Dangerous Joy

by Jo Beverley

  The tray arrived, and Beth poured.

  "Like Rupert Dunsmore," said Felicity as she took her cup. "Miles and I just staged a most convincing quarrel."

  "Excellent."

  "Is it? It was based on truth. How could I marry a man who thinks me a spoiled brat?"

  "Miles might be speaking from experience. He's somewhat spoiled himself."

  "Miles? Lady Aideen doesn't appear the type to cosset a boy, and he says he went to a strict school."

  "Ah, yes," said Beth with a smile. "But as a Rogue. They formed a protective association, you see. They claim they only protected each other from injustice, but learning to handle injustice is part of the training for life, don't you think? And though his mother doubtless trained him well in manners and such, she cossets him because of his future."

  "What do you mean?" asked Felicity, wickedly delighting in talk of the man she loved.

  Beth put down her empty cup. "In current status, Miles and Lucien are at opposite ends of the Rogues but, in reality, they are almost equal. Lucien will one day be Duke of Belcraven, one of the highest men in the land. Someday—and probably soon—Miles will be Earl of Kilgoran. In Ireland, I gather, that ranks nearly as high."

  "True enough. The earldom has been rich and powerful for generations, but the present earl has built a reputation as the wise man of Irish politics. Not an easy role to assume."

  Beth nodded. "I know Miles dreads it. In addition to any political complications, there is a vast estate and a palatial home full of dependents."

  "Including Kieran, I hope."

  "I'm sure that's true. As for Miles, probably the wisest course would have been to ruthlessly prepare him for that role, as Lucien has been prepared. Don't let Lucien's light manner deceive you. He could pick up the reins of the duchy tomorrow. I gather Miles's uncle wished a similar upbringing, even to the extent of raising him at Kilgoran Castle. His parents refused. The only concession they made was to send him to an English school so he would learn to deal with us. And there he was enrolled into the Rogues."

  "According to him, it saved his life."

  "Irish exaggeration. It doubtless saved him some beatings, though. But you see how it was. His parents saved him from the pressures of his future rank, and the Rogues saved him from the perils of English enmity. Since he's by nature a lighthearted, easygoing fellow, he's hardly come to grips with trouble at all. He doesn't even have to run his own estate. Since his father's death, his mother has done it for him, leaving Miles free to hunt six months of the year and play most of the rest."

  "You disapprove? Faith, I think you're a puritan at heart."

  "I think adults should have an adult view of life. In your case, Miles is having to handle an adult situation. It will do him good."

  "So I'm a brisk purgative draught, am I?"

  Beth smiled at the resentment. "Let us say, a stimulant. The point of the discussion, however, is that you and Miles have rather more in common than you think. You are as suited to be Countess of Kilgoran as he is to be earl."

  "Heaven help Ireland."

  "Ireland will be very fortunate. Now," Beth said, rising, "can I persuade you to help me arrange some floral decorations?"

  "Only with a pistol." Felicity grabbed her copy of The Rights of Woman. "I'd rather struggle with this." Then she paused. "I suppose that's the wrong answer."

  "Not at all. The Countess of Kilgoran can doubtless command others to arrange flowers for her. She will, however, have to think for herself."

  Chapter 19

  Felicity did little reading of Wollstonecraft, but a great deal of thinking for herself.

  Reluctantly, she acknowledged there had been truth in Miles's words. She had come to let resentment rule her.

  Though she had been fond of her grandfather, she had always held him partly to blame for her problems.

  She'd blamed Aunt Annie for being so inadequate a substitute mother.

  She'd even blamed her parents for dying.

  And she hated Rupert Dunsmore. Now that, she felt, was reasonable, but her rage at the world was not.

  Miles had meant more than that, though. He'd been warning her of the danger of believing she had the right to be cruel, because a person could not always control who would get hurt.

  He was right. She shivered when she remembered that for a moment she'd contemplated burning down Vauxhall.

