by Liana Lefey
Withington missed a step and stumbled. “W—wedding plans?”
Stopping, she faced him. “She will only take the bait if the danger appears real. We must maintain the illusion.”
“Very well,” he conceded grudgingly. “A peck on the cheek and some suggestive poetry ought to do it, don’t you think?”
She winced. At his quizzical expression she elaborated. “Amelia believes that you’ve already taken liberties. She saw us coming out of the labyrinth at the ball, and—”
“Bloody hell!” He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it.
“Indeed. I fear you have little choice but to live up to your black reputation.”
“My black repu—”
“At least in appearance,” she insisted. “You can allow her to ‘reform’ you later. In the meantime, I’ll provide several opportunities for you to misbehave. You must follow through and make her believe that you truly mean to ruin me. It is the only way.”
His shoulders slumped, but he nodded.
She released him just as they passed beneath the garden’s arbor gate and, letting out a small yelp, hopped away giggling. “My lord, I am quite shocked!” she said, playfully rapping his arm with her fan.
Amelia’s narrowed eyes attested to the effectiveness of her ploy.
Victoria again moved close to him. “You were right, Amelia. Such a lovely day for a stroll. But even better for a picnic, don’t you think? Why don’t we serve tea on the green?” Her sister positively loathed picnics, believing it uncivilized to eat out in the open. Anything fun was uncivilized, in her opinion.
But Amelia’s face was perfectly serene as she turned and waved a careless hand. “Whatever you like, dear. I’m sure the grass has dried adequately since yesterday’s rain.”
Her tone said otherwise, but Victoria was determined. She summoned a gardener to bear a message back to the house, and not long after, an army of servants came trooping out to set up tea on the lawn.
“I feel just like a Gypsy!” Victoria exclaimed brightly as they settled on the patchwork of colorful rugs and blankets spread out beneath the trees. “Have you ever seen a Gypsy?” she asked Withington.
He shook his head as he accepted a delicate china cup painted with tiny violets. “I haven’t seen any, but Cavendish has.”
Both she and her sister looked at Cavendish in surprise.
“Indeed I have,” he said. “I stayed with a caravan of Romani for a time when I visited Budapest.”
He called them Romani rather than Gypsies…Impressed, Victoria leaned forward, forgetting that she was supposed to find him stuffy and dull. “Really? Tell me about it.”
“Wonderfully hospitable people, provided you respect their customs and honor their traditions,” he replied. “They’re a cautious people, of course, but once you’ve earned their trust they’re generous to a fault. By chance, I happened to save the life of the kumpania leader. Upon reaching his camp, he held a big celebration in my honor.”
She raised a brow, but said nothing.
“There was music the likes of which I’ve never heard anywhere else, and such dancing and singing,” he continued, his eyes full of the memory. “In the morning, they invited me to travel with them and share their food, shelter, and evening fire until I reached Budapest. I was young and curious, and so I agreed. A pair of brothers shared their vardo—that’s their term for the wagons they call their homes—with me. I stayed with them nearly a month.”
“So long?” she asked, surprised.
“Indeed, it took that long to reach my destination. Such a large group with women and children cannot travel swiftly. Over the course of our journey, we became quite friendly. In fact, the man I’d saved liked me so well that he tried to persuade me to stay with them by offering one of his granddaughters in marriage. I don’t mind saying I was half tempted to accept.”
“Friendly, indeed,” Victoria scoffed, finding his appreciative chuckle somewhat irritating. “Our family has allowed the Romani to camp on our lands for generations, and still they are secretive and untrusting, especially of strangers. I find it most surprising that they would welcome you into their camp so quickly, much less offer to take you for their own, even if you did save the life of their leader.”
