Chapter Seven
“Ah, that’s marvelous, Toby girl,” Hugh cried as Ellie circled back after having pushed Manifesto into an immediate gallop at the starting line of the mocked up Haldon racetrack. “He gets so excited, though,” Hugh continued, “it’s taking him too long to settle into his stride. Let’s try it again.”
“Is there anything I should do differently?” she asked.
His eyes dallied over her form. “Not a thing, lass.”
“Concentrate on the horse, Lord Davenport,” she teased.
“Always.”
Ellie smiled to herself as his gaze strayed immediately to her thigh.
He caught her watching him. “And you concentrate on Manifesto, too.”
“Yes, my lord.” She stifled a laugh.
“And they’re off!” Hugh shouted.
Ellie pressed Manifesto’s sides with her heels. The stallion bolted forward, tossing his head and not paying the least heed to the track.
After several strides Ellie pulled the horse to a stop. “I think he’s getting frustrated.”
“All right, let’s try him one more time and see how he does.”
As she rode Manifesto back to the starting line, she caught Hugh looking at her and licking his lips.
“Lord Davenport, you are staring at me as if I were a succulent orange.”
“I was certainly doing no such thing,” he said, feigning affront. He wiped his lips, caught himself licking them again, and started to laugh.
Ellie laughed, too. In her glee she leaned forward in the saddle and touched Manifesto’s sides with her heels. The stallion bolted forward, catching her unprepared. For a moment she lost her balance, but caught a hank of mane and managed to hold on. “Whoa,” she said, pulling the horse to a stop. Her hands shook.
Hugh ran to her side. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, just a bit wobbly. He caught me off guard.”
“You nearly ate grass there.”
“Quite so. And not the breakfast I had in mind, either.” Breathlessly, Ellie started to laugh. Hugh joined her, and then, with no discussion or planning, he mounted Valaire and they turned toward the moors.
The horses broke into a canter. Cool wind un-tethered strands of Ellie’s blond hair from beneath the floppy hat. Green and gold, the abandoned moors stretched for miles — gentle swells of earth with no sign of humanity — only the loneliness of broken rock. She lifted the hat off and shook the last tresses free, then dropped the reins. Spreading her arms wide she launched into a popular sea chantey. “’Twas in the good ship Rover, I sailed the world around,” she sang.
Hugh, cantering next to her, sang back, “For three years and over, I never saw British ground.”
Together they belted, “At last in England landed, I left the roaring main. Found all relations stranded and went to sea again!”
Hugh pushed Valaire past Manifesto, saluting as if he were on the bow of a ship. Ellie tore off her cravat and held it up to catch the wind, pretending Manifesto was under sail. She laughed until her cheeks ached.
Still cantering, Hugh reached down and yanked out a fist full of heather, roots and all. “Here, hold this,” he said. She snatched the unruly bouquet and took off at a gallop up the last rise to the top of High Tor, the topmost point on the moors.
Valaire cantered up behind. They slid off their horses together, laughing so hard they staggered in circles holding their tummies and “accidentally” bumping into each other.
Hugh did a terrible imitation of a sailor dancing the hornpipe. Ellie doubled with laughter, begging him to stop. “No more, no more!” she cried. “I’m in pain.”
“Yes, yes, be calm, Toby. Calm yourself, girl, or I’ll have to sing you to sleep.” He began dancing again.
“Oh, I can’t breathe,” Ellie said, tears of amusement streaming down her face. “Stop, Lord Davenport. No more.”
“Hugh, please. Call me Hugh or I’ll not stop at all.”
“Hugh, then. Hugh!” she cried, stumbling away toward the edge of the tor.
A stiff breeze swept up the massive stone edifice bringing the scent of heather, gorse, and a tinge of the dank salt sea. The beauty of it sobered her. “My God, it’s magnificent,” she said, feeling the sun’s warmth and the chill of the breeze on her cheeks. For miles around she saw only the dip and rise of the yellowed moors disappearing into soft, distant gray.
Hugh joined her cliff-side. He settled on a patch of thin, wind-whipped grass. Ellie plopped down beside him and took a deep whiff of the heather he’d picked for her on the trail. “Ah,” she said. “It smells like England.”
