He smiled as he heard Lord Munslow at the table behind him laying wagers on the day’s race.
“I’ll put my money on Lord Newcroft, this time,” the earl said. “He’s built like a jockey and he’s always out to prove himself.”
“What about you, Munslow? Have you plans to make a showing? What odds should we figure?” That sounded like Nicholas, playing devil’s advocate.
Lord Ashurst’s voice answered with a cynical chuckle. “I wouldn’t throw away money on him, Edmonton. He’s too lazy to do anything more strenuous than lay odds on what someone else is going to do.”
Apparently Lord Munslow agreed with this assessment, or else he was too lazy to take offense. The rest of the little group laughed.
Gilbey had no intention of trying to win the race himself—he had more to lose by such an effort than he had to gain. Look at what happened with the archery competition. However, it did seem to him that Lord Chesdale had the advantage over the other contenders—the man had been trained to hard riding as an officer in the hussars. Usually frugal with his money, Gilbey found this contest tempting.
Go ahead, place a wager, he told himself. The visit to Rivington had so far proved quite hard on his clothes, and winning a tidy sum could help to cover the needed replacements. Before the riders all adjourned to the stables he quietly put in a word with Lord Munslow.
***
The participants in the race made up a sizable group even though several men and a greater number of the ladies had declined to risk their necks dashing through the countryside. Gilbey could not help being impressed by the sheer quantity of magnificent horseflesh that awaited them in the paved stableyard. Gleaming animals for eleven men and nine ladies stood in the large courtyard with grooms at their heads, some standing patiently and others moving about with restless energy, eager to be off.
The riders were almost equally resplendent in their fine riding clothes; the men were garbed for the most part in sober reds and browns, while the ladies wore fashionable habits in practical colors, predominantly blues and shades of gray. Gilbey could not help noticing Venetia as soon as she arrived—the brilliant amethyst of her beautifully fitted habit stood out amongst the others. Her golden hair peeped out from beneath a beaver hat that could only be distinguished from those of the men by a matching band of color and a lace veil draped artfully around the brim. Vivian was not with her and apparently was not going to join them.
It took some time to sort out the riders and match them up with their assigned mounts. A handful of the guests had brought their own horses and grooms. While the rest were waiting, Nicholas joined Gilbey at one side of the fairly crowded courtyard. Voices and laughter bounced off the surrounding walls of stone and seemed to fill what space was left.
“I say, Nicholas, looks like your sister had to borrow one of your hats,” Gilbey joked. “You haven’t been letting her go down by the river again, have you?”
“No, but I am thinking I ought to encourage her to do so, after the way she treated you last night, old man. I imagine about now you are wishing that you hadn’t fished her out for us the last time.”
If you only knew, Gilbey thought. Nothing has been the same since the moment I touched her then. But try as he might, he could not bring himself to wish that some other man had been there in his place.
“I am truly sorry for her abysmal behavior,” Nicholas continued when Gilbey did not answer immediately. “I cannot conceive of what has suddenly got hold of her to treat a guest so badly.”
“Don’t let it concern you. I am not so fragile that her scorn can cause any damage.”
“I suppose it is a good thing that she had not won your heart. People tell me those are more fragile than we think.”
Ah, that. Well, Gilbey did not care about his, anyway. He considered it a liability. “I see that quite a few of the ladies are not joining us, including Lady Vivian,” he said. “Is it such a rough course, or do you think they were just disinclined to race?”
Successfully diverted, Nicholas launched into an enthused discussion of the course the race was to follow, and explained in passing that Lady Vivian seldom rode. He did not say why. Then he was called away to claim his horse, and Gilbey was left to wait by himself.
He began to get a sinking feeling as each of the finest animals was assigned to a rider and he continued to stand by, waiting. The tamest horses were given to the ladies who requested them, of course, but he noticed that Venetia and Lady Caroline were both mounted on spirited animals who danced in place and were obviously eager. Gilbey was given the very last horse, an old chestnut mare who looked as if she achieved a fast gallop only in her dreams.
