by Brenda Hiatt
"I've already done so," he said, to her surprise. "It purported to be from the Hilltops, saying that they had invited you to stay the night because of the weather, and that you had accepted, and would return home in the morning. I trust they have at least one daughter?"
She nodded. "Cynthia —though she would no more ask me to spend the night, even if it were blizzarding. She doesn't exactly . . . consider me her equal."
"But does Sir George know that?"
"No, of course not." She stopped, for he could not know how she shielded her father from the opinions of their neighbors —nor did she particularly want him to, after what he'd said earlier.
"All is well, then. Let's check out the cottage. If it is as empty as it appears, we can remain there until the rain stops, and allow Nimbus to rest for a bit."
Tessa felt a wild thrill go through her at the prospect of spending what could be hours alone —most improperly alone! —with Lord Anthony. She knew she should protest, but she also knew that an opportunity like this was unlikely to ever come her way again.
And it would be the best thing for poor Nimbus, she belatedly realized.
"If . . . if you think it best," she managed to stammer, hoping he could not hear any trace of eagerness in her voice.
"I do. Come. I'm sure you wish to get out of this rain as much as I do."
* * *
CHAPTER 8
Anthony knocked at the door of the darkened cottage, telling himself that they really had no choice if Nimbus was to escape permanent injury —and Killer had been quite insistent that he do all he could for the horse. Quite simply, he owed it to his friend. His feelings for Miss Seaton were nothing to do with it.
"No answer," he said. The latch was broken, and the door yielded easily to his push. "Hello?"
The cottage had the musty smell of a place that had been vacant for some time. "Definitely empty —which helps to explain the state of that fence back there. When I find out who owns this land, I'll give him a piece of my mind for allowing it to fall into such a state."
Holding the lantern high, he surveyed the cottage's single room. The furnishings consisted of a table, two rickety chairs and a rough bedstead in one corner. The stone fireplace opposite the door still had a black pot hanging on a hook, and a few sticks of firewood were stacked on the hearth. The mantel held nothing but a half-burnt candle in a holder. Throughout, the dust was thick and undisturbed.
"It seems safe enough," Anthony said over his shoulder. "Come in and see."
She peered past him, but didn't come inside. "We need to take care of the horses first. I don't suppose you thought to bring any grain with you?"
"Actually, I did." Anthony felt a bit foolish to have forgotten. Something about this girl seemed to addle his thinking. Of course she couldn't follow him inside while holding the reins of both horses.
He came outside to remove the saddle bags he'd slung over Cimmamon's back. "I also thought to bring something for the two of us to eat, since I didn't get dinner and I assume you didn't either. First the horses, though."
They led the animals around to the rear of the cottage and found a rough lean-to against the back wall that had clearly been used as a makeshift stable and storage area.
"I believe they can both fit in here," she said. "It's a mercy you brought Cinnamon back rather than Cinder, as Nimbus likely wouldn't tolerate sharing such a small space with him."
Anthony nodded. "I was thinking more of your convenience when I brought her, but you're right. It's lucky that she is the one horse Nimbus won't attempt to savage."
She bit her lip and glanced away, and he realized belatedly that she had taken his words as another criticism on the bay's temperament —not that it was undeserved. Still, he had no desire to distress her further just now.
"There," he said when both horses were tied out of the rain and munching on the grain he'd brought. "They'll need water, too. I saw a cistern near the door."
Anthony went into the cottage, took the pot from the fireplace, then came out and dipped it into the half-full cistern. The water was dirty, full of fallen leaves, but it was better than nothing. He was glad he'd brought other drink for Miss Seaton and himself, however.
"Here," he said, handing her the pot. "I let the mare have a good drink back at the lodge."
The horses fed, watered, and bedded down, they returned to the cottage. This time she ventured inside. "Are you— How long do you think we should stay?" She nervously eyed the narrow bed. "It could rain all night."
All night would be fine by him. "At least an hour or two, for Nimbus's sake," he said. He closed the door behind them, lit the candle on the mantelpiece from the lantern, then set the lantern on the table. "I'll see if I can get a fire going." Glancing back at her, he realized he meant that in more ways than one.
Taking off her sodden hat, she moved to sit in one of the rough chairs by the table while he stacked kindling and lit tinder from the candle. It took him a few minutes, but eventually he had a small blaze going. He stood and dusted off his hands.
"Did you say you'd brought food of some sort?" she asked, looking everywhere but at him.
"Not much, I'm afraid, but it'll be better than nothing." He picked up the other satchel, which he'd left by the door, and pulled out half a cheese, a loaf that had been fresh that morning, and a bottle of wine.
He spread his handkerchief on the table for the bread and cheese. "No glasses, I'm afraid," he apologized, setting the bottle beside them, "but I did think to bring a knife." He deftly opened the wine bottle, then began slicing bread and cheese.
Glancing up, he found her looking at him strangely. "You couldn't have known when you left me that Nimbus was so badly hurt, yet you clearly planned on staying here. Why?"
"It's raining. My Army training taught me to prepare for any eventuality." He lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug, hoping it sounded convincing. Her look told him otherwise, however.