Hugh broke off a branch of the plant and put it between his teeth. “Tastes like her, too,” he said. Ellie laughed.
Then they grew silent, listening to the rustle of grass, feeling the hot sun, and breathing the rich smell of sweet flowers and fecund herbs.
“This is my day,” said Hugh, lying back in the grass. “You may have a piece of it.”
Ellie swatted him with the stalk of heather. “I shall take your captain’s salute on horseback.”
“And I shall take this moment, right now,” he said, closing his eyes.
They were silent again. Ellie lay back and snuggled into the grass. The cool wind couldn’t reach her here, just the thick heat of the sun. She closed her eyes, too.
A fly tickled her forehead. She brushed it away. It came back and tickled her again. She opened her eyes in time to see Hugh leaning over her, the branch of heather in his teeth. He flicked it away from her face.
“You’re the annoying fly,” she said, lunging to pull the heather from his mouth. He caught her wrists and rolled onto his back. She struggled, enjoying the feel of his large, callused hands. “I suppose if I were really clever,” she said, giving up and leaning on his chest, “I could get that branch without using my hands.”
“Oh yes, and how would you do that?” replied Hugh, a glint in his eye.
Ellie leaned over and, bringing her face close to his mouth, pulled the heather from his teeth.
A bolt of electricity raced through her. She hadn’t meant to be so intimate, hadn’t anticipated the heat of his flesh against hers or the soft velvet of a corner of his lips. Her heart beat fast and her face grew hot. She looked away, dropping the heather from her mouth. “I’m never getting married,” she blurted.
Hugh studied her. “Then I’m not either.”
Gently, he brushed a bit of heather from her lips.
The caress stirred a small fire. She closed her eyes and lay back down on the grass. Joy washed over her. “That’s wonderful,” she sighed. Hugh’s hand closed on hers.
• • •
“Did he kiss you at High Tor?” Peggity asked, her eyes narrowing with accusation.
“For the longest time we just lay there and held hands,” Ellie said, falling back on the bed pillows, a dreamy look in her eyes. “When we stood to go back to the horses, I tried to get my hair back under the floppy hat, but the wind kept whipping it. He smoothed the curls from my eyes with his hands. He touched my face — his hand could have been the down of a baby bird. Then he twisted my hair around his fingers, pulled my head back, and kissed me.”
Claire’s eyes were wide with astonishment. “Did you swoon?”
Swoon? The moment she and Hugh got back, Ellie raced to the old gardener’s shed. She wanted to sing, whoop, and holler all at the same time. At last in the safety of the woods where no one could see her, she danced in silence, like a crazy person, leaping and turning, swinging the floppy hat in big, joyous circles. She thanked God for the sun, the soft breeze, and most of all for Hugh Davenport, that marvelous man with the gorgeous scar.
Trying to keep her voice even, Ellie said, “I was shocked at first. You’ll both be scandalized, but kissing Hugh Davenport i
s lovely,” she told her sister.
“Why?” breathed Peggity.
“His lips are soft, there’s a tickle of stubble on his chin, and his nose was cool on my cheek. We were so close, his lips were like the stone hitting the water, sending ripples all through me.”
The sisters looked at Ellie with envy. “My, my,” said Claire. “Ripples … ”
Peggity cupped her cheek in her hand and propped her elbow on a knee. “How extraordinary.”
“Ripples are amazing,” Ellie said, planting a sensuous kiss on her pillow.
Lips to the linen, a terrible thought invaded her mind. “But ripples don’t do any good unless Hugh falls in love with me, Ellie, not Toby.”
“You have to try harder,” Peggity said.
“Try harder!” Ellie cried. “Do you think I use my fan to alarm him? Nearly shoot an arrow into his dog on purpose? Say things that upset him because I want to?” She hurled the pillow across the room.
Claire swung her legs off the bed, picked up the pillow, and faced her sisters. “There is really only one solution to this problem.”
“What’s that?” Ellie and Peggity asked.
“Toby has to break it off with Lord Davenport.”