“Things are different on the Continent,” he explained, warming to the subject. “Here, the Romani have mostly diminished into smaller tribes of itinerant tinkers and entertainers, but there they still gather in large kumpanias. While they often find a cold welcome in England, their presence is quite strong across the channel, especially as you travel farther east. The villages along their trade routes anticipate their arrival each year with gladness. They’ll stay for a time, earning their living as blacksmiths, artisans, craftsmen, and traders until the work dries up. Then they move on. They hold annual horse fairs, too, and people travel from far and wide to attend, for they bring the finest beasts from the Saracen lands for sale.”
Excitement stirred within Victoria’s heart at the mention of the horse fairs. “I should very much like to see that.”
A loud sigh erupted from Amelia. “Now you’ve done it.”
Both men turned to her with raised brows.
“She’ll talk of horses until we’re all blue with boredom,” her sister explained.
“Do you not like horses, my lady?” asked Cavendish.
“Oh, I like them well enough,” answered Amelia. “But Victoria is obsessed. She’d spend all day in the stables or riding the downs, were it permitted. She has six horses of her own. Six. And despite Papa’s efforts to discourage it, she insists on caring for the beasts herself, grooming them, exercising them, even feeding them. On several occasions, I’ve actually caught her talking to the beasts.”
“The Romani say that horses can understand much more than most people think and that they possess the same emotions we do,” Victoria shot back, giving her sister a dark look. Patrin, the leader of the Romani she’d known since she was a child, had told her as much. “They talk to their horses, and no one makes fun of them.”
Withington’s smile was wry. “I’ve heard the old adage that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but never that the way to a woman’s heart was through her horses. Lady Victoria, you are turning out to be more unusual by the minute.”
Amelia jumped at the opening. “Indeed, I’m afraid she is a bit peculiar in her habits,” she said apologetically, her pained look clearly saying that “a bit” might just be stretching things.
Victoria opened her mouth to refute the accusation, but Withington came to her rescue first. “I am also a horse enthusiast. And I find your ‘peculiarities’ completely charming,” he said, smiling warmly. “But then, I suppose I have a rather atypical appreciation for the unconventional.”
Though she knew it was all a sham, Victoria could not help the flush that rose to her cheeks at his tone. Oh, he’s good. Really good.
Amelia’s face had reddened as well. The instant he turned back toward her, however, her expression changed to one of cool detachment, though the effect was completely ruined by her blotchy cheeks. “Her audacity stems from her inexperience in the world,” she said in an insinuating tone. “She’s still an impetuous child now, but Society’s crucible will quickly refine her into a proper young lady.”
A gasp of indignation burst forth from Victoria. How dare she speak of me in such a manner, as if I wasn’t sitting right here!
Withington, however, didn’t miss a beat. “I pray it never happens, my lady. Her impulsive honesty and passion for life are what drew me to her. She is like living, breathing fire in a world of dull, grey shadows,” he said, waxing dramatic. “If she has a love of horses, then I shall gladly indulge her in it.”
All the anger drained from Victoria. Withington couldn’t know it, but he’d just fired an arrow right into the bull’s-eye, and no matter how her sister tried to hide it, his words had stung her mightily. “You should see my Primero, then,” she said, looking to Cavendish in desperation. Help
me!
“Actually, I came with the anticipation of visiting your stables,” said he, rising. “Father practically believes your Primero to be a direct descendant of Pegasus himself.”
Amelia turned to him with a too-bright smile. “Then I suppose we had better satisfy your curiosity. Victoria, why don’t you take our guest to see your favorite companion?”
“Actually, I’d adore a good stretch of the legs, as well,” chimed in Withington, rising and extending his arm to Victoria. “You must come to the races at Ascot! It would be my honor to escort you this Season. My family enters a horse every year.”
“Naturally, I should love to attend with you, my lord,” Victoria replied as Cavendish offered his arm to her sister, who took it in silence. She waited until they were far enough ahead to ensure she would not be overheard. “I think it is working,” she whispered to Withington.
“No doubt she thinks me bent on your ravishment,” he answered drolly.
She grinned back. “Good! Let us help that perception, shall we?” She dropped the posy she carried. “Ooh! How dreadfully clumsy of me.” As he bent to retrieve it, she bent also and deliberately fell into him, causing them both to tumble to the ground—with her atop, of course.