  But Miles's words had not just been stirred by disapproval of her behavior. They'd also been the product of that dangerous game they'd played in the stables, of the frustrated need it had roused in both of them.

  As Felicity had once said, she and Miles were in danger of tearing each other apart, and hurting innocents in the process.

  Let Rupert Dunsmore come quickly so this would be over.

  * * *

  Some time later, the library door opened. Miles came in, but warily. "We're heading out for equestrian amusements. Do you want to come?"

  Worry and resentment evaporated. "Do I want? Could I?"

  "Why not? You'll be the only woman, for Beth and Blanche aren't keen, but there's a world of difference between a private party and a hunt."

  She leaped to her feet. "I'll be into my habit and down in a moment!" She paused at the door. "I don't suppose there's any possibility of breeches...."

  "Not a trace," he said with a grin.

  Felicity hurried through a hall already half-full of hearty horsemen, ran up the stairs, and tugged the bell-rope in her room. Within minutes, she was out of her dress and wriggling into her habit.

  When she emerged from the front door, the scene in front of Vauxhall resembled a hunt meet, save for the absence of dogs. Thirty or so horses shifted restlessly on the drive and lawns, either held by grooms or already mounted. Other servants weaved around with stirrup cups.

  Tingling at the thought of riding, she looped up her skirt and hurried down to where Miles was checking a gray gelding.

  "Is he for me? I am quite able to check my own horse." This was for the benefit of a young towheaded groom holding the bridle, but she couldn't for the life of her find a scowl to go with it.

  Miles let the stirrup drop. "It's my duty as a guardian to keep you safe. I would be shamed before the world if you were to fall and break your neck while under my care."

  "Or break my ankle?" she teased, knowing that was slang for getting with child.

  "That either," he said, with a warning shake of his head.

  "I must point out that I haven't come off a trained horse in over five years."

  "Banshee's arrived. Tomorrow I'll put you up on him, if you like. That'll be a fair test."

  "Banshee?" Then she remembered the ungainly gray horse who'd ripped Miles's arm out of its socket. "Ah, yes. We have a wager."

  "I'm looking forward to that cake."

  Felicity looked around at the assembly of top-notch horseflesh and laughed. "You'll never get one of these men to buy that piece of dog's meat for fifty guineas. Never."

  "You say 'never' about too many things, thorn-in-my-flesh. Shall I toss you up now?"

  She let him boost her up, then arranged her skirt as the groom passed back the reins. She took them absently, still settling herself and getting the feel of the mount.

  Until she felt the piece of paper that accompanied them.

  She glanced once at the fair-haired groom, then tried to pretend nothing had happened. What had Miles just said? Something about fences...

  "Of course I'm going to take some fences," she snapped in genuine irritation. "Stop fussing over me."

  "A sidesaddle isn't the best for taking jumps, and you know it."

  Felicity was in a fever to read the note. "It's all a matter of balance, remember? My balance is excellent. Go away."

  He glanced around, and Felicity realized the groom had gone and no one else was nearby to hear her performance.

  He mustn't suspect anything. "I mean it, Miles. I will not be told how to ride a horse. This creature seems to be sound and well trained. You ha
ve made sure all parts of the tack are secure. Now go away and let me be."

  Amazingly, he obeyed, going off to mount a fine white-socked chestnut.

  The note felt as if it were burning a hole in Felicity's glove, and yet she dared not even peep at it just yet. It had to be from Rupert, though, and she couldn't ignore it for long. What if it appointed a meeting during the ride?

  She slid it into her glove where it crackled against her palm, poking her with its sharp folds. But it would be folly to read it yet, for she could see Miles was still watching her as if she were a novice rider, damn him.

  She tested out her horse, giving the mount the slightest command to move. Immediately, it stepped forward smoothly.

  "Ah, you beauty." Just a shift in her weight changed its direction, the merest touch of her crop to the right flank turned it the other. It was a perfectly behaved animal and well trained to the sidesaddle.