“But why?” Ellie asked, distress tumbling in her heart.
“Because if he’s in love with Toby, he won’t even look at Ellie.”
A wave of sadness engulfed Ellie. “Oh, that’s hard.”
Peggity patted her shoulder. “Love is never easy, they say.”
“Poor Toby. Poor Ellie.” Claire sat back on the bed and took Ellie’s hand. “Remember, if Hugh Davenport loves Toby, it stands to reason that he loves you, too. You just have to show him how wonderful Ellie is.”
A rock formed in Ellie’s stomach. It spread its cold, hard surface to her heart. “You’re right, of course,” she said, her throat tightening. “But I’m not sure it will do any good. He doesn’t seem to like Ellie, I mean me, at all.”
• • •
At the dinner table that night, Ellie noticed Hugh arranging food in swirls on his plate. He looked bored, uncomfortable, and agitated. Then he created a small precipice out of a bit of beef and a smile touched his lips. She suspected his thoughts were on High Tor.
She caught herself smiling too, remembering the feel of his hand on hers – the weight of its callused warmth.
Poultney, who sat to her right, put his lips to her ear and whispered, “You’re not eating. That means mischief.”
Ellie’s jaw dropped. “Quite the contrary,” she whispered back, “I’m so hungry I can’t make up my mind what to eat first.”
“No. Mischief. What are you up to, Miss Ellie, that the rest of us shouldn’t find out?”
“Mr. Bigalow, don’t be annoying.” Alarm hammered in her chest. She forked a wad of turbot into her mouth.
Poultney’s forehead furrowed. “Oh, you’re hiding something, all right. You don’t like fish.”
Ellie choked. She grabbed her napkin, glanced quickly at Lady Davenport, who was deep in conversation with Chase Hart, and then at Hugh. He was patting his food into hillocks. She spit the fish into the cloth. Sport, sensing an opportunity, came to her side and gobbled the treat.
“You can tell me,” Poultney said, raising his bushy brows.
“There’s nothing to tell. Now stop pestering me.”
“Oops, she’s getting upset,” her antagonist cooed. “This must be really big.”
Ellie looked desperately at Claire. “It’s the funniest thing,” Ellie said, a bit louder than she’d wanted. “Poultney suspects me of having a secret.” All conversation at the table stopped and every eye turned on her — even the footmen posted about the table leaned forward on their toes.
Claire frowned and then smiled. “I suppose we must tell him,” she said. “You know how Lord Bigalow is. If he hasn’t found out yet, he will hound you until he does. Well, here it is: Ellie wants to buy a stallion from Lord Davenport. She’s been working up the courage to ask him to take her to the stables ever since we got here.”
Hugh’s eyes lifted off his plate. “We just bought your stallion,” he said. “Now you want to buy one from us?”
“Well, yes,” said Ellie, thinking fast. “I thought you might have a colt at a price we could afford.”
“I don’t think so,” Hugh replied.
Lady Davenport pounced. “We most certainly do, darling. That little foal out of Peach Blossom. He’s adorable. Just what you’re looking for, Miss Ellie.”
Hugh propped his fork on the edge of his plate. “I understood that your father was selling off your horses.”
“Oh, but there’s my Aunt May,” Ellie said. “She’s interested.”
Hugh grunted. “I’ll have the colt brought in from the back pasture tomorrow.”
“Oh no, my dear,” his mother corrected in the sweetest tone. “Take Miss Ellie for a ride to see the colt. He’ll be more comfortable in a pasture he knows. It will show him off to best advantage.”
Hugh passed his mother a withering glare, which she ignored. Reluctance hanging like icicles from every word, he said, “Would you like to ride tomorrow?”
Though her hands shook, Ellie pertly replied, “I’d be delighted.” She cast a winning smile on Poultney.
Chapter Eight
In the silver light of dawn, Ellie donned her Toby outfit preparing for the morning’s training session. She couldn’t wait to see Hugh, to feel his eyes peel the man’s clothes off her feminine body. La, in a doublet and hose he could make her feel captivating. She buttoned the homespun shirt, her fingers brushing the tips of her nipples — they hardened. She cupped her breasts, imagining Hugh held them, his heat warming their round, plump weight.
