by Jane Feather
“I’m sure I can,” Harry said confidently. “No Russian émigré in London is going to escape the surveillance of the ministry at the moment, not after Tilsit…in fact not before either,” he added. “I’ll send Eric up to London with a note to Hector warning him that we’ll be back in Mount Street by the day after tomorrow.”
He stood up and stretched. “With the children, we’ll need to make frequent stops on the way tomorrow and break the journey overnight.”
Cornelia grimaced. Harry had learned the hard way about the drawbacks of coach journeys with a travel-sick child. “Susannah should be all right if we stop every two hours,” she said somewhat tentatively.
He nodded. “Rather what I thought. But I intend to ride and I can take her up with me for a while when the motion of the carriage gets too much for her.”
“That’s a good notion. I’ll do the same, and maybe we can accomplish this journey without too much drama.”
“Don’t forget to write a note of farewell to the earl,” Harry reminded her as she opened the parlor door.
“That will be a pleasure,” Cornelia stated. “I’ll send it around to Markby Hall this evening.” Markby Hall, the seat of the earl of Markby, her first husband’s father, was a mere two miles from Dagenham Manor. Cornelia had no love for her ex-father-in-law, who before her marriage to Viscount Bonham had done everything in his power to control her life and that of her son, Stevie, his grandson and heir. Her marriage to Harry had at first enraged him, but somewhere along the line Harry had managed to reconcile him to the changed circumstances.
Cornelia suspected that her husband had promised the old earl that no decisions about his grandson’s future would be taken without his knowledge, maybe even his approval. It was a generous offer, and one that Cornelia herself would probably not have made, but in the circumstances she was willing to let sleeping dogs lie and ask no questions as to how Harry had brought about the miracle of reconciliation. Time enough for that if it ever became an issue.
She went up to the nursery, bracing herself for the inevitable storm to come when Linton, the children’s nurse, was informed that the nursery was moving to London the next day.
Livia woke at dawn, restless with a sense of excitement. She pushed aside the covers and got to her feet, stretching her limbs with a feeling of intense well-being. She went to the window and pulled back the curtains, then opened the casement, kneeling on the window seat to gaze out over the dew-glistening square garden. The sky was streaked with orange and red and the dawn chorus filled the air, which had a crisp tang to it, a foreshadow of autumn.
The city at this hour seemed fresh and clean and new. In an hour or two it would be noisy and dirty, filled with clanging iron wheels, shouting voices, and the reek of manure and human waste, sweat and rotting vegetables, mingling with the fragrance of meat pies and new baked bread.
But for the moment, it seemed to Livia to belong only to her, and the promise it contained was only hers.
Ludicrous fancy, of course, but still one that brought a frisson of excitement tingling along her spine.
She jumped off the window seat and went to the armoire, for the first time in her life wishing she had more than one riding habit. While the one she had was certainly elegant enough, the prince had already seen her wearing it twice. Then she pulled herself up sharply. She and her friends despised such petty considerations and her father, the austere Reverend Lacey, an aristocrat who refused to use his ancestral title and gave the revenues from his family estates in tithe to the church, chose to live as modestly as any country vicar. He had brought up his only child to accept, if not particularly to enjoy, a life of simple comforts, rigorous intellectual pursuits, and relative self-denial.
What he’d say to a Russian prince didn’t bear contemplating, Livia thought with a chuckle. Fortunately there was no reason for him ever to juxtapose such an exotic being with his carefully reared vicarage daughter.
She pulled out her riding habit and was wondering what she could do to effect some subtle change to the overall appearance, when a light tap at the door heralded Aurelia’s arrival.
“Oh, you’re up and about already,” Aurelia said cheerfully. “Franny had me up half an hour ago so I thought I’d come and see if you were awake. I was thinking that if you wore my black jacket with your green riding skirt, it would look like a different outfit.” She held up the close-fitting black jacket adorned with gold braid. “It would go well, I think.”
