by Regina Scott
“This is no time to be modest, my girl,” he scolded. “I’m sure you had singing lessons at that school of yours.” His right hand strayed to her belly, moving slowly up her ribcage, trailing fire in its wake. “You project, from here.” He pressed just under her breasts.
She stood taller, willing herself away from his touch. She was surely supposed to do better than this when a gentleman was taking liberties. Only this was Leslie, and he surely wasn’t trying to seduce her.
Was he?
“I think that’s enough lessons for today,” she said primly, pushing forcefully away from him so that she bumped Hector’s cage. The bird spread his wings again and hissed in warning. She slipped around to put the gilded bars between herself and Leslie’s confusing presence.
“Perhaps you’re right,” Leslie replied, rubbing his chin as he peered at the bird. “We’ll try again tomorrow. Let me go and pay my respects to Lady Agnes, and we shall be off.”
She nodded, and he quit the room. Then she collapsed onto the nearby sofa.
What was wrong with her? She lifted a shaky hand to her forehead and pushed her hat away from her face. She’d never reacted that way to any other fellow’s touch. Of course, she hadn’t been touched all that often, and certainly not in the way Leslie had touched her. Robbie Curry had held her hand longer than necessary at the Badgerly ball, and Donald Pelton had put his arms around her when lifting her from her saddle the one time they had gone riding. Neither of those times had affected her as much as the brief contact with Leslie.
She made herself wait patiently until he returned from greeting Lady Agnes. Then they all had to troop down to the street to admire the rose-grey gelding he had purchased. Cleo had to admit it was a fine animal, although something in the way his hand stroked the horse’s shoulder made her riding habit feel unaccountably tight and itchy.
“So,” Leslie said as they set off for Hyde Park, “what shocking behavior do you have in mind for today? You seem to have all your fingers and toes, so I take it you did not decide to cut off anything else.”
She grimaced. “Certainly not. And my proposal for today is not so very shocking, although Lady Agnes and my sisters will likely think it so. I suggest we race.”
Leslie grinned. “Excellent idea. I am itching to try this fellow.” He patted the horse again, and the grey shook out his mane. Leslie chuckled.
Cleo smiled as well. “He is a beauty. It’s rare to see such dark points on a grey. The markings on his legs make it look as if he’s wearing boots.”
“Exactly what I thought,” Leslie informed her, sharing her smile. “I’ve decided to name him Hessian. Almost makes me forgive you for requiring me to buy him.”
“Requiring you to buy him?” Cleo looked at him, brows raised. “How did I do that?”
“By telling Lady Agnes I had a new horse,” he explained. “She’s seen all my cattle, so I had to make good your story. In future, you might ask before putting words in my mouth, or horses in my stable.”
Cleo shook her head. “I think you took that far too seriously. If Lady Agnes had complained, we could have found a way to explain my gaff.”
Leslie eyed her. “When did you become so good at lying?”
She almost took umbrage, but she could hear the reluctant admiration in his voice. It still made her uncomfortable.
“I don’t mean to lie,” she told him. “I never lied when Mother and Father were alive.”
“Except about trying to get into fighting matches,” Leslie teased.
She smiled. “Well, I never got into any matches, so I didn’t need to lie about it. It was only when Ellie shipped me off to boarding school that I found that truth to be a questionable commodity.”
“Where on earth did they send you,” Leslie demanded, “a penal colony?”
She felt a twinge of annoyance. “Not at all. The Barnsley School for Young Ladies is a very fine institution. But I tried to speak my mind in the beginning; I was not thanked for it.” Eloise came to mind, and she forced the memory away. “I found that life is easier if you simply refuse to speak. It gave everyone less reason to harass me. Wasn’t it like that when you were at Eton?”
He frowned. “I suppose, although, in truth, I never gave it much thought. There were enough fellows to pal around with that if some didn’t wish to associate with me, I wasn’t particularly concerned.”
“An excellent way to look at it,” Cleo told him. “But as the only son of a marquis, and in line for the title, I doubt too many dared treat you badly.”
“And as a cozening little sprout, I somehow doubt you were shunned by all good Society either,” he countered.
She could not help but remember how many girls had found her country ways atrocious, at least at first. Their teasing as well as her discovery of Eloise had only made things more difficult.
“We’re almost to Hyde Park,” she said, hoping he would not notice the abrupt change in topic. “Where shall we race? I want people to see us, but I should not want anyone to be trampled.”
“Rotten Row,” he advised.
Cleo frowned. She had never ridden on the sandy track that stretched the southern end of Hyde Park. Ladies did not ride on Rotten Row. But was this one of those rules she could break with impunity? “Perhaps I should see it first,” she suggested.
Leslie was amenable, so they rode down into the park, following a riding path leading to the south and west. Immediately, she began to question the advisability of her scheme. Although it was still over an hour before the truly fashionable made their appearance, the park was crowded. Carriages jostled alongside each other, and knots of riders made desultory progress through the pedestrians and equipages. Nurses walked while their charges cavorted through the mayhem. She could not see how anyone could safely trot, much less race.