As Withington lay there looking stunned, she loosed another loud giggle. When he placed his hands at her waist to help her up, she let out another little squeak.
Quickly, he regained his feet and hastily yanked her up beside him. “Cavendish is going to bloody well kill me!” he hissed.
“Oh, relax. It’s all part of the ruse,” she whispered, making for the stables.
JULIUS GROWLED. HE knew they were only putting on a show, but it still grated on his nerves. His thoughts returned to the kiss in the conservatory, to her yielding body and passionate responses. Watching her flirt with another man, even if it was just a pantomime, was enough to make him feel positively uncivilized.
“What are we to do?” asked Amelia.
“We’ll think of something,” he said to her, keeping his voice neutral.
She stopped him. “Victoria might be playing the naïve flibbertigibbet, but in truth her mind is extremely sharp. She is obviously determined to bait him into doing something foolish, and I fear her success. Men do not always do as honor demands after behaving foolishly.”
“She will not succeed,” he replied. “You may trust in that, my lady.” Another piece fell into place. It was fast becoming obvious that Lady Amelia had previously suffered at the hands of a reprobate.
They entered the stables to find the other couple already at the far stall. Withington remained a respectful distance away from the open gate where Victoria stood with her hand palm-up beneath the nose of a truly enormous bay stallion.
Julius watched as she rubbed its glossy neck. She smiled as the giant huffed gently and nudged her shoulder with its huge head. “Good boy, Primero,” she cooed. “I’ll take you for a long ride this evening, I promise.”
The horse answered with a soft whicker and butted her gently. As Julius approached, however, the beast’s nostrils flared. It eyed him with ambivalence, and then stamped a hoof in challenge.
“You must move slowly, my lord,” said Victoria, stroking the horse’s withers to calm it. “He’s still a bit skittish around strangers.”
He did as she bade, knowing better than to present a threat. A horse like this could strike a man dead with one blow.
“How many hands is that thing?” whispered Withington as he passed.
Julius guessed about sixteen, perhaps seventeen, but Victoria answered before he could speak.
“Seventeen and one half,” she said proudly, then frowned. “And he’s not a ‘thing,’ Withy. He’s an Andalusian. A very fine one, at that. I thought your family bred horses.”
“Thoroughbreds and Arabians, which are bred for speed,” replied Withington. “This fellow is a ruddy destrier—I think he’s even bigger than your brute, Julius.”
“He’s big, but he’s quick enough in a pinch,” said Victoria. “You should see him on a hunt. He practically flies over the hills, and there’s none can touch him when he jumps. Riding him is like floating on a magic carpet.”
“He’s magnificent,” Julius said with reverence.
Her gaze remained on the horse, but her cheeks lifted in a smile. “Isn’t he? I bought him last year. Paid a pittance, too—only fifty-five pounds.”
“For this horse?” Julius asked, surprised. The animal was beautiful, absolutely perfect in line and proportion. He checked the legs, but there was no sign of a healed break or any injury. “Was it ill?”
“His owner was desperate to be rid of him.” Her voice was bitter. “He claimed that Primero was foul-tempered and dangerous. Said he jumped fence, bit at his groom, and kicked down the doors of his stall on a regular basis. This beauty was about to be gelded because that idiot felt there was no other way to tame his temperament.”
“Why would you want such an animal?”
“I looked into his eyes,” she murmured. “And I knew that nothing would ever kill his spirit. I’ve seen horses like him before. He was angry—and justifiably so. Gelding him would not have worked, and he would eventually have been sold off for labor and hitched to a mill wheel somewhere. Could you have allowed such a thing?”
“No,” he answered truthfully. “But it still seems an awful risk, considering his previous owner’s warnings.”
Her lip curled in distaste. “The dolt who owned him knew nothing of how to handle horses. He won Primero in a game of chance and hadn’t given any thought to the kind of care and handling such horses require. His groom was a ham-handed lack-wit who’d only seen to carriage and draft horses, and his stables were shameful.”