“A little daring,” Livia said. “Green and black and gold…but somehow fitting, I believe.” A devilish smile danced at the back of her gray eyes. “Will it fit, though? You’re rather smaller here”—she passed her hands vaguely over her bosom—“than I am.”
“A certain form-fitting tightness can be very fetching,” Aurelia responded with a similar gleam of a smile. She laid the coat on the bed. “What time are you meeting your prince?”
“He’s hardly mine,” Livia protested. “But he said in his note that he would be waiting with the horses at the White Hart at the Richmond Gate at ten o’clock. It’s too early for anyone else to be riding for pleasure in the park, so we should be quite safe.”
“It’ll take you at least an hour by hackney,” Aurelia said. “You should leave by nine at the latest.”
“I’ll leave at nine,” Livia agreed. “And if it takes longer, then he must wait for me. A lady’s prerogative, after all.”
“Certainly.” Aurelia nodded. “I think you should wear my black felt hat with the little veil instead of the beaver with the plume. He’ll have to be very observant to notice that you’re still wearing basically the same habit.”
“And if he does notice, so what?” Livia declared stoutly. “The limitations of my wardrobe are no one’s business but mine.”
“Quite so,” averred Aurelia, but with another little smile. “I’ll fetch the hat.”
Punctually at nine o’clock, Jemmy jumped down from the hackney he had hailed on the corner of the square and ran up to the front door. “Jarvey says he don’t mind going to Richmond, Lady Livia,” he declared with satisfaction as he bounced into the hall. “First two I stopped wouldn’t go that far.”
“Thank you, Jemmy,” Livia said with a smile, drawing on her gloves. “I knew you’d manage.”
“You’ll be quite inconspicuous in a hackney,” Aurelia reiterated, adjusting the little veil on her friend’s hat. “Apart from the fact that no one’s going to see you anyway. It’s far too early for most society folk to be out of their beds let alone on horseback in Richmond Park.” She stepped back to examine the effect of her adjustment. “Yes, I think that’s perfect. You look very elegant.”
“Then I am ready to go.” Livia leaned forward to kiss Aurelia’s cheek. “Thank you, Ellie, you’re a rock of support.”
“Nonsense,” Aurelia scoffed. “You don’t need support. Go now and have a wonderful morning. If the mare’s as magical as you say, it should be bliss to ride her where you don’t have to worry about decorum.”
“Indeed,” Livia agreed. “That is, after all, the object of the morning’s exercise.”
“Of course,” Aurelia concurred gravely. “Of course it is.”
Chapter Seven
ALEX STOOD IN THE STABLE yard of the White Hart, slapping his gloves impatiently into the palm of one hand as he watched the stable clock. It was now just after ten o’clock. Where was she?
He’d arrived at the inn by nine, had breakfasted in the tap room, and, until the last few minutes, had been perfectly serene and composed. Now he was seething with impatience, an emotion he had always avoided, believing that haste inevitably led to costly mistakes. He was a past master at waiting with a tranquil mind for the outcome or event he was expecting. So why this morning could he not take his eyes away from the clock?
She would come, he was certain of it. It was a journey of less than an hour on horseback, but in a hackney it would take quite a bit longer. So he rationalized the delay, but he was tapping his booted foot
on the cobbles when a hackney turned into the gates to the stable yard at a quarter past ten.
He was aware of a swift surge of anticipation, a prickle of excitement as if at the beginning of a chase. And after all what was he embarking on if not the opening pursuit of a hunt?
He stepped forward to the door as the coachman drew in his horses, and opened it almost before the carriage had come to a complete stop. “Good morning, Livia.” He swept off his beaver hat and bowed, the sun glinting off his fair head as he greeted her with a smile, no indication of his earlier impatience in his calm tone. He held out a hand to assist her to alight.
For the entire journey Livia had had the sense that she was taking an irrevocable step into what was for her unknown territory. Several times she had leaned forward to open the window to tell the jarvey to return to Cavendish Square. But each time she’d sat back again, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her heart beating too swiftly for comfort.