When she didn't reply, he met her gaze squarely. "Very well, I confess I hoped to convince you to stop here for a bit, even if Nimbus was walking perfectly well by the time I returned. You intrigue me, Miss Seaton, and I thought this might be a splendid chance to get to know you better."
Her brown eyes widened before she dropped her gaze. "I . . . I see."
"Besides, as I said, it's raining," he continued in a casual tone that he hoped would put her at her ease. "If you prefer, you can take Cinnamon and ride home now and leave me here to lead Nimbus back to Ivy Lodge once he's rested a bit."
She shook her head. "No. I won't risk him hurting you, too. I'll stay until he's ready to go on."
He wanted to assure her that he'd be in no danger from the horse, but he wanted even more for her to stay. "Besides," he said instead, "I was hungry and certain that you were, too. You wouldn't wish to go home and ask for dinner after telling your father you were dining out, would you?"
"No, I suppose not. It's bad enough young Billy knows I rode out with you. He may tell Harold, but I'd rather not do anything else to raise suspicion," she said wryly. "And you're right —I'm famished." She picked up a slab of bread and cheese and proved her words by taking a big bite.
Anthony hid a grin by doing the same, then held out the wine bottle. "As we'll have to share, you should have the first sip."
She regarded the bottle dubiously for a moment, then gave a small shrug and took it, tilting it to her lips for a swallow. Handing it back to him, she smiled. "I've never drunk directly from a wine bottle before."
"I expect you've never been in any such situation as this before," he replied, now grinning openly, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the effect her smile had on him. "This is a night of firsts for you, is it not?"
Tessa swallowed again before nodding, for her thoughts flew unbidden to other "firsts" she had yet to experience —a first kiss, a first —but no, that wasn't what he'd meant at all. Confused, she took another bite of her bread and cheese while he took a long pull from the wine bottle.
"You said
that you've been hunting in the Shires since you were a youngster," she commented, mainly to break the awkward silence. "Has that been a tradition in your family?" She realized that she had no idea who his family was. His father must be at least an earl for him to be a lord, but she had never studied the family names of the peerage.
"Only on my mother's side," he replied. "The uncle I mentioned to your father, Alden Trowbridge, was brother to her father, and mad for hunting. I used to visit him when I was a lad, and he taught me all the finer points of riding and hunting. My own father has never hunted, to my knowledge, and only one of my brothers has done much of it."
"How many brothers do you have?" She much preferred learning about him to talking of herself.
"Four. Two older, two younger." That made his father at least a marquess, then. "My next older brother, Edward, used to hunt, but gave it up after he married three years ago. Robert, the eldest, was never much of a rider, and my younger brothers, Peter and Marcus, hunted a bit early on, but didn't stick with it."
"Any sisters?" she asked.
He shook his head. "All boys —a source of pride for my father." His smile was cynical. "I take it you have no siblings?"
"No." She longed to ask who his father was, but perhaps it would come out later. "There's my cousin Harold, of course, but he's six years older than I, and didn't live on the estate until my uncle came back to manage it, after my father's accident."
Lord Anthony nodded. "Is that when he began working as horse trainer?"
"No, not until his —our— grandfather died, two years ago, though he did work with Grandfather a bit before that." She took the proferred wine bottle for another drink. He didn't seem startled by her information, so she added, "I assume you have already heard that my mother's father was a horse trainer, though you've been too much a gentleman to ask outright."
"Someone did mention it during the first meeting of the Quorn," he admitted, "but I don't see it as anything to be ashamed of. After all, there are members of the nobility who train their own horses."
She supposed that was true, though it didn't apply in her case. Grandfather had been of merchant and yeoman stock. "Thank you," she said. "So, where do you make your home when it isn't hunting season?"
"London," he said with a grin that told her he knew she'd wanted to change the subject. "Or, occasionally, at Marland, though I can only take my parents in small doses."
"I see," she said mechanically, trying to conceal her sudden shock. His father was the Duke of Marland, one of the richest and most powerful men in all England. And she, daughter to a country baronet and granddaughter to a horse-trainer, had been on the verge of developing a tendre for this man!
She took another swallow of wine.
"What of you?" he said when she remained silent while she tried to wrap her mind around this unwelcome revelation. "Have you always lived here in Leicestershire?"
"Me? Yes. I've never been more than twenty miles from home, in fact." How rustic and provincial he must think her.
"A pity to have deprived London of your presence —though I can't help but be glad of it."
At the teasing note in his voice, she blinked. "Because I would undoubtedly have made a fool of myself in Town?"
He shook his head, his expression now gentle— almost tender. "Because no one's had a chance to snap you up. And because I might one day have the pleasure of showing you all that you have missed."
For a brief moment, she allowed a bright fantasy to weave itself in the air between them —a fantasy of balls and laughter and love —but then she shook her head.
"Most unlikely, my lord. I could scarcely leave my father to go gadding about London." Even if we had the money for such a trip, she added silently, the glittering images dissolving into far drearier ones of a spinster's life spent nursing her father, until she grew too old and proper to so much as sit a horse.