  Of course, she should have expected nothing less. She knew Miles would only choose the best for her.

  In horses, at least.

  She knew in her heart that he wanted to choose the best for her in everything, but he did not always see the world as she did.

  She couldn't resist walking her horse close to his. Miles took in every technical detail with one sweeping glance. "How is he?"

  "Beautiful. One of yours?"

  "Would I trust you on anything less? He's called Adonis and thinks himself a very fine fellow."

  "With reason. He's beautifully trained, and to the sidesaddle as well."

  "I generally accustom my horses to it. You never know when some fool man will mount a lady without a moment's consideration..." He closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. "Will we ever talk of riding again without salacious thoughts?"

  Despite everything, she chuckled. "We'll find a way. After all, riding is one of our chief pleasures in life."

  With a devastating smile, he said, "And that's the blessed truth."

  Soon the company rode out, heading toward a distant field, gradually increasing pace until they might as well have been at a hunt, chasing the fox. Felicity held back, hoping to lose Miles. She knew better in her heart, and sure enough, he was soon at her side.

  "Is something the matter?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "You're not leading the pack."

  "And me on a sidesaddle and all."

  "I'd back you to beat most of this crowd, even under a handicap."

  Since he clearly wouldn't be shaken, she speeded up.

  They were just one field from the rest of the men, who appeared to be gathered around an enormous gibbet.

  "What's that?" Felicity asked.

  "Believe it or not, it's a quintain. The thing the medieval knights used to train in lance work. Lucien had it constructed a few years ago, and it's become a popular amusement."

  Now she could see that the quintain consisted of the figure of a man with arms outstretched, one holding a bag. "How does it work?"

  "If the rider hits the center with his lance, the figure gives backward and he can ride past. Anywhere off center and it pivots. Then the bag swings round and hits him."

  "It sounds like fun. I want to try."

  He looked at her sharply, but then laughed. "Hellion. If you want. Watch awhile first, though. There's a knack to it."

  A stack of long poles—the lances—waited to one side, attended by a number of servants. Lucien took one and went first, explaining the procedure for those who hadn't tried before. He hit a little off, but managed to duck beneath the swinging bag.

  Miles went next and hit square in the bull's-eye over the figure's heart.

  Felicity joined in the cheer.

  The next few men all did well, obviously having practiced this in other years. Then someone charged too fast, missed his aim, and was solidly thwacked by a swinging bag. Instead of knocking him out of the saddle, however, it burst, billowing flour and chaff all over him.

  Felicity joined in the good-natured laughter, but as a new bag was hooked up, she realized this was probably as good a moment as any to read her note. Almost, she was reluctant, but she muttered "Kieran" like an incantation and slid it out.

  She worked it open against her horse's neck, trying to keep it out of sight as much as possible. Miles, for a miracle, had his attention elsewhere, inspecting the last rider's limping horse.

  She smoothed the sheet of paper and could read Rupert's odiously familiar elegant script. Another reason she had appalling handwriting, did Miles but know it, was that she never wanted to have handwriting like this. And he was right, that was childish.

  My dearest Felicity,

  I deeply regret having been so long in rescuing you. I shudder to think what you must have suffered, so deprived of one you love and who loves you just as well.

  Kieran, he meant Kieran. She forced down the sudden panic. All he had said was simple truth.

  I hear you are kept closely guarded and have already suffered brutal treatment while trying to escape. I'm sure you are anxious not to suffer more of the same.

  Another veiled threat. Oh, he was so good at those. But this was a clever letter. If the groom had read it, it would seem to be a communication between separated lovers.

  I understand Lord Arden is to take his guests riding. This may provide a chance for us—for I know you will never forgo a brisk ride. If you can slip away unobserved, head east, away from the house. You will come to the Grantham road where I will wait with a chaise. If this fails, you must leave in the night. I will wait close to the drive of Vauxhall.

  I know how eager you must be to reunite with one you love so well and who loves you. And you know how much that one will suffer if we cannot be together,

  Your devoted husband-to-be.