By the time they reached Rotten Row, Cleo had all but decided to forget racing. Leslie, however, reined in where the track neared the Serpentine. He stood up in stirrups to eye the riding path as it stretched down toward Kensington Gardens. The sandy path was just as crowded as the rest of the park, and Cleo despaired. Leslie shook his head, reseating himself. Before she could turn her mount, however, he pointed his riding crop at her.
“See here, Miss Renfield,” he declared in a tone so ringing that the nearest riders reined in to see what was happening. “How dare you impugn my mount? I tell you I paid fifty guineas for this marvelous animal.”
Cleo knew it was her cue to play along, but her heart had quailed. “Indeed, sir,” she tried, meeting Leslie’s teasing gaze straight on with an imploring one of her own, “I do apologize. I would never have guessed a horse could cost so much.”
Leslie was not to be stopped. “What,” he cried, “do you impugn my trading skills as well? You leave me no choice, madam. I challenge you to a race.”
There was a scattering of applause from the gentlemen around them. The ladies tittered or made clucking noises at his bad form. Ladies, as they obviously knew, did not race.
“But the other riders,” Cleo protested.
“You there!” Leslie gestured to a stout gentleman on a roan mare. “Be a good chap and clear the path, would you?” He preened. “I should not want to fell anyone with this beast.”
The gentleman seemed amenable, setting his horse at an ambling trot down the track. His deep-throated cries of “clear the way” echoed back to Cleo on the breeze. Leslie shifted restlessly on his horse, which shivered in anticipation. She patted the sweet little mare Lady Agnes had procured for her, feeling her own excitement rise.
Leslie snatched off his top hat and cantered over to side of the path, where a group of pedestrians had gathered.
“Would you mind, fair lady?” he asked, with as deep a bow as he could make astride. “I shouldn’t want to ruin a perfectly good hat with all this fuss.”
Cleo shook her head at his flirting, but then he pulled the horse to one side and she saw who he had favored with his attentions. Eloise’s eyes were as narrowed as her smile as she gazed up at Les
lie, accepting his hat. But far worse than that was the stiff line of her companion’s mouth.
Cleo had never thought Major Cutter could look unpleasant, but standing possessively beside Eloise, she thought his usual gentlemanly glory quite dimmed. His short-cropped golden hair was all but obscured by the top hat and the ordinary brown coat and chamois trousers were not nearly as dashing as the dress uniform he often wore to balls. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind, however, but the gentleman looked her way, and his vibrant eyes widened in surprise, drawing her in. As her cheeks heated in a blush, he inclined his head in greeting, touching his finger to his forehead in salute. Cleo sat a little straighter.
“Will you put this off all day, my lord?” she called sweetly to Leslie. “Your mount will surely expire from old age before you allow him a hoof on the course.”
“Culminy!” Leslie accused, turning his horse back to her side. “Slander, madam! You should beg me for a head start, because that is the only way you will ever be ahead of this magnificent animal.”
“Done!” Cleo cried. “I accept. First one to the Kensington Park curve wins.” She touched heels to flank and set her horse off down the track.
Chapter Six
L
eslie stared as Cleo shot past him. The lovely lady who held his hat waved it at him frantically as if he needed any encouragement. He had only a moment to register Tony Cutter’s amused face as he stood beside the lady. Leslie tightened the reins on the gelding and pressed it into a gallop.
Trees shot past on either side, and he was certain he heard more than one cry of alarm at his recklessness. He ignored everything to focus on Cleo’s retreating figure. She bent forward over the horse’s stretched out neck, clamping her feet against the one side to encourage it forward. He did likewise, feeling the grey’s strides lengthening. His heart was pounding as loudly as his horse’s hooves. Now, this was adventure. Racing in Hyde Park, with a beautiful woman, on an untried horse. His father would have had his head.
And won a tidy sum betting on his win.
But despite his best efforts to urge the horse on, Cleo’s lead continued to widen. He was clearly going to lose. Yet, somehow, he couldn’t seem to care. Watching Cleo crouched in the side saddle, moving with the horse’s gait, he found himself far more enjoying the view. And her glowing face when he pulled up a sorry second was worth every bit of humiliation the defeat was likely to cause him that night at White’s
“I won!” she proclaimed, dark eyes alight, face splitting in a grin.
“Cheat!” Leslie accused, but he grinned back. “You were magnificent.”
She tossed her head, short curls bouncing in the breeze. “Even Major Cutter seemed to think so.” She giggled.
The sound grated on Leslie’s nerves, surprising him. “Yes, well, mission accomplished, I suppose. Shall I return you home, or do you wish to circle the park in triumph?”
His tone must have betrayed his feelings, for she frowned. “Is something wrong, Les? Are you truly angry that I won?”
“Certainly not. Why should I be upset that you took unfair advantage of me with a head start, enticed me into a race on an unfamiliar nag, and in short thoroughly trampled my reputation in front of any number of fair ladies?”
Now it was her turn to look annoyed. “Some of them,” she informed him, “would not be impressed no matter what you did.” She seemed to recall herself and straightened in the saddle. “I’m sorry if I made you look ridiculous. I thought we were having fun.”
“We are, Sprout,“ he assured her, poking her in the shoulder with