It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels

by Grace Burrowes

  “According to Mother,” Anne said.

  “Yes, it was according to Mother, who ought to have known. But I also overheard the servants gossiping when we first arrived, and they confirmed everything Mother had always said.”

  Anne furrowed her brow. “What did you hear?”

  “That he was cold, inflexible, and determined to bend us to his will as he’d failed to do with Mother. Especially in light of Mother’s defiance in eloping to Gretna Green with Father.”

  “Why did you not say anything to me?” Anne asked.

  “It was nothing Mother hadn’t already told us, so you already knew.” Jemma shrugged, and Anne scowled at her.

  “Still, I wish you would have told me.”

  “Do you tell me everything?” Jemma demanded, suspecting Anne had been keeping a secret of some sort. Either that or her sister truly needed to see a physician. She’d claimed a megrim every day for the past two weeks and had disappeared behind their bedchamber door for hours. And locked the doors!

  Anne’s cheeks pinked, confirming Jemma’s suspicion, and then she cast her eyes away. “I will tell you my secret when I’m ready.”

  “How enigmatic of you, Anne, dear! I hate to say that England has been good for anything, but it has been good for you. You seem to be coming out of your shell.”

  “Jemma!” a woman called from the distance.

  Jemma glanced up the hill to where the Duke of Scarsdale and Lord Harthorne were and waved at Sophia, the Duchess of Scarsdale, who was her dearest friend. Jemma linked her arm with her sister’s. “Come. The time to perform is upon me.”

  Anne fell into step beside Jemma, and Jemma automatically matched her pace to her sister’s slower, uneven one. A breeze blew around them, making the loose tendrils of Jemma’s hair tickle her neck. She brushed her hair back as she walked and thought how to goad the men into taking up her challenge. “I think I’ll profess that I can best any man on horseback.”

  “I’d be remiss if I did not say you shouldn’t, so I’ll say it. But I know you won’t listen.”

  “That’s true,” Jemma replied.

  “Do you truly think you can best His Grace and Lord Harthorne?”

  “I don’t see why not. I always beat everyone in America. Why should the gentlemen of England be any different? Besides, I’ve seen His Grace ride. He’s excellent, but I’m better.”

  “Well, you’ve never seen Lord Harthorne ride.”

  That was true. She hardly knew the man. She’d only been around him a few times, but he was a titled lord for goodness’ sake who fancied himself a poet. From what she had heard, he was rather good, but that was not the point. “I hardly think he spends much time fine-tuning his skills on a horse. Of course, he probably can handle a horse well enough to hunt and ride, as is required of his social class, but from what I’ve observed of most men of the ton these past months, they would rather breed horses and watch other men race them than actually learn to race them themselves.”

  Anne nodded. “That does seem to be a true statement, for the most part. However, His Grace is of the ton, and he’s an excellent rider.”

  “Well, he’s the exception. Clearly. The man does flaunt his shipping empire in the face of the ton without caring that they disapprove, and Sophia did say he had a very unusual childhood.”

  “Perhaps Lord Harthorne is also an exception.”

  A picture of the man flashed in her mind. He had unfashionably long russet locks that made her fingers positively tingle at the thought of smoothing back his curls from his forehead so she could ascertain whether mirth or ire lit his coffee eyes.

  “Jemma—” Anne nudged her “—you’ve a dreamy look on your face.”

  Jemma blinked, appalled at Anne’s suggestion. “I do not,” she snapped. “And if I do, I’m dreaming I will best the man. Come.” She fairly dragged Anne behind her the rest of the way up the hill, not wanting to talk about Lord Golden Tongue anymore. She didn’t stop her stride until she stood face-to-face with Sophia.

  As always, Sophia looked perfect with her dark-brown hair, coal eyes, and flawless porcelain skin. Jemma touched her own freckle-covered face. No one would ever describe her complexion as flawless with all her freckles, not that she cared. She was far too wise to care what a man thought about her freckles or anything else. Or at least she was far too wise now…after Will. And even if she did care, which she certainly did not, it wouldn’t matter. No man would want a bride who was no longer an innocent. Thank God she didn’t care.

  Sophia kissed Jemma on her freckly cheek. “Hello.”