Now she drew a deep breath and returned the greeting, pleased at the steadiness of her voice, as if they were merely meeting casually on the street instead of embarking on some kind of tryst. As always he was immaculately dressed in buckskin britches, shining top boots, a dark gray coat, and a simply tied white linen stock. There was nothing ostentatious, nothing of the dandy, about his appearance, merely a sense of quiet, composed perfection that was almost intimidating, and Livia had a strong desire to see him ruffled, untidy, discomposed, as if it would in some way even the playing field.
She took the offered hand, stepping down to the cobbles, blinking behind her wisp of veil at the sudden brightness of the morning after the dim light in the coach.
“A beautiful morning,” she observed, taking back her hand when he seemed disinclined to relinquish it. The banal remark was so at odds with the jumbled emotions of excitement, apprehension, anticipation that swamped her as she looked up at him that she could almost have laughed at herself. Except that she didn’t feel in the least like laughing.
“Perfect for riding,” he observed in much the same tone.
His tone might have been calm and matter-of-fact, but there was nothing matter-of-fact about his eyes as they swept over her. Their usual brilliant blue had darkened to an almost purple, a deep glow in its depths. She could read impatience, hunger, lust in his close scrutiny and a quiver ran through her belly. Suddenly it was as if all pretense, all the conventional delicate maneuvers that obscured true emotions had been stripped away. And she had a fleeting glimpse of the edge on which she teetered.
He spoke again into the moment of charged silence. “Do you wish to refresh yourself in the inn before we set out? I have bespoken a private parlor and there’s a maid to attend you.”
For some reason this considerate foresight surprised her, but she found its ordinary courtesy immediately reassuring. It brought her back from that edge. “Thank you, yes, I would like that,” she said appreciatively.
“Then come with me.” He reached out and lifted the little veil, setting it back over the neat black hat that perched at a rakish angle on her dark curls. “That’s better, I like to see your eyes.” His own were still as penetrating as two beams of blue light as they looked closely at her, seeming to take in every centimeter of her countenance. He gave a little nod, as if of approval, then took her hand and tucked it into his arm to usher her into the inn.
And immediately her sense of reassurance vanished. There was nothing conventional or ordinary about either the scrutiny or his proprietorial manner. How could she possibly insist on a proper formality, or expect a conventional distance between two near strangers, when she had not only agreed to this encounter in the first place, she’d insisted on a secrecy that immediately made it most improper?
Not that Alexander Prokov had ever observed the distances, she reminded herself, not even in the first moments of their initial meeting…one that he had carefully and quite ruthlessly engineered. She’d never been under any illusions, so it was a little late now for second thoughts. With a mental shrug she yielded to the greater force and allowed herself to be escorted into the inn.
The parlor was neat and comfortable. There was coffee and bread and butter, a discreetly provided commode behind a worked screen, and a smiling maid. “How long shall I give you?” Alex asked as he stood in the open doorway, his gaze sweeping the chamber to make sure all was as he’d ordered.
“Fifteen minutes,” Livia said.
“I’ll be waiting with the horses.” He bowed over her hand, said softly, “Don’t keep me too long,” and left.
Livia drew off her gloves and took the cup of coffee the maid handed her. She sipped gratefully of the revivifying liquid and concentrated on composing herself. No harm would come of this little adventure. No one would know of it; she would have an exhilarating ride in company that she enjoyed. No more and no less. With a nod of determination she slipped behind the screen to make use of the commode.
Alex was standing with both horses, talking with a stranger when Livia reemerged into the sunshine of the yard a quarter of an hour later. He broke off his conversation as Livia came up to them.
“At noon then, Boris.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” The stranger bowed to Livia. “Good morning, ma’am.”
Livia returned the greeting wondering absently what at noon could mean. The silver mare whickered softly as she stroked her nose, and her hide rippled with a little shiver as if she were anticipating the prospect of a gallop as eagerly as her rider.
