a smooth gallop.
As Lillian neared the beginning of the course, she saw the first jump, a triangular coop that looked to be about two feet high and six feet across. “That will pose no problem for us, will it, Starlight?” she murmured to the horse. Slowing to a walk, they went toward the group of waiting riders. Before she reached them, however, she became aware of a rider coming up beside her. It was Westcliff, seated on the dark bay, riding with an ease and economy of movement that caused the downy hairs on her arms and the back of her neck to prickle, as it did whenever she saw a feat performed with stunning perfection. She had to admit, the earl cut a dashing figure on a horse.
Unlike the other gentlemen present, Westcliff wore no riding gloves. Remembering the gentle scrape of his callused fingers on her skin, Lillian swallowed hard and avoided the sight of his hands on the reins. One cautious glance at his face revealed that he was definitely displeased about something …the space between his dark brows was notched, and his jaw had hardened into an obdurate line.
Lillian summoned a carefree smile. “Good morning, my lord.”
“Good morning,” came his quiet reply. He seemed to consider his words carefully before he continued. “Are you pleased with your mount?”
“Yes, he is splendid. It seems that I have you to thank for choosing him.”
Westcliff’s mouth twisted slightly, as if the issue was of no consequence. “Miss Bowman… it has come to my attention that you are not experienced at riding sidesaddle.”
Her smile vanished from lips that suddenly felt frozen. Recalling that Simon Hunt had been speaking to West-cliff just a minute earlier, Lillian realized with a stab of annoyance that Annabelle must have set this in motion. Damn her for interfering, she thought, and scowled. “I’ll manage,” she said tersely. “Think nothing of it.”
“I’m afraid that I can’t allow one of my guests to compromise her own safety.”
Lillian watched her own gloved fingers tighten on the reins. “Westcliff, I can ride as well as anyone else here. And regardless of what you may have been told, I am not entirely unfamiliar with a sidesaddle. So if you will just leave me alone—”
“If I had been informed of this earlier, I might have found the time to take you around the course and judge your level of competence. As things stand, however, it’s too late.”
She absorbed his words, the firmness of his tone, the air of authority that rankled deeply. “You’re telling me that I can’t ride today?”
Westcliff held her gaze steadily. “Not on the jumping course. You are welcome to ride anywhere else on the estate. If you wish, I will assess your skills later in the week, and you might have another opportunity. Today, however, I can’t allow it.”
Unaccustomed to anyone telling her what she could and could not do, Lillian bit back a flood of offended accusations. Instead she managed to reply with tightly leashed calmness. “Your regard for my welfare is appreciated, my lord. But I would like to suggest a compromise. Watch me on the first two or three jumps, and if I don’t seem to be managing them well, I’ll abide by your decision.”
“I don’t compromise on issues of safety,” Westcliff said. “You’ll abide by my decision now, Miss Bowman.”
He was being unfair. He was forbidding her to do something merely to display his power over her. Struggling to control her fury, Lillian felt the muscles around her mouth twitching. To her everlasting chagrin, she lost the battle with her temper.
“I can manage the jumps,” she told him grimly. “I’ll prove it to you.”
Chapter 8
B efore Westcliff could react, Lillian dug her heel into Starlight’s side and leaned over the saddle, her weight shifting to accommodate his sudden leap forward. The horse rallied at once, taking off at a full gallop. Clenching her thighs around the sidesaddle’s pommels, Lillian felt her position weaken, her body pivoting as a result of what she was later to learn had been a “grip seat” that was a bit too tight. Gamely she adjusted the change in her hips’ orientation just as Starlight approached the jump. She felt the rise of his forelegs and the tremendous force of his hindquarters pushing from the ground, giving her the momentary exhilaration of flying over the triangular barrier. As they landed, however, she had to fight for her seat, taking most of the impact on her right thigh and
causing an unpleasant stinging pull. Still, she had done it, and very credibly.
Bringing the horse around with a triumphant smile, Lillian was aware of the surprised gazes of the assembled riders, who were no doubt wondering what had prompted the impulsive jump. All of a sudden she was startled by a blur of dark color beside her and a thunder of hooves. Confused, she had no opportunity to protest or defend herself as she was literally snatched from the saddle and thrown across a brutally hard surface. Dangling helplessly across Westcliff’s rock-solid thighs, she was carried several yards away before he stopped the horse, dismounted, and dragged her to the ground with him. Her shoulders were caught in a bruising grip, and Westcliff’s livid face was just inches from her own.