  “Hello,” Jemma and Anne said in unison.

  Sophia waved toward her husband and Lord Harthorne and gave Jemma a conspiratorial look. “Have you come to watch these two race?”

  Jemma took her cue and glanced at the men, some four feet off, who were talking with a small group that had gathered. Her gaze lingered on Lord Harthorne for a moment. For all the time he surely must’ve spent sitting in a chair composing poems, he looked exceptionally fit in the leather breeches that encased his obviously powerful legs. A moment of doubt that she could have possibly misjudged him and his ability to ride a horse filled her, but she ruthlessly pushed it away. This was her last chance, and she could not afford doubt.

  “No,” she said, making her voice loud enough that both His Grace and Lord Harthorne would hear her, as well as the group of lords and ladies gathered in front of them. “I’ve come to join the race,” she announced.

  Lord Harthorne was the first to turn. He swiveled in his saddle and cocked a russet eyebrow as his gaze locked on her. Awareness of him made her skin prickle. She’d only been around him three times, but each time her skin had done the same thing. She didn’t care for it one bit. Will had once made her skin prickle, and once in her life for such foolishness was quite enough for her.

  Lord Harthorne offered an open, friendly smile, and she frowned in return, suddenly irrationally fearful that he could somehow sense he had an odd effect on her. He combated her frown with a smirk before pulling his reins toward the right and maneuvering his horse to face her. Behind him, conversation carried. He speared her with an amused look. “Are you frowning so fiercely at the prospect of losing to me?”

  “Certainly not!” she muttered. “I’m so sure I can best you and His Grace that I want to wager five pounds. And I’ll race astride the same as the two of you!”

  She expected him to be appropriately shocked by her outrageousness, but he appeared almost bored as he offered long, languid strokes to his horse’s side. The smirk on his face was unchanged.

  He stopped rubbing his horse and glanced around, as if looking for something or someone. “It appears, Miss Adair, that you are missing a horse on which to participate in this race. Pity that. I’d give ten pounds to see the look on Scarsdale’s face when a lady, an American to boot, bested him. He’s a pompous man and considers himself quite undefeatable, which is exactly why I’m forced to race him and remind him he’s a mere mortal.”

  Jemma frowned. He was supposed to scoff at her and tell her she could never best him or his friend. And preferably in a loud voice so more people would take note of her shocking breach of etiquette. He wasn’t playing his part at all. Of course, he wasn’t aware he had a part, but still…

  The skin of her arms prickled again, and she rubbed them. “So you’ve no objection to my riding astride or my racing you and His Grace?” She raised her voice as loud as she could without being too obvious.

  The conversation behind him stopped this time, and all eyes turned on her and Lord Harthorne. He smiled innocently, but there was a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Had you expected me to object?”

  Drat the man! He was too perceptive for his own blasted good. “Certainly not. I barely know you. How am I to know how you will react?” Some emotion flickered in his eyes, gone before she could discern it.

  “If that’s true, you’re very wise for one so young.”

  So young? If it was true? “I’m nineteen
since last week.”

  “Happy belated birthday,” he said with what sounded like genuine pleasantness.

  “Thank you,” she growled.

  “Nineteen. You must be fretting that you’re not married. Is that why you want to race? To shore up your spinster money?”

  She was about to flay him for his attitude when he began to chuckle. He was teasing her! Her own mouth pulled into a reluctant smile. “You— Why, you’re…you’re outrageous,” she sputtered.

  He tipped his hat to her. “So I’ve been told many times. I’d rather be shocking than boring, wouldn’t you?”

  Her jaw fell open at his pronouncement as Anne gasped beside her. “Why, Jemma said that very same thing two weeks ago!”

  Lord Harthorne’s smile turned into a grin. “I know. I was there at the dinner table where she professed it.” His gaze locked on Jemma once again. “I was three seats down but well within earshot to overhear your declaration.”

  Why, the devil! He’d remembered her words and used them to bait her. Two could play that game. “I didn’t take you for the sort of man to purposely embarrass a lady,” Jemma chided.

