by Anne O'Brien
It was a perfect morning. He breathed deeply, encouraging the mare into a brisk walk through the light traffic. Through the ornamental gates and there, with an easing of the reins, he allowed the horse to break into a sedate canter along the grassy edge to the walk. And smiled his satisfaction. She was just as fluid and easy in her action as he had hoped.
In Upper Brook Street, Theodora woke from a restless sleep, certain that she would positively burst if she did not escape from the house and take some exercise, unwatched by either her mama or the ever-vigilant Agnes Drew. London was noisy, exciting, fascinating, all that she had hoped. But the restrictions irked. She was never alone. If she set foot outside the front door, Agnes had been instructed to be in attendance, even if all she did was step out to Hookham’s Circulating Library, no further than Bond Street. She found it difficult to accept this necessity. She was hardly likely to be accosted by armed tribesmen or bands of fearsome robbers as might have been expected anywhere on their perambulations through Arabia. She closed her mind against that thought with a little shake of her head. She would not think about it … not now.
Therefore, driven by a need for open space and not a little adventure, Thea rose early before even the servants were afoot. No one would know if she rode in Hyde Park. She would be home long before one of the maids brought her morning cup of hot chocolate, long before anyone else—Agnes!—had the opportunity to miss her. And there would be no one in the park at this hour who would even take note of her, much less recognise her in the future. Perfect!
Thea stood before the doors of her closet. Then her face lit with mischief on a sudden thought. Of course. Why not? No one would ever know. She closed the door on her riding habit and, in a moment of delicious rebellion, turned from the closet and unearthed her travelling clothes from the chest in her dressing room. Without another moment to consider the impropriety of what she was about to do, she donned a long-sleeved shirt, a striped loose-weave waistcoat, loose breeches and boots, covering all with the light cloak she had worn in the desert, finally wrapping the long scarf round her hair. There. Her disguise was complete. She postured before the mirror. She would defy anyone to recognise her in future, at some social event, even if they did catch a glimpse of her that morning. Had she not been so very good and accommodating of her parents’ plans for so long? Days at least! She deserved a treat, a moment of freedom.
Even the stables were deserted. She saddled her own mount, The Zephyr, one of the grey Arabs that they had shipped to London who was also in need of a good run, tossing her head and snatching at the bit with anticipation. It took no time at all to negotiate the empty streets, and if the shrouded figure earned some surprised glances and muttered comments, Thea was either unaware or simply did not care. The magnificent gateway opposite Apsley House beckoned. Once through Thea took a deep breath. She had been right to come. This was just what she needed. She eased into a canter, and then, the breeze tugging at her robes, she pushed the horse on into a gallop. The Arab responded with alacrity, leaping forward against the bit, its neat hooves skimming the ground as it fought for its head. Thea leaned into the movement with a little crow of pleasure, revelling in the speed and excitement. Exhilaration sang in her blood, rich as red wine, just as intoxicating. She gave herself over to the splendour of the moment, oblivious to everything around her but the pound of the hooves, the whip of the soft air on her face, the satin-smooth ripple of the horse’s muscles beneath her.
Nicholas’s mind was filled with nothing very much, apart from the excellent confirmation of his young mare as she answered the demands of heel and thigh. Nothing to disturb the placid tenor of the morning until he heard the sharp beat of hooves on grass, at speed coming from his left. He turned his head, his attention immediately caught. At considerable speed, he realised. He reined in the mare to look, squinting against the early rays of the sun, and saw a figure approaching at an angle, surely at full gallop, the rider crouched low in the saddle as the animal extended until it flew across the ground. Surely it was out of control. No one galloped in Hyde Park as though it was the hunting field. Or more like the Turf at Newmarket, given the speed of the animal. No one would choose to ride hell for leather here.
