by Darcy Burke
He glanced toward her mother and then back at her. He nodded, averted his gaze, and said, “I admit that it was difficult to swallow some of the things people have said about your family, but having met you, I realized something in my life was missing. I wanted more than what I usually find in my circle. My first wife and I got on very well but it was always formal. Never…genuine. Which is what I want.”
Caroline felt her heart squeeze. She had battled all her life knowing she was outside the circle and yet here was a man who was battling to get out of it. “I am sorry. I truly am.”
He smiled. “I know you are. And you needn’t be.” Still smiling, he added, “I should go. I promised to take the boys to the river. I shouldn’t keep them waiting.” With a quick incline of his head, he kicked his booted heels into the side of his horse. He quietly rode off down the long path at a fast trot that announced he was riding out his disappointment for not only himself but his boys.
Caroline wanted to shed a tear for him. For she knew all too well what it was like to have one’s affections set a distance despite having done everything beautifully.
Her mother sighed. “Let us hope you did the right thing.”
Caroline knew she had. Gently tapping the side of her horse with her boot from her sidesaddle position, she eased her horse forward. Two months more of the Season and it was over. She could and would begin life for herself. Not others.
They rode in silence down the path, slowly directing their horses side by side toward the more crowded section of Rotten Row that still lay far, far ahead.
A sudden shout and the whinny of several horses on the riding path in that squinting distance before them summoned her focus. Through the throng of endless barouches and people on their horses, she glimpsed a lone gentleman sprinting his black stallion on the dirt path through the crowds in an untamed manner that simply wasn’t done on Rotten Row, let alone in a field.
The male rider ignored the repeated shouts flung at him to slow his pace. He leaned up and forward against the leather saddle of his black stallion and dodged and veered dangerously fast through barouches and horses alike with a precise, well-trained tilt of a well-muscled frame that was as thrilling to watch as it was to cringe.
She had never seen anything like it.
And as a Hawksford that was saying something.
Her mother let out a startled laugh and pertly tapped her riding crop against her own horse to move in his direction. “If that one is available,” the dowager drawled aloud, “I am taking him straight to the nearest inn and making a month of it. I’ll teach him the art of the whip. After all, a man who can ride a horse like that can—”
“Mother.” Caroline tried to keep the woman from saying more. They were surrounded by riders up and down the treed path of the park. “Is a man and your whip all you ever think about?”
“What else is there to think about?” The dowager smirked and wagged the crop tauntingly in her direction. “Ten pounds says he is as dashing as his ability to ride.”
Caroline rolled her eyes. “To ride like that, he probably fell off his horse enough times to eradicate any traces of a face. Only a deranged blade would forcefully ride through Rotten Row like that.”
“I know. And isn’t it daringly delicious?” The dowager lowered her crop and sweepingly rearranged her chartreuse riding habit against the side of her horse. “Here he comes. I’ll try to get him to stop. A month at the Spaniard Inn, here I go.”
Oh, now this, she had to see. Would the man even notice her mother’s preening? Directing her gaze back toward the gentleman on the far end of the path, who was now closing the stretching distance between them, Caroline intently watched the rider whose knee-high, leather boots kept rhythmically kicking into the sides of his horse to urge it to go even faster. He darted around a barouche, caused the gent within it to stand, and shout. Dirt sprayed as the man’s horse bounded faster and faster.
He was going to get himself killed.
A black top hat had been angled far forward and downward on the gentleman’s head to ensure it would stay in place given his feral speed, while still allowing enough of his dark gaze and shaven face to peer through as he maneuvered and raced his stallion through others around him. His well-fitted gray morning coat flapped freely and wildly behind him against the breeze as he intently urged his horse onward with a self-assured, obnoxious grin that Caroline could see from all the way from where she rode. He veered around a group of men on horses that yelled something at him, ignoring them.
The thudding of hooves trembled the ground.