  He froze in the action of handing his hat to Sophia and gaped at Jemma. “I’m terribly sorry. Truly, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  “You may make it up to me by agreeing not only to race me but to wager with me,” she replied, a smile playing at her lips despite her best effort to school her features.

  A bark of laughter escaped him. “Clever,” he said, his voice appreciative. “You’ve effectively trapped me and left me no honorable course but to agree to all your terms. But you still don’t have a horse.”

  Sophia winked at Jemma. “She can borrow mine.”

  The duchess waved a hand, and a servant walked Sophia’s gleaming black horse over to them. Jemma had confided in Sophia about her plan to race this morning because she was afraid if she’d tried to take a horse without a sidesaddle the stable master would have alerted her grandfather. She wanted him to find out, of course, but not until after the deed was done. Jemma hadn’t worried overmuch that Sophia wouldn’t agree to help. Sophia hadn’t always been a duchess. There was a time, before she’d married His Grace, when she’d worked as a barmaid in her father’s pub. She didn’t hold with the notion that women of the ton had to obey so many rules of etiquette.

  “How did I know you’d say that?” Sophia’s husband groaned.

  “Because, darling, you know me so well.”

  “Then it’s set,” Jemma exclaimed as she strode to Sophia’s newest horse. “I’ll ride Fairfax.”

  “Fairfax doesn’t take to strangers,” Lord Harthorne supplied in a cheerful tone.

  Jemma frowned. Did the man think she didn’t know how to handle a horse? “When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it,” Jemma replied and held out a cautious hand to Fairfax.

  Sophia had warned Jemma of Fairfax’s nature, but Jemma wasn’t worried. Animals loved her. “Hello, boy.” She moved to touch his side, and he whinnied and nipped at her hand. She jerked her hand back amid Scarsdale’s deep chuckling and Lord Harthorne’s notable silence. Heat flamed her cheeks but she refused to forgo her plan. She would make the beast like her. “Come now, boy.”

  The horse whinnied louder, and Scarsdale’s chuckle grew louder, as well. Sophia hushed her husband and he immediately complied, but the snickers from the onlookers behind him continued. That was perfectly all right. The horse’s defiance would make her victory even sweeter and more gossip-worthy.

  The thud of boots hitting the ground made her jump, and as she glanced behind her, Lord Harthorne was suddenly there, blocking her from the rest of the party. He leaned toward her, and she thought he was going to touch her, so she tensed. Instead, he reached around her and placed a gentling hand on the horse, who immediately quit moving.

  “Fairfax is a filly,” he said in low undertones. “I think she’s taking exception to you calling her a boy.”

  Was he serious? She opened her mouth to ask him, but he spoke first. “Trust me.”

  Will had said those exact same words. Jemma cringed. “I’m far too intelligent to do that,” she snapped.

  He flinched, which made her feel terrible about saying such harsh words. It wasn’t his fault she didn’t trust men. Though, just because it wasn’t his fault that didn’t mean she trusted him. She pressed her fingertips to her aching temples. “Er, thank you, for the tip on Fairfax.”

  “Certainly,” he said, but his voice was much cooler than it had been.

  She turned from him, unsure what else to say, and carefully placed her hand on Fairfax’s side. “You’re a good girl,” she cooed, feeling silly, but she’d be as silly as need be if it accomplished her goal. Fairfax snorted her approval, and Jemma grinned. “It’s working,” she exclaimed.

  “Yes,” Lord Harthorne replied, in a deep satisfied tone. “I did tell you it would.”

  She rubbed Fairfax gently as she forced an apology to the surface. “I’m sorry,” she said stiffly. Apologizing to any man truly went against the grain.

  He sketched a mock bow. “Quite all right. I can see how my trying to help you would make you doubt my character.”

  Of course, he couldn’t see, and he’d effectively told her so with his words, so full of silent retribution. She scowled inwardly. She didn’t have to explain herself to him. “I’ve already apologized.”

  “Yes. Quite so. And such a heartfelt apology, at that.”

  Of course, it wasn’t, and they both knew it. For one brief second, she longed to be that girl who could trust men again. But that girl was gone. She bit her lip and faced the horse. “Time to race, I suppose.” She could feel him behind her, unmoving, his heat almost invading.

  “Do you need help mounting?”