For the briefest moment Nicholas allowed himself to admire the fluid lines of the grey, the excellent conformation, the sheer beauty of the sight, but for a moment only. On a rapid decision, he kicked his mare on to intercept as the prospect of danger touched his spine with a shiver of unease. If the rider fell at that speed, there could be serious consequences. The animal could stumble, shy—and it seemed that the rider had no chance of drawing it to a standstill. Nor would intercepting be an easy matter on an untried young horse. But he must try.
Since the galloping animal kept up its headlong flight, Nicholas was forced to extend to head it off. His mare responded readily. The grey became aware of his approach, her ears twitching, even if her rider did not appear to react. She veered as he drew abreast but did not check her stride. If anything, she increased her momentum.
For what seemed like minutes—but was more likely seconds only—the two horses galloped side by side, the enforced rivalry adding an edge to the grey’s speed, until Nicholas moved close enough that he could lean across the gap between them and grasp the bridle just above the bit, trusting his own animal to remain on course. She did, allowing him to tighten his muscles in arm, shoulder and thigh, grimacing at the strain as he drew both horses to a more seemly speed and finally to a trembling halt, their sides heaving with effort, nostrils wide, eyes rolling. At the same time he grasped the wrist of the rider in a firm hold, in case the grey jinked in sudden panic.
‘You are quite safe. You are in no danger now.’
Nicholas’s breathing was a little unsteady as he continued to control the reins of both horses. He looked down at the rider—a young boy, he thought, at closer inspection—to see if his reassurances were necessary, only to be struck by a pair of furious blue eyes turned on him, blazing with … what? Anger? Shock? But also more than a hint of fear.
‘You are quite safe,’ he repeated. Of course, the rider would be unnerved after such an uncontrolled bolt across the Park.
Before he could say or do more, the boy raised a riding crop and brought it down in a deliberate and painful blow across Nicholas’s hand where he still had hold of the rider’s wrist. Nicholas flinched, hissed, took a sharp intake of breath, perhaps more in amazement than pain, as a red welt appeared across the width of his fingers.
‘What the devil …!’
‘How dare you! Take your hands off me!’ The rider pushed back the scarf—and Nicholas looked down into the face of a woman.
‘How dare you interfere!’ Her blue eyes were dark, almost black with emotion.
‘I thought, madam, that your horse was out of control.’ It was difficult to know what other to say. The last thing Nicholas had expected was to be under attack for his gallant, and supremely successful, attempt to rescue a damsel in distress. The absurdity of the situation might have amused him. It might if the blow on his hand was not so searingly painful!
‘No, I was not out of control.’ There was now the hint of a tremble in the angry voice. ‘You had no right.’ He watched as a range of emotions flitted across her face. Uppermost it seemed to him was a determination to regain control of a fear that threatened to overwhelm her.
He discovered that he was still grasping her wrist.
‘I said, let go!’
Their eyes met and held for a long moment which seemed to stretch on and on. They remained frozen in the little tableau as the air positively sizzled between them, around them, as when lightning strikes in a summer storm—rapid, without warning, and possibly devastating. Nicholas was the first to break the contact.
‘Forgive me.’ He released her, cold now, all humour banished under the lash of her words and the shock of his reaction to her. ‘I thought you were in distress.’
‘No, I was not.’
‘My mistake.’ Reserve inf
iltrated his voice, but he still watched her carefully. There was some problem here of which he was unaware. ‘Next time I will allow you to fall and break your neck.’
‘Do so. There will not be a next time. I do not need your help. How dare you put your hands on a lady in this manner!’
Any latent sympathy Nicholas might have felt promptly vanished. ‘You must excuse my concern, madam.’ He looked her over from head to foot, taking in the whole of her appearance. ‘I did not realise. I would not expect to see a lady galloping in Hyde Park. Please accept my apologies.’ The emphasis in his words was unmistakable and made Thea flush, angrier than ever.
‘Let go of my reins.’
He did with alacrity and reined his own animal away from her. In that one moment he thought, although perhaps he was mistaken, that there was a hint of tears in those eyes, which still snapped with temper.