Caroline lowered her chin against the silk sash of her riding bonnet as that face came into better view. Her startled gaze settled on a flushed, rugged face boasting a dashing grin she knew all too well. Her eyes widened.
Ronan.
Caroline brought her horse to a quick halt in disbelief, her lips parting. The bastard. He appeared to be hosting a celebration of dirt kicking and grinning for the world to see.
As Ronan sped closer, their gazes momentarily collided, the short distance left between them now almost gone to a breath of less than ten feet. His dark eyes jumped to her face within the shade of the path. That brassy grin instantly disappeared and gave way to a taut line, as his brows flickered in acknowledgement beneath the rim of his hat.
An unexpected fluttering overtook her stomach. One she squelched and despised herself for feeling. After all, as she had been miserably plodding her horse along thinking about what spinster life was going to be like over these next fifty years, he’d been grinning the whole time and bolting around Rotten Row like he was twenty and loving it and his newfound freedom. The…lout.
With the left tug of his reins, Ronan averted his gaze and quickly and effortlessly veered his horse far left of them and thudded past, barreling onward with a sweeping gust of dust that rippled toward her and her mother.
He continued down the path without a look back.
She couldn’t breathe. She hated him. She’d never thought the one thing she had cherished since she was thirteen would ever rise to hate. But it did. Oh, but it did. She hated him for making her feel worthless. She hated him for making her feel as if she had nothing to offer.
Caroline snapped a reprimanding gaze to her mother and knew the woman was about to swallow her crop. “Did you still want to take that one to the Spaniard Inn for a month?” she bit out.
The dowager’s lips parted as her head and veil turned frantically to follow the direction of where Ronan and his horse had gone. “Dearest God,” her mother choked out, turning back toward her. “That was—”
“Yes, Mama,” Caroline grudgingly muttered. “I know who that was. Damn libertine. Apparently, he rides his horses the same way he rides his women. Hard and fast.” Bastard.
Caroline glanced over her shoulder to glare at the dust his trail had created and paused, realizing that Ronan had significantly slowed his black stallion enough to finally skid his horse against the dirt path and fully turn those grappling hooves back around. With the kick of determined booted heels and his gaze intently set on her and only her from beneath his angled top hat, he galloped toward them.
Her eyes widened as she scrambled to grab and re-arrange the leather reins in her hands which had somehow slipped from her gloved fingers. “We are leaving, Mama. Ride.” Caroline moved her horse into a darting gallop and wondered if she should altogether urge her horse into a whirring sprint to show Ronan she could easily outride his pompous arse any day.
The dowager repeatedly kicked the side of her horse and tried to keep up with Caroline’s horse. “If you expect us to outride him on sidesaddle, remember that I’m not as young as I used to be!” her mother called above the wind. “Slow down. Better to deal with him than with a broken neck on Rotten Row. Now slow your horse!”
Caroline didn’t want to face him. Not when a part of her had already accepted the right to move on. Her heart pounded in between breaths as penetrating thuds reverberated against the ground around them,
announcing he was getting closer despite the speed of her horse. She wanted to go against her mother’s words and ride harder like she used to do on the fields in Bath whenever something upset her. But she damn well knew racing her horse with him speeding close in tow through the crowds of Rotten Row that lay ahead was not only stupid but dangerous for both of them.
Caroline instantly slowed her horse, lulling it down to a mere trot. She had already survived the worst: getting hurt. Now she only had to survive the best: never getting hurt again.
Ronan rounded her horse with his black stallion, the quick thud of hooves kicking up dirt from the path. With a twitch of the reins and the release of his riding boots from the sides of his horse, he slowed his pace to match, keeping his stallion perfectly parallel to hers with well-practiced ease.
She tightened her hands on the reins and refused to look at him.
They rode in silence down the long stretch before them that was taking them closer to the more crowded and conversational section of Rotten Row where people always gathered to visit with others.
Her mother kept glancing at Ronan.