Gilbey took one look at the horse he’d been given and gave thanks that his own part in the race meant nothing. He’d been given the closest thing to a nag in the lot. Had Lady Venetia had a hand in this, or was it purely by chance?
Nicholas looked over and began to protest, but Venetia cut him off. “Someone has to ride Jonquil, Nicholas. I’m certain that Lord Cranford does not mind.”
Of course, he did mind. Jonquil rolled her eyes at him as if she blamed him for the whole idea. But Venetia had placed him squarely in a position where any protest on his part would seem ungentlemanly. He shrugged in response to Nicholas’s questioning look. He would arrange for a proper mount to ride on another day, that was all. Since he had no desire to compete in the race, he supposed he was a better candidate to take the mare than any of the other riders.
Instructions for the race were given while everyone was still gathered in the stableyard, and then the riders filed out one by one to reconvene on the sweeping carriage drive in front of the house. They would all set off at once when the signal was given.
Lady Vivian and the others who were not participating had gathered on the steps in front of Rivington to see them off. Gilbey noticed that Miss Whitgreave was the only other one of the younger ladies who was not riding. Colonel Hatherwick and Lord Amberton were the only two unmarried gentlemen staying behind.
At the crack of a pistol fired into the air, the twenty riders whipped up their horses and raced off, producing an earth-shaking thunder of hooves and a great cloud of dust. Soon the pack began to thin into a long line stretched along the roadway, and once they turned off the road onto the bridle path through the woods, they left both the dust and Gilbey behind them.
Jonquil was a follower, but as Gilbey had surmised, she was not fast. Despite his masterful efforts, the mare quickly fell into last place. He felt they were fortunate to be able to keep the rest of the group in sight. After a time, even that was no longer possible, as the twisting course wound up through the Cotswold hills and down into hidden valleys. Gilbey kept a sharp eye out for the red flags that had been set out to mark the way, for there were many places where they emerged from the woods to cut across open pastures, only to dive back into the forest again on a new path.
Gilbey began to enjoy himself, despite Jonquil’s limitations, for the day was particularly fine, and the views from the hilltops were sometimes breathtaking. Although she was slow, the mare had an easy, steady gait that allowed him to relax. He had a sense that they were not too far behind the stragglers of the main group, for every so often the sound of shouts or laughter or the occasional whinny of a horse carried back to him on the breeze.
He was surprised, however, to catch a fleeting glimpse of Venetia as he and Jonquil came down a steep decline toward a small bridge in the bottom of a ravine. She and her fine roan were just disappearing over the crest of the hill on the opposite side.
How has she come to be so far behind the others? was the first question that popped into his mind. He was distressed by the way his body reacted to the mere sight of her—his heart jumped and his pulse began to race as if they’d been struck with a whip. With a sudden urge to try to catch her, he attempted to inspire a similar reaction in Jonquil.
&
nbsp; It was only because the road ran blessedly straight for a short ways beyond the top of the hill that he saw Venetia turn off the route into the woods. Where in God’s name did she think she was going? He pressed Jonquil onward with an urgency the horse seemed to sense, for she cooperated with more spirit than she had shown at any earlier time.
The path Venetia had taken was much narrower and very obviously less traveled than any that had been used for the race. Ducking tree branches, Gilbey guessed that she had chosen a shortcut in an attempt to catch up to the main group. He did not think she knew he was following.
The path led generally downward and Gilbey was careful to keep his weight centered. He was not at all prepared to pull up quickly when he and Jonquil rounded a curve and nearly ran full tilt into Venetia’s horse. The roan was standing riderless by a fallen tree across the path.