“Did you think to convince me of something with that asinine display?” he growled, giving her a brief shake. “The use of my horses is a privilege that I extend to my guests—a privilege you have just lost. From now on, don’t even think of setting so much as a foot in the stables, or I will personally boot you off the estate.”
White-faced with a rage that matched his, Lillian answered in a low, shaking voice. “Take your hands off me, you son of a bitch.” To her satisfaction, she saw his eyes narrow at the profanity. But his painful grasp did not ease, and his breathing deepened to aggressive surges, as if he longed to do her violence. As her defiant gaze was imprisoned by his, she felt a searing charge of energy pass between them, an undirected physical impulse that made her want to strike him, hurt him, sink to the ground and roll with him in an outright brawl. No man had ever maddened her so. As they stood there glaring at each other, bristling with hostility, the heat between them increased until they were both flushed and quickened. Neither of them was aware of the congregation of dumbfounded onlookers in the near distance— they were too enmeshed in mutual antagonism.
A silky masculine voice interrupted their silent, lethal communion, slicing skillfully through the tension. “Westcliff …you didn’t tell me that you would be providing entertainment, or I would have come out here earlier.”
“Don’t interfere, St. Vincent,” Westcliff snapped.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. I merely wanted to compliment you on the way you’re handling the situation. Very diplomatic. Suave, even.”
The gentle sarcasm caused the earl to release Lillian roughly. She staggered back a step, and was immediately caught at the waist by a pair of deft hands. Bemused, she looked up into the remarkable face of Sebastian, Lord St. Vincent, the infamous rake and seducer.
The intensifying sunlight burned off the mist and laced St. Vincent’s dark gold hair with streaks of glittering pale amber. Lillian had seen him from a distance on many occasions, but they had never been introduced, and St. Vincent had always avoided the line of wallflowers at any ball he happened to be attending. At a distance, he was a striking figure. At close range, the exotic beauty of his features was nearly immobilizing. St. Vincent had the most extraordinary eyes she had ever seen, light blue and catlike, shaded with dark lashes and surmounted by tawny brows. His features were strong but refined, his skin gleaming like bronze that had been patiently polished for hours. Contrary to Lillian’s expectations, St. Vincent looked wicked but not at all dissipated, his smile skillfully reaching through her anger and enjoining a tentative response. Such a plenitude of charm should have been illegal.
Switching his gaze to Westcliff’s set face, St. Vincent arched one brow and asked lightly, “Shall I escort the culprit back to the manor, my lord?”
The earl nodded. “Get her out of my sight,” he muttered, “before I’m moved to say something I’ll regret.”
“Go ahead and say it,” Lillian snapped.
Westcliff took a step toward her, his expression thunderous.
Hastily St. Vincent tucked Lillian behind him. “West-cliff, your guests are waiting. And although I’m certain they’re enjoying this fascinating drama, the horses are getting restless.”
The earl seemed to undergo a brief but savage battle with his self-discipline before he managed to school his features into impassivity. He jerked his head in the direction of the manor in a silent command for St. Vincent to remove Lillian from the scene.
“May I take her back on my horse?” St. Vincent inquired politely.
“No,” came Westcliff’s stony reply. “She can damned well walk to the house.”
St. Vincent motioned at once for a groom to take charge of the two abandoned horses. Giving his arm to a fuming Lillian, he gazed down at her with a twinkle in his pale eyes. “It’s the dungeons for you,” he informed her. “And I intend to personally apply the thumbscrews.”
“I would prefer torture to his company any day,” Lillian said, gathering up the long side of her skirt and buttoning it to walking length.
As they walked away, Lillian’s back stiffened at the sound of Westcliff’s voice. “You might stop by the icehouse on the way back. She needs cooling.”
Fighting to marshal his emotions into some semblance of order, Marcus stared after Lillian Bowman with a gaze that should have singed the back of her riding jacket. He usually found it easy to step back from any situation and assess it objectively. In the past few minutes, however, every vestige of self-control had exploded.