The lady, if such she was, gathered up her own reins, kicked the still lively grey into action and set off in a canter towards the distant gate without a backward look.
Leaving Nicholas to sit and stare after her.
Thea arrived home, delivered The Zephyr into the hands of a sleepy groom who gazed at her in wordless astonishment, fled to her room and locked the door. There she stripped off her incriminating garments, folded them back into the chest and tied a ruffled, feminine muslin wrapper around her. Then, as the furious energy drained away, she sank on to the bed and covered her face with her hands.
What had she done? Not the gallop in the park. She could never regret that. How the grey had flown, fast as a desert hawk towards its prey. But she had struck him. The man who had come to her rescue. However unnecessary it might have been, he had thought she had been in danger and had ridden to her rescue. And what had she done? She had marked him with her riding whip. And then she had been so rude. Unforgivably so. She could not remember her exact words, uttered in the heat and confusion of the moment, but knew that they had been ungracious. Vicious, even. What would he think of her? How could she have allowed herself to do that?
But she knew why. And whatever the extenuating circumstances, she blamed herself totally.
She relived the events in her mind as she curled on to the bed in that sunny room. She had been unaware of his approach, so lost in the unity of horse and rider, in the glorious speed. But then, in that moment when his horse had stretched beside hers, when he had leaned and grasped her reins, his strong hands forcing her to come to a halt, the past had rushed back with all its pain and fear. She had thought it was forgotten, or mostly so, pushed away, buried deep within her subconscious, only to emerge with infrequent intensity when nightmares troubled her sleep.
She had been very young, hardly more than a child. On one of their journeys they had been beset by robbers in spite of the size and strength of their entourage. Forced to halt, to dismount, to stand and watch as her mother’s jewellery was stripped from her, as her father was threatened at the point of a knife. The fear had been intense. They had been allowed to go free at the end, but the terror of that moment when they were held captive and in fear for their lives had not quite gone away.
Thea shook her head, scrubbed her hands over her face as if to dislodge the thoughts. She should not be so fearful now—but she had been only a little girl, after all. And her arm had been broken when she had been pulled from her horse. She rubbed her forearm as if the pain, inflicted so long ago, still lingered, as the image still lingered in her mind.
So when he had forced her to halt, had grasped her wrist in such a strong hold, the memory of the robbers, of being constrained and hurt and frightened, had rushed back and she had struck out blindly. At an innocent victim.
And he had reacted with disgust at her bad manners, her lack of gratitude. Her face flushed again with humiliation as she remembered the look of astonishment on his face. And what a face. Strikingly handsome. Heart-stoppingly so. But how he had looked down that high-bred nose at her, with such chilling hauteur. Eyes as glacial as chips of ice. Lips thinned in distaste—and probably pain, she was forced to admit. And she remembered his voice. Warm, reassuring at first when he had thought to comfort her, then cold and flat when she had actually accused him of trying to harm her.
She groaned aloud and twisted to bury her face into the coverlet. If she tried to put the blame squarely on her unknown rescuer for daring to interfere, her innate fairness quickly stopped her. Her behaviour towards him had been despicable. He had suffered for his quixotic actions because she had used enough force to mark his skin and inflict pain.
And then there was that strangest of moments. A little shiver ran over her skin as she felt again the force of it. She had no experience of such things. But as her eyes had met his, she could not look away, her breath had foundered in her lungs. She could still feel the hard imprint of his fingers around her wrist. What was it that had united them in that one moment of uncontrolled emotions, had robbed her of words, of actions? All she had seen was the beauty of his face, the run of emotions across it. And in that one fleeting moment she had wondered what it would be like if those firm lips had moved a little closer and actually touched hers.
Thea stood up, astounded at the direction of her thoughts.
All she could hope for was that she would never have to meet him again! In her usual forthright manner, Thea knew that she could not worry over what she could not undo. She must compose herself or her mother would ask far too many questions.