  Normally, she would have said no, but she’d rather have him steadying the skittish Fairfax until she was securely in the saddle. She nodded and was about to direct him to hold the horse when his hands suddenly came to her waist and he lifted her effortlessly up before she could protest. She scrambled to gain her hold and her footing, and with a huff of breath, she was in the saddle, her sides burning oddly from the heat of his touch. She glanced at his gloveless hands, which were now curled into tight fists.

  She pulled her gaze to his eyes, and for one silent moment, they stared at each other. A bubble of hysteria rose in her throat. That would probably be the last man’s touch she ever felt. Never mind it, she snapped at herself. She didn’t care.

  “Shall we race?” he asked, whipping out his gloves and tugging them on.

  She nodded her agreement but behind them, His Grace spoke up. “My wife has informed me she will lock the bedchamber door to me if I dare to race another lady when I refused to allow her to race today, so I’m afraid I’ll have to bow out.”

  Jemma nodded. Sophia had not told her she was going to do that, but it didn’t matter. As long as she had someone to race.

  Lord Harthorne glanced up at her. “It appears it’s just the two of us. Is that acceptable to you?”

  “For the race, it is.” Heaven above. Why was she being so prickly with him?

  He frowned. “Naturally, I was referring to the race. I didn’t mean to raise your hackles, Katherina.”

  She snorted. “I suppose that would make you Petruchio.”

  “Certainly not. We are not involved in a courtship, and I’d never dream of trying to tame you.”

  She scowled at him, knowing good and well he’d been referring to the woman in The Taming of the Shrew. “Then you’re simply calling me a shrew.”

  “You said it,” he replied with a chuckle, “not I.”

  “Well, this shrew will easily defeat you.” With that, she tapped on Fairfax’s flanks and moved past Lord Harthorne to the start line.

  Within seconds, he was beside her on his own gleaming stallion with a nice crowd of the ton looking on to witness her unspeakable lack of decorum. It was perfect. Sophia quickly laid out the race path—over the knoll, around the
far tree and back—and with a large grin on her face, she raised her white handkerchief in the air and then dropped it, signaling the beginning of the race.

  Before Jemma even tapped Fairfax’s flanks, Lord Harthorne left her in a haze of dust. She gasped and nudged Fairfax to go. The horse took off, but Lord Harthorne was already ten paces ahead. As the wind whipped Jemma’s hair against her face, she leaned low over Fairfax and urged the horse to go. “Please, girl,” she whispered, as the horse’s hooves thundered against the ground and Jemma’s body vibrated with the contact. “I cannot lose my pin money. I need it, you see.”

  Fairfax lifted her head, as if to say, Yes, then dropped it down once again before seeming to double her speed. They raced over the grassy knoll and around the tree they had designated. Though Jemma was closing the distance, her gut told her it was not going to be enough. Lord Harthorne was a superb rider. He glanced back at her before suddenly raising himself, and with the slightest movement only someone racing him would notice, he pulled back on his reins and slowed his horse just enough that she knew she could close the distance.

  Why was he doing that? He was letting her win! She urged Fairfax faster, and as she passed Lord Harthorne, he winked at her. It so startled her that nearly lost control of the horse. She crossed the finish line with a halfhearted victory whoop for show before moving past the onlookers to allow Fairfax to cool. Soon, Lord Harthorne was beside her, his stallion panting.

  She turned in the saddle toward him. “You let me win.”

  He nodded. “I’m too much of a gentleman to take money from a lady.” She felt her brow wrinkle, and he chortled. “I’m sorry if that offends you.”

  She pulled Fairfax to a stop while gazing at Lord Harthorne. His kind gesture almost made her question her belief that there was no such thing as a gentleman. Almost. But not quite. “A true gentleman is a thing of fairy tales, myths, and poems.”

  “I rather like poems,” he said with a grin. “And I beg to differ.”

  “Of course you do,” she said, irritated at herself that she was having so much fun verbally sparring with him. That would not do. One moment it was simple conversation, and the next you forgot to be cautious, and before you knew it, your heart was engaged. “Good day to you, Lord Harthorne. You can send the money you owe me through your sister, Amelia.”