It was clear at once what had happened. The ground sloped downhill rather steeply on the other side of the tree trunk, and the horse had obviously refused the jump. Unprepared and riding a bit too fast, Venetia had sailed over it without him. She sat hatless in a muddy pool at the bottom of the decline with leaves sticking to her habit and her hair halfway unpinned. To Gilbey’s relief she did not appear to be injured.
Gilbey dismounted. Pushing some branches out of the way, he climbed over the fallen tree and started down the leaf-shrewn slope toward her. He spied her hat and retrieved it from a bush, brushing more leaves from the lace veil. He noticed that there was a rip in it. In the meantime, he heard Venetia mutter a few rather unladylike phrases.
“Forget something?” he asked as he reached the bottom. “I noticed your horse decided not to join you.”
“It would have to be you that came along,” she said ungraciously.
“It was me or no one.” He grinned. “Where on earth were you going? Besides down this hill, I mean.”
She did not answer.
“I found your hat. Looks a little the worse for wear.” He held it out to her and she jammed it onto her head.
She looks ready to spit, he thought, and reflected that he had never seen her angry before. The fact was, he thought she looked particularly charming, with her hair coming loose and a smudge of mud on her nose. This was the real Venetia, not the perfectly groomed beauty he was used to seeing, and he liked what he saw.
“This happens to be a shortcut,” she said finally. “I lost my hat earlier and had to go back for it. I wanted to catch up.”
He waved a hand at her sitting in the puddle. “Looks like an odd way to go about it, if you ask me. But then, you didn’t ask, did you? I’m certain you know best.”
He turned and started back up the slope.
“Where are you going?”
“To get Jonquil. I want to show her that there is a place to land on the other side of the tree.”
“You aren’t going to help me up?”
“Oh, I doubt if I have enough wit to do that.”
Retribution might not be gentlemanly, but it tasted very sweet. Behind him he heard the sounds of her struggling to get up.
“Ooh, you are a wretched man! I hate you!”
Something struck him just below his shoulder blades. He put a hand back and brought away gloved fingers covered with mud. The little vixen! He turned and saw her standing there, her heavy skirts soiled, wet, and clinging to her. As she bent down to scoop up another handful of ammunition, he bounded back down the hill.
“Is it full-fledged war, then?” he asked, grabbing her arm. “Flinging insults is no longer enough?”
But something happened the moment he touched her. He did not feel at all warlike. “Rumor has it that you think I am witless and utterly boring.” He stared down into her beautiful eyes, searching for the truth.
“Well, I—”
She did not finish. The very air around them seemed charged. In her eyes he thought he saw a message quite different from anything she had said.
“Tell me if you find this boring, then,” he said softly, his voice husky. Quite ignoring the mud that covered her, he slipped his arms around her and brought her against him. He found her sweet lips and proceeded to kiss her as thoroughly as he knew how.
Chapter Eleven
Lost in the arousing pleasure of Cranford’s kiss, Venetia felt an almost overwhelming urge to surrender. His mouth was gentle yet demanding; he tasted warm and slightly spicy. She was aware of every inch of her body that pressed against his, of his arms around her, of her clinging wet skirts.
Give in, called a seductive voice inside her. How easy to yield everything to him—her struggle, her secrets, her body, her heart! She did not hate this man. She was very much afraid that she loved him. At least for that moment while they stood kissing in a puddle of mud up to their ankles, she did love him.
No. It was impossible, of course. Like a dreamer slowly coming awake, she struggled to regain her reason. What of Vivian? What of her father? She had obligations. What of the group of riders somewhere ahead of them, racing further away at every moment? And not least of all, what of the blackmailer who was someone among them, someone who watched her each day, waiting, if he was not the man here with his arms around her? How could she have forgotten any of that for even an instant? That it had happened so easily frightened her.
Gilbey felt the change come through her like a sudden erratic current in a stream—the infinitely sweet, deep receptiveness he had found was swept aside and she started to push him away. Reluctant to give her up, he held her tighter for a fraction of a moment, but then he released her. She was right, of course, and this time he had made himself the fool.