Closing her eyes, her hand traveled down her stomach, pressing the indent of her belly button and moving further, further until the fingers stopped at the waistband of her breeches. What am I doing? She shook her head, hoping to rattle the images of Hugh from her brain.
Claire was right. It wouldn’t do to have Hugh fall deeper in love with Toby. He needed to concentrate his attentions on her, on Ellie. Determined to make herself as unattractive as possible, she left one shirt tail out, crumpled the floppy hat, and smeared dust from the mantle on her face.
It also wouldn’t do to have Hugh get any closer to Manifesto. The stallion was starting to relax around him — letting him approach when she was aboard.
“Wake up, Ellie,” she whispered to herself and gave each cheek a smack.
• • •
The barn smelled of fresh hay and horses. Ellie’s favorite perfume. Manifesto greeted her with an excited whicker and nibbled at her pockets, delicately pulling carrots from them. The horse made her laugh. She rubbed his eyes and he rested the weight of his big head on her chest.
“Good morning,” a voice behind her said. “How’s he doing?”
She felt a flutter of joy at the sight of Hugh’s liquid brown eyes. “He’s settling in nicely,” she replied. Then a pang of guilt thundered in behind her happiness. “But he’s still got a long way to go.”
Hugh smiled — a wonderful smile, broad and genuine.
“May I offer him one?” he said, indicating a carrot sticking from her breeches pocket.
“It’s my last.”
“We can get more. Let’s see if he takes it from me.”
He went to pluck the carrot from her pocket. Afraid her resolve would shatter at the touch of his hand, she whipped the vegetable out and passed it to him.
Manifesto took a step back, nostrils flared, as Hugh held the treat. “Come on, beauty,” he whispered. “You’re going to like this.” The horse craned its neck, bit tenuously at the end of the carrot and pulled it from Hugh’s hand, retreating to the far side of the stall to munch. Ellie laughed. She couldn�
�t help herself.
“You’re a good boy,” Hugh said. “Very wise in the ways of men.”
“Yes, some men can be deceptive,” Ellie said under her breath. “You know, pretend to be one thing and actually be another.”
“Women do the same thing.” Hugh looked at Ellie and winked.
Her heart knocked against her ribs. “Perhaps … ” she conceded.
He moved near, so near she could feel his breath on her cheek.
“Oh look, I found another carrot,” she said, attempting to step away.
Hugh pushed closer, trapping her against the half door of Manifesto’s stall. She shoved the carrot in his hand and tried to duck past him. He stopped her, an arm on each side, his face so close the down of her cheek tickled. Ellie felt like a small animal cornered in a cozy nest. She squeezed back against the Dutch door, trying not to let his groin touch her. Air came shallow to her lungs, and that hammering in her chest — could he hear it? “Carrots are his Achilles’ heel,” she said, avoiding Hugh’s gaze.
“We all have our point of weakness.” The heat in his brown eyes made her feel faint. His mouth lowered to hers. She leaned backward over the Dutch door.
“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered.
“Lord Davenport … ”
“Hugh.”
“Hugh Davenport, don’t kiss me.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s wrong.”
“Wrong? How could it be wrong?”
“You’re a peer. You have a seat in the House of Lords. I’m a stable boy … ”
“Stable girl.”
“Even worse.”
“And you’re neither, Toby. You’re an immensely talented trainer. Besides, I don’t care for all that society rigmarole. The whole thing is absurd.”
“I’m sure your mother cares.”
“Bah! My mother … She is more than happy to censor others, but she drove my father to Italy with her whoring.”
“What? That’s a terrible accusation.”
Hugh’s face tensed with bitterness and he dropped Ellie’s arm. “My mother was perfectly happy to be the wife of a marquis — until a duke came along. Thornton Henwright, the fourth Duke of Carlow. Everyone knew what they were doing. The disgrace of it drove my father into the arms of my governess — the low-born daughter of a Tuscan butcher. And do you know what? Until the day he died, my father was happier with that woman than he’d ever been in his life.
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