  With a shudder, Felicity refolded the note and slipped it into her pocket. The word suffer was calculated to terrify her. It was succeeding.

  Did he have Kieran with him? She knew the sort of things Rupert would do to the child if thwarted. If Rupert had Kieran... Oh, why had Lady Aideen not sent word faster? Was Rupert watching her now? If he were, he would know she could never slip away from here unnoticed. With relief, she realized she had at least a few hours' reprieve. She could not escape until night.

  But, she realized, there was nothing to bar escape. Her room was not locked, and her promise to Miles had been to stay for two weeks or until she heard from Dunsmore. Miles had assumed that when she received a message she would share the news, but that had not been part of her promise.

  But if she escaped before the Rogues' plan had any chance, she would be giving up before she had to. Blanche would be disgusted.

  And Miles. She couldn't imagine what it would do to Miles. By her action, she would have rejected him, rejected his help and protection. She would have declared that she could not trust him to help her win.

  She would have kept her word but shattered the spirit of their pact.

  She looked over to where Miles was inspecting the injured horse's leg, his hands gentle and skillful with the nervous animal. She could tell, even at a distance, how at ease he was with beast and men, how well liked and respected.

  He doubtless deserved better in life than an ill-bred hoyden dead set on a mission that could lead to tragedy.

  She remembered Beth's describing him as spoiled. He didn't seem spoiled to her. He was the very opposite—unspoiled by hardship, still able to find joy in simple things and turn an open, friendly face to the world.

  Beth had seemed to think Felicity was a needed medicine to force him out of this blissful state. In fact, she'd give almost anything to join him in joie-de-vivre, joy in the pleasures of living.

  She'd give anything but her son.

  The injured horse was led off by a groom, and its rider took a spare horse. The attack on the quintain recommenced and Felicity made a decision.

  Rupert could damn well wait a day or two. She'd trust Miles's faith in his mother and believe Rupert didn't have Kieran with him. If that were the case,
he was toothless.

  She'd go further. If a letter came from Lady Aideen putting her fears at rest, she'd share this note with the Rogues.

  Lucien rode over, fluid and easy on his magnificent black. "Miles says you want to try."

  "To be sure. I'm in an excellent mood for hitting something."

  "You are a hellion, aren't you?" But it was said amiably enough, and she sensed a bewildering trace of admiration and even affection.

  She was not sure she could handle any more affection.

  She followed him to the pile of poles, and Miles came over as she was finding the balance of the "lance."

  "Changing your mind?"

  "Devil a bit, but this game was not designed for sidesaddle. It's hard to hold the pole so it isn't banging the poor nag's head. But if I lean too far, I lose my balance."

  "Perhaps you'd better leave it. We can come back one day with you in breeches—"

  "Give up? Never!"

  With a grin, Felicity shifted her grip so she held the heavy pole over her head like a spear. Then, with an Irish battle cry, she urged her horse toward the quintain, concentrating on balance and that bull's-eye on the dummy's chest.

  In fact, she saw it as a target on Rupert Dunsmore's chest.

  Her arm tired, but she would not let it waver. With another pagan shriek, she thumped the pole into Rupert's heart and rode by in triumph, shaking her pole in victory as all the men cheered.

  Miles rode over, laughing. "Ah, my fine warrior-queen, I should never doubt you."

  She grinned as she tossed the pole to a waiting servant. "Remember that next time I fight you, my heartless oppressor."

  "As long as we're fighting naked in bed, I don't suppose I'll remember a damned thing."

  He swung away to ride again at the quintain using Felicity's technique, leaving her with an aching body and a wild-beating heart.

  It was almost as if he rode naked, so aware was she of his fine body, one with the horse, perfectly balanced. How could she ever leave this man?

  How could she not if it became necessary?

  She shifted in her saddle, realizing she was itching with desire. She'd never experienced such a thing before—to be in the open air, among people, and to be almost in heat.