“She’s such a beauty,” Livia said, putting her foot into Alex’s cupped hands so that he could toss her up into the saddle.
“Any further thoughts on a name for her?” he asked, settling into his own saddle on the Cossack black.
“I don’t know her well enough as yet,” Livia responded, leaning forward to pat the mare’s silky neck. “When I’ve had a chance to ride her properly, then we’ll see.”
“Then let us go.” Alex clicked his tongue and the black pranced forward.
Livia’s anxiety had vanished the minute she was in the saddle and now she relaxed, getting the feel of the mare’s gait as they moved at a trot towards the entrance to the park. The air smelled crisp and slightly autumnal, but there was some warmth in the sun as they trotted down a wide deserted ride between lines of copper beech trees.
Livia nudged the mare with her heels and the horse threw up her head and broke into a canter. Her stride lengthened as Livia settled into the rhythm. Another nudge and they were galloping down the ride, Livia’s wisp of a veil flying up away from her face, the wind cold on her cheeks, her lips parted in a silent cry of exhilaration. She could hear the black behind her, then he was beside her, keeping pace so that they rode neck and neck. She glanced at Alex and he met her gaze, laughing with an exhilaration to match her own.
“Let her go,” he shouted above the rush of air that held them in a tunnel, a world of their own.
Livia leaned forward over the mare’s neck, reducing the wind resistance, and encouraged her with soft words into her flattened ears. And the horse raced along the broad ride, her stride lengthening, as the black kept pace and eventually drew ahead. For a few minutes Livia let the race continue, but then reined the mare in, inch by inch, knowing that the animal hadn’t the chest and heart of the Cossack black. The mare slowed with seeming reluctance to a gentle canter and then fell back into a trot.
Alex drew in his own horse and waited for them to reach him. “You know your horse,” he commented. “I knew you and she would be a good match.”
“She is gallant,” Livia said, leaning to stroke the mare’s neck. The animal was not in the least distressed by the mad gallop, indeed seemed eager for another race, tossing her head and sniffing the wind. “What do you call the black?”
“Suleyman.”
“Ah, yes, the Magnificent,” Livia said with a nod. “Appropriate.” She patted the mare’s neck again. “This lady, however, is Daphne. A woodland nymph who loved the chase.”
“And was ensnared
by Apollo’s golden arrow.” Alex raised his eyebrows. “If I recall the myth correctly, she had no interest in marriage and begged her father to respect her wishes.”
“Yes, and he said he wouldn’t force it upon her but her beauty would,” Livia responded. “But Apollo still needed to set a trap to capture her,” she added.
“Indeed,” Alex murmured. He glanced sideways at her as they trotted along the ride. “Has anyone attempted to set a trap to catch Lady Livia Lacey?”
Livia looked up sharply. “Why would they need to?”
“Ah…forgive me.” He raised a hand in disclaimer. “But it is unusual for a woman of your attributes to be single at—”
“At my advanced age,” Livia interrupted, an edge to her voice. “As it happens, Prince Prokov, I am single through choice…I could see through any trap anyone might wish to set for me…and there’s absolutely no reason on earth why anyone would wish to set such a trap.” She nudged the mare with her heels rather more urgently than she’d intended and the horse leaped forward into a renewed gallop.
Alex watched them go. Another mistake on his part, he reflected ruefully. He couldn’t seem to get the note right with this woman. He’d hoped for a lightly amusing exchange that would lead easily into a declaration of his own interest. Instead, he’d sounded like a clumsy blunderer who hadn’t a sensitive and articulate word in his vocabulary. He set Suleyman to follow the mare.
Livia heard the black’s hooves growing closer and swung her horse onto a smaller, narrower ride through the trees. He would have to slow down to follow her. Perversely, she was aware of a thrill of excitement at the chase, a desire to outwit her pursuer. Impulsively she directed Daphne onto a still narrower ride with low overhanging branches. It would slow Alex even more, if indeed he bothered to follow her. And with another surge of exhilaration she realized that she would be very disappointed if he didn’t.