“Oh dear,” she said. “Oh dear.”
He stepped back from her, straightening his spectacles. “Lady Venetia, I beg your forgiveness! I think I may have proved you to be half right, after all. I must indeed be witless, to have done such a thing.”
She looked down at her muddied gloves and then plucked at her skirt. She did appear terribly distraught.
“No, no, I don’t know what came over us,” she murmured, shaking her head. At some point she had lost her hat again—he was surprised that neither of them had noticed.
He stopped to retrieve it and tried to brush off the mud that had splashed on it before he handed it back to her a second time.
“Oh dear,” she said again. “You truly are dangerous.” She lifted her gaze to meet his, and he saw not distress but something much more like a deep sadness in her eyes. She shook her head as if that would rid her of it. “I should never have thrown the mud at you. I’m sorry.”
He wanted to reach out to her, to touch that fleeting sadness and soothe it away, whatever it was. But he sensed that she would not let him.
“I must admit that I would rather be thought dangerous than boring,” he said, cocking his head to one side and smiling at her. “I am afraid I hardly look the part, however.” He looked down at his own clothes and began to laugh.
“In the four days that I have been here, my clothes have been doused with wine, soaked in a river, and now coated with mud. If I had only known, I would have made sure to bring a second trunkful. Your brother should have warned me.” He should have warned me about a lot more than that.
His tactic succeeded, coaxing a smile from her. “I think the trunk would only have been full of books, sir.”
He staggered, pretending to be wounded. “Ah, touché! But what else would you expect from a witless fellow?” Tapping his head, he continued, “We can’t keep anything up here, so we have to cart it around with us in trunks. But now you have learned my secret.” How much I would like to know yours.
“I am sorry about the remark I made last night. I did not mean it, and I never intended that anyone else should overhear it. You may call me witless, if you like.”
She looked so utterly sincere, he could not help grinning, fool that
he was. Part of him knew they would both be better off if she did think him boring and witless. But part of him thought he had tasted the truth in their kiss.
***
They decided that there was only one possible way to explain the state of their appearances when they caught up to the rest of the group, and that was to tell the truth, minus a few major details, and to hope for the best. Gilbey would say that he slipped while helping Venetia, to explain the mud on his own clothes. If they were not believed, the consequences could be disastrous for both of them. It was a sobering thought.
Most fortunately, Venetia’s shortcut brought them back to the main route just ahead of the last few slow ladies who had given up all hope of the race. Lady Colney was horrified at the sight of Venetia’s muddy clothing, and Lady Sibbingham clucked sympathetically at the story of her fall. But no one questioned the truth of the tale, and indeed there was no way for anyone to guess how much time had elapsed while Venetia and Lord Cranford were alone. Because the errant pair returned home in company with the other ladies, the damaging questions from the rest of the group were minimized and the potential disaster avoided.
Gilbey was so relieved, he did not mind the sly comments and looks that the other men directed at him during dinner and the evening’s activities. Besides, one other thing had gone right. Lord Chesdale had won the race.
***
Cranford’s remarkable blue-green eyes haunted Venetia’s dreams through the night, as did a craving to feel his arms around her. She awakened late the following morning, sore in several places from her fall the previous day. After her maid helped her to dress, she went stiffly down to breakfast.
Only a handful of guests were still at their meal in the Italian room, which featured paintings by Italian masters on its walls. Venetia was not surprised that there was no sign of Vivian, and if she was disappointed not to see Cranford, part of her knew that it was just as well. The Duke and Duchess of Brancaster sat at one table near the French windows overlooking the small courtyard known as the Roman court, so named because Venetia’s grandfather had designed it to look like the atrium of a Roman villa. Venetia noticed Lady Norbridge and Lord Munslow out strolling in it. Colonel Hatherwick sat by himself at another table, feasting happily on a breakfast that looked quite sufficient to feed five people.
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