He reached across the table and took her hand in his, startling in its size and warmth. "Someday it will be your turn, Tessa Seaton," he said, as though he'd read her thoughts. "Perhaps sooner than you think."
Her gaze flew to his and her breath caught in her throat at the intensity she saw there. A sudden longing surged through her that had nothing to do with balls or visits to London or even her beloved horses. Surely it would not be so wicked to snatch one moment of pleasure that she could remember through all of the dull years ahead?
"Anthony —my lord—" she whispered.
"Anthony. And please let me call you Tessa. I've longed to do so from the time we first met."
"Of course," she said, then a small laugh escaped her. "Not quite from the moment we met, as you did not then know me at all," she reminded him.
"But I wished to," he said, his answering smile holding a promise that both thrilled and frightened her. "I spent the rest of that night wondering who my mysterious rescuer was and scheming to find out somehow. Imagine my delight to find her again the very next day." He squeezed her fingers in his own.
"Delight?" she breathed.
He nodded. "Definitely delight." He rose, pulling her to her feet as well— pulling her close to him. "You're something special, Tessa. Never doubt that." Lowering his head, he brushed her lips with his. "Never doubt that," he repeated, then truly kissed her— her very first kiss.
Tessa's eyes drifted closed and she clutched at his shoulders, swept away by the sensation of his lips on hers, the intense intimacy and urgency of his kiss. As all girls must, she'd imagined this moment for years, but the reality was far more exciting. Tilting her head back, she gave herself up to the moment.
His hands, first resting lightly at her waist, now slid up her back, one pressing her more tightly to him, the other threading through her hair at the nape of her neck. Instinctively, she parted her lips and he teased the tip of her tongue with his.
Now her hands began to move, almost without volition. She found herself stroking the broad planes of his back through the thick, damp fabric of his coat, wondering what it would feel like without that barrier. He deepened the kiss until she felt he was devouring her— that they were devouring each other —but that their hunger was only growing.
With one thumb, he traced the line of her jaw, smoothed the curve of her cheek. His other hand moved from her back to her side, kept moving, until he brushed against her breast through the thickness of her cloak and habit.
Though the physical pleasure at this new contact was intense, she suddenly felt a thread of doubt snaking through, spreading a subtle poison. This was a practiced man of the world. What could he possibly want with her beyond a bit of dalliance to enliven the hunting season? A moment ago she'd thought that would be enough, but now she wavered.
He seemed to sense the change in her, for he drew back to look down at her questioningly. "It's all right," he said, his voice a bit ragged. "I won't press you to do anything you don't wish to do—no matter how much I might want to."
His impish grin reassured her even more than his words —and made her want to fling herself back into his arms.
"Th-thank you. It's not that I don't wish— that is, it's—" she stammered, trying frantically to remember why it would be unwise to keep kissing him. "My . . . my father—"
"I understand. I do."
But she knew he didn't, not really. How could he possibly understand the struggle within her right now— knowing that this would likely be the last chance she'd ever have for this sort of intimacy, knowing that no other man would ever make her feel the way this one did. Knowing that if she gave in to her desires, she would wound her father, perhaps beyond healing.
"We . . . we should rest," she said shakily after a moment, then immediately worried that he might misconstrue her words.
His mind, however, apparently traveled a purer plane than hers. "You're right. Here, let's get out of these wet cloaks. You can throw yours over the bed and I'll take a spot on the floor, near the fire." He stripped off his own coat and tossed it down. "Unless you'd rather be closer to the fire?"
She shook her head, grateful that he couldn't read her thoughts. "I'll be fine on the bed. This habit is of wool, so I should be warm enough."
Suiting action to words, she forced herself to move away from him, to untie her cloak and spread it on the cot— only to hear something rustle underneath it. She sprang back up with a small cry.
"What is it?" he asked, coming toward her in obvious concern.
Already, she felt foolish. "A . . . a mouse, most likely. It startled me, that is all." Still, she had no desire now to climb onto the bed. There were plenty of mice in the stables, of course, but that was not quite the same as sleeping with them. Or— What if it was a rat?
"I'm really not all that tired," she lied. "I believe I'll just sit by the fire for a bit. You're welcome to the bed."
One corner of his mouth quirked up, but he did not contradict her. "If that's what you'd prefer, though I'm not especially partial to mice myself. What say you we spread both cloaks on the floor here, and both of us rest by the fire —and away from the vermin?"
Again she fought a battle between propriety and desire, and this time desire won— though she would keep to propriety as much as possible, she promised herself. "Very well. That will help to dry the cloaks faster, and those chairs are not particularly comfortable."
He turned away, ostensibly to spread out the cloaks, but she suspected also to hide a grin at her transparency. No doubt he thought her completely lost to decency, but she couldn't quite make herself care.
"There. Join me? Oh, and bring along the rest of the wine, won't you?"
Feeling utterly wicked, she picked up the bottle, still almost half full, and lowered herself onto the makeshift bed beside him. Conversation was absolutely essential now.