As Lillian had ridden defiantly toward the jump, Marcus had seen her momentary loss of alignment, potentially fatal on a sidesaddle, and the instant expectation that she would fall had sent him reeling. At that speed, her spine or her neck could have snapped. And he had been powerless to do anything but watch. He had been abruptly cold with dread, nauseated from it, and when the little idiot had managed to land safely, the full sum of his fear had been transformed into blazing white fury. He had made no conscious decision to approach her, but suddenly they were both on the ground, and her narrow shoulders were in his hands, and all he wanted to do was crush her in his arms in a paroxysm of relief, and kiss her, and then dismember her with his bare hands.
The fact that her safety meant so much to him was… not something that he wanted to think about.
Scowling, Marcus went to the groom who held Brutus’s reins, and took them from him. Lost in brooding contemplation, he was only dimly aware that Simon Hunt had quietly advised the guests to proceed with the jumping course without waiting for the earl to lead them.
Simon Hunt approached him on horseback, his face expressionless. “Are you going to ride?” he asked calmly.
For answer, Marcus swung up into the saddle, clicking softly as Brutus shifted beneath him. “That woman is intolerable,” he grumbled, his gaze daring Hunt to offer an opinion to the contrary.
“Did you mean to goad her into taking the jump?” Hunt asked.
“I commanded her to do the exact opposite. You must have heard me.”
“Yes, I and everyone else heard you,” Hunt said dryly. “My question pertains to your tactics, Westcliff. It’s obvious that a woman like Miss Bowman requires a softer approach than outright command. Moreover, I’ve seen you at the negotiating table, and your powers of persuasion are unmatched by anyone except perhaps Shaw. Had you chosen, you could have coaxed and flattered her to do your bidding in less than a minute. Instead you used all the subtlety of a bludgeon in the attempt to prove yourself her master.”
“I’ve never noticed your gift for hyperbole before,” Marcus muttered.
“And now,” Hunt continued evenly, “you’ve thrown her over to St. Vincent’s sympathetic care. God knows he’ll probably rob her of her virtue before they even reach the manor.”
Marcus glanced at him sharply, his smoldering ire undercut by sudden worry. “He wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“She’s not his preferred style.”
Hunt laughed gently. “Does St. Vincent have a preferred style? I’ve never noticed any similarities between the objects of his pursuit, other than the fact that they are all women. Dark, fair, plump, slender …he’s remarkably unprejudiced in his affairs.”
“Damn it all to hell,” Marcus said beneath his br
eath, experiencing, for the first time in his life, the gnawing sting of jealousy.
Lillian concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, when all she wanted was to head back to Westcliff and fling herself upon him in a mindless attack. “That arrogant, pompous clodpole—”
“Easy,” she heard St. Vincent murmur. “Westcliff is in a thorough temper—and I wouldn’t care to engage him in your defense. I can best him any day with a sword, but not with fists.”
“Why not?” Lillian muttered. “You’ve got a longer reach than Westcliff.”
“He’s got the most vicious right hook I’ve ever encountered. And I have an unfortunate habit of trying to shield my face—which frequently leaves me open for gut punches.”
The unashamed conceit behind the statement drew a reluctant laugh from Lillian. As the heat of anger faded, she reflected that with a face like his, one could hardly blame him for desiring to protect it. “Have you fought with the earl often?” she asked.
“Not since we were boys at school. Westcliff did everything a bit too perfectly—I had to challenge him now and then just to make certain that his vanity didn’t become overinflated. Here …shall we take a more scenic route through the garden?”
Lillian hesitated, recalling the numerous stories that she had heard about him. “I’m not certain that would be wise.”
St. Vincent smiled. “What if I promise on my honor not to make any advances to you?”
Considering that, Lillian nodded. “In that case, all right.”
St. Vincent guided her through a small leafy grove, and onto a graveled path shaded by a row of ancient yews. “I should probably tell you,” he remarked casually, “that since my sense of honor is completely deteriorated, any promise I make is worthless.”
“Then I should tell you that my right hook is likely ten times more vicious than Westcliff’s.”
St. Vincent grinned. “Tell me, darling, what happened to cause bad blood between you and the earl?”