“Well, he seems to be content here, at least.”
She nodded, her smile returning. “We understand each other, Primero and I. I never lock his stall, and nor do I allow anyone else to close him in.”
“You don’t keep him in at night?” asked Withington.
She shook her head. “What would be the point? The walls and fences here could never hold him, and we both know it. Thus, he is free to roam the pasture at will. Even so, he always returns home in the evening and morning, without fail, and comes whenever I call.”
“He stays for love of his mistress,” Julius said, watching as she rubbed behind the horse’s ear.
“I should like to think so,” she answered, staring into the horse’s liquid brown eyes. Primero chuffed softly, eliciting another smile.
Julius’s heart contracted at the sight. “Perhaps we could take a ride together the next time I visit?” he suggested. “I’ll bring my Handel. He’s an Andalusian also, though not quite as big.”
She turned to face him. “You enjoy riding?”
“Next to botany, it is one of my favorite pastimes,” he answered. “Our family has several Andalusians, thanks to my grandfather being an avid admirer. He thought them the finest of all breeds. I should enjoy watching you put Primero through his paces and seeing how he compares. If he’s as good as you say, my father might be interested in him.”
“I shall never sell Primero. Not to anyone. Ever.”
“Not to buy—to breed,” he amended softly.
Victoria flushed. The way he’d said it…
Despite being a delicate female, she knew all about the subject of breeding as it pertained to producing foals. She’d even witnessed the act on a few occasions, though she’d never told anyone. As she’d said, Primero went wherever he wanted, including the meadow where her mares went to feed on fresh grass.
According to some conversations she’d overheard, humans “bred” pretty much in the same manner.
“We’ve been looking for new blood,” continued Cavendish, breaking her chain of thought.
“I’ll think on it,” she blurted, her mouth uncomfortably dry. “As to your suggestion of a ride”—she flushed again at her unintended insinuation—“perhaps we could make a day of it, the four of us? Or maybe Papa
might like to host a hunt later this month?”
Slim chance of that happening, she thought, kicking herself. Amelia loathed hunts, complaining of the dirt and grime, the smell of equine sweat, the baying of the hounds. She’d only suggested it out of desperation, needing to say something that didn’t make her sound like a blithering idiot.
“Why not?” replied her sister, surprising her. “We’ll ask him this evening. Now, I think we should return to the house, don’t you?”
“Of course. One moment more.” Victoria turned back to Primero, smiling. Reaching into her pocket, she withdrew a small apple and offered it to him. He lipped it from her palm and then butted her shoulder, wanting more. “No more for now,” she admonished, patting him. “You’ll get fat and slow if I keep spoiling you so.”
Stepping forward, Withington reached out to stroke the horse along with her, but Primero would have none of it. His ears flicked back and he bared his great teeth, snapping at the offending hand.
Yelping, Withington hopped away and proceeded to make certain all of his fingers were still attached. He held up his arm in horror. “Bloody—I’ll be buggered! He tore my cuff!”
Victoria looked to Primero. Indeed, there between his teeth dangled a swatch of silk and lace. “Primero, you naughty boy!” she scolded as the horse neighed triumph at having effectively routed the enemy. Then to Withington: “I told you to be careful. He’s very particular regarding whom he allows to approach.” She adjusted her tone to sound a bit less waspish. “Give him time. I’m sure you’ll be great friends, eventually.”
Fingering his torn cuff, Withington cast her a dubious look, but nodded. “I’m sure we will. In time.”
“I’ve warned you, Victoria,” sang Amelia softly, her expression smug as Cavendish extended his arm. “Come. The hour grows late.”
Damn. Papa would be livid. Victoria held Withington back for a moment. “I am truly sorry. Primero isn’t usually so badly behaved as long as I’m with him, but Amelia was present. He knows she dislikes him, and the feeling is quite mutual. I will gladly pay to have your jacket repaired.”