God help her and London if her mother now found him attractive.
Caroline blinked rapidly, her pulse roaring at knowing Ronan was still on his horse and on the path beside her. And apparently, he just wanted to make his presence known. After making her suffer, and him damn well knowing of it given how they had parted, here he was dashing around town grinning about it and then casually riding his horse next to her as if he had every right.
It was not only downright cruel but worthy of a fist.
Wishing she could reach out a hand and smack him for it, she opted to turn her head toward him and deliver him the cutting glare he deserved to take with him to the grave. He stared out before them, his square, shaven jaw set and tight. The stiff set of those broad shoulders hinted that he didn’t expect her to acknowledge him at all.
She desperately tried not to notice how debonair he looked riding about in what appeared to be a new, mahogany-wool morning coat and an embroidered waistcoat with brass buttons that meticulously encased his shoulders and chest. His cravat was starched and knotted into a Trone d’Amour style that only the best valets knew how to do. And his black riding boots had been brushed and polished to a smooth, perfect shine. As always.
His attention to his appearance had never bothered her. Until now.
Because it was obvious it was the only thing he paid attention to.
After almost two and a half weeks of silence, whilst she struggled to look at herself in the mirror, he had no trouble looking at himself at all.
Ronan glanced toward her, aware that she was glaring at him. He inclined his head, heatedly capturing her gaze. “I was just thinking about you earlier.” His voice was thick and unsteady.
Caroline narrowed her gaze all the more, refusing to give him the pleasure of anything but pain. “Were you? I will try not to be insulted knowing you were riding your horse in the opposite direction of where you could have called on me: my home. Now leave. Because I am not interested in entertaining this. I have already moved on.”
He leveled his shaven jaw against that perfectly knotted white linen cravat. His dark gaze searched hers. “Don’t lie to me. I know you love me.”
She snapped her gaze forward, refusing to acknowledge that she was. “Leave.”
Drawing his horse even closer to her own, until his polished boot was almost touching the side of her skirts, he leaned over the side of his saddle and said in a gruff, yet equally gentle tone, “I will leave because you want me to. But know, Caroline, that I intend to fight to be part of your life to the end.” Veering his horse away, he glanced back at her once last time, then with the hard kick of his stallion, galloped off down the path.
Caroline’s jaw tightened as she stared after him. She wasn’t too worried about what he meant by fighting. She was, after all, a Hawksford. And a Hawksford knew a thing or two about putting the opposite sex in their place.
This was war.
Lesson Eighteen
What are you willing to do in the name of love? Lie? Cheat? Steal? Die?
Love has no rules. You must therefore define those rules
and pray to heaven you are not descending into hell for it.
-The School of Gallantry
Two days later
Ronan knew he was going to die. It was simply a matter of how he was going to die. In the past two and a half weeks, he had done everything expected of him by Madame de Maitenon, which included molesting strawberries. He had also told so many, many lies to everyone in his circle in honor of Caroline, he knew the devil was tapping a hoof at the entrance of hell.
What if Hawksford didn’t come to the first day of class and changed his mind before the truth could be unveiled? Before Caroline could become his? Despite the fact that Hawksford and the female Conductor of Admissions, appeared to be beyond friendly with each other after a very, very rough dragging in of Hawksford, Ronan knew the man wasn’t particularly pleased about the school. Nor would Hawksford be pleased upon realizing Madame de Maitenon had formally announced that today was the day Hawksford was going to finally know about him and Caroline.
“Two other gentleman have already arrived, my lord.” Harold, a massive, heavyset man with a mop of curly brown hair, who was more the protector of Madame and the school, than a butler, stood in the corridor, gesturing with a thick hands toward the open door before them. “Please wait inside until Madame and Lord Hawksford have arrived.”
Hawksford wasn’t here yet. Damn it. What if the man didn’t come?