But she could not forget him, and her heart was sore.
Lord Nicholas Faringdon rode back to Grosvenor Square deep in thought, allowing the mare to choose her own pace. All he could think about was that lovely face when she had removed the enveloping scarf, and her hair—short and shining like a golden halo round her head. But she was no angel. He smiled a trifle grimly at the thought. Those furious eyes. Imperious as she lashed at him with whip and words. And there had been fear there. And at the end—distress? Had she actually flinched from him, cowered even for that one moment when he grasped her wrist? And whereas he might have expected her to be flushed from her exertions, her face had been white, all the blood drained from her cheeks as she had looked up into his face, until she had recovered and wielded her riding whip with considerable force and accuracy.
He was not sure, but her violent response seemed to be as much from fear as from anger. But why? Apart from bringing her horse to a halt, he had done nothing to threaten her. Could she really have believed that he was attempting to molest her, to force himself on her in so public a place? Or anywhere for that matter!
Take your hands off me!
Her tone and words were clearly imprinted on his mind. She had been terrified. Furthermore her whole appearance was—unusual, to say the least. Remarkable clothes, enveloped in some sort of eastern robe. And alone. No sign of a maid—not surprising in the circumstances—but neither was there an accompanying groom, not even in the distance. And—of course! Something else that now struck him: she had been riding astride. And if he had not been mistaken, there had been no sign of cumbersome skirts and petticoats. She had been wearing breeches and boots! Well, now!
Perhaps, then, she was merely some less-than-respectable woman to indulge in behaviour so particular—yet he did not think so. The impression was that she was undoubtedly a lady. Certainly not in the style of the notorious Letty Lade, who might have been an excellent horsewoman but who also had claims to being a highwayman’s mistress before her advantageous marriage. No—there was a distinct air of class and style attached to this mysterious horsewoman who had just crossed his path. Moreover, the grey Arab had taken his eye. Now there was an example of superior horseflesh and breeding. And whoever she might be, he had to admit that the lady could ride!
Nicholas turned out of the park and allowed himself to think of that instant of—of connection, he supposed. He had not imagined it. It had held them both in thrall as the world continued round them. Shrugging his shoulders against a slight chill of discomfort, he pushed the memory away of th
e sudden heat that had spread through his blood as he had tightened his fingers around her wrist and felt the beat of her heart through her pulse. It had taken him aback. But it did not matter since they were unlikely ever to meet again. And what did he want with a woman who galloped her horse across Hyde Park, clad in unseemly garments, and responded to kindness with rude and insulting words? Yet a tinge of admiration crept under his skin, recognition of her courage and spirit, until he deliberately, ruthlessly thrust it away.
Lifting his hand from the reins, he stretched it, then made a fist with a grimace. The welt was red, a little swollen where the blow had broken the skin. He swore at the sting of pain.
Of one thing he was quite certain, he decided, as he turned into the entrance of Grosvenor Square. He had never met the woman before. And he would not be sorry if he never saw her again.
‘It is a very pretty dress,’ Thea acknowledged with what could be interpreted as a most accommodating smile, if one did not know the lady. ‘And I am sure that the colour is most suitable and flattering to any young girl. But I will not wear pale pink.’
‘But it is Maiden’s Blush, miss.’
The four ladies all surveyed the gown being displayed in the arms of the assistant at Madame Therese’s in New Bond Street with varying degrees of appreciation. The assistant frowned, impervious to the débutante’s smile. As Madame Therese’s senior assistant, she was used to dealing with their noble customers with superior and knowledgeable condescension. Dealing with this exacting, although exceedingly polite young lady, she felt her temper was beginning to fray.
‘Maiden’s Blush it may be, but it is still pale pink. It is entirely inappropriate for my colouring, either my hair or my skin. I will not wear it.’ Thea’s opinion was expressed in the gentlest of tones, almost apologetic in its denial, but her refusal could not be in doubt. The assistant’s frown had no effect.