Hesitating just outside a room that Madame de Maitenon had fashioned and converted into a classroom, Ronan was relieved to know he wasn’t the only man in London to think himself below female standards.
There were others.
Striding into the room as casually as he could manage, he paused. Four leather wingbacked chairs had been set out and faced a small writing desk and its chair. Two men of about his age lingered before those chairs, quietly discussing something.
They paused from their conversation and turned toward him.
Ronan almost pulled in his chin. He knew them. He had seen them a few times before. They were of his circle and of the ton. Though he couldn’t remember their names. Knowing he ought to introduce himself lest this get any more awkward, Ronan strode toward them and extended a hand to the man closest to him. “The name is Lord Caldwell.”
The gentleman on his right swiped away a long strand of sun-tinted brown hair from the side of his face, forcing it into a very out-dated queue and leaning toward him, grabbed his hand and shook it firmly once. Brown eyes met his. “Lord Banfield. We met once or twice before.”
Banfield. Yes. He had read in the announcement column sometime ago there had been a marriage. Ronan released that hand. “Yes. We have met before. Are not congratulations in order? I read in the paper somewhere you recently married.”
Banfield hissed out a breath and eyed him, stepping back. “Yes. That.” Clearing his throat, he adjusted his coat. “I’m certain you also heard my marriage isn’t going all that well.”
Ronan’s brows went up. “No. I didn’t hear.”
Banfield shifted his jaw. “I’m glad someone didn’t,” he grouched, gesturing to their surroundings. “I’m still trying to understand how the devil I got here.”
It was good to know he wasn’t the only one who felt awkward about taking advice from a courtesan. “How? By recognizing that pride doesn’t mean shit to a man.”
Banfield snorted. “Pride is the least of my worries.”
A heavily scarred hand belonging to the other gentleman snapped out toward Ronan. “The name is Lord Brayton.”
Banfield and Brayton. This could get confusing.
Ronan took that large hand and enthusiastically shook it, meeting the cool, blue eyes of a distinct looking man with a jagged scar that ran from the left side of his ear to the bottom front of his square jaw. It was a wicked lookin
g thing didn’t look accidental. He tried not to stare or ask about it. “An honor.”
Brayton released his hand and widened his stance to observe him.
It was obvious the man was one of few words.
Ronan eyed Banfield, the friendlier and less intimidating of the two, who had just settled into one of the chairs. Ronan tried to come up with something to say. “I will admit I have been surprisingly impressed with Madame.”
Banfield eyed him. “The woman is devilishly good at unraveling situations. Which is why I’m here. I feel less anxious.”
“Me, too,” Ronan added. “Apparently, these classes last into June.”
Banfield swiped his face. “The question is, will I last? I got heckled on the way in. It’s like the people in this neighborhood know about the school.”
Ronan smirked and leaned a hand against one of the empty chairs. “You don’t know how relieved I am to know I wasn’t the only one getting heckled on the way in.”
Lord Brayton seated himself right beside Banfield, thudding out a large boot that vibrated the wood floor beneath their feet with a notable tremor. “They don’t heckle me,” he rumbled out.
Banfield eyed that large boot and then glanced up at Ronan with the twitch of his mouth. “Who would dare?” Banfield drawled. “Hell, I’m scared to even blink sitting next to you and that boot.”
Ronan let out a laugh. Brayton was a touch intimidating. “So uh…Brayton. I have to ask, because you certainly don’t appear to be the sort in need of assistance, but what are you here for?”
The scarred side of that shaven face glanced toward him. After a long moment, he dryly chided, “Women don’t like me. But then again, I could be wrong. It could be I don’t like them.”
Banfield’s mouth twitched. “Maybe you’re in the wrong school.”
Ronan knew in that moment that he and these men would get along just fine. Sensing someone lingered in the doorway behind them, Ronan turned. Hawksford wordlessly stood in the doorway in what appeared to be riding clothes, his bronzed hair scattered and falling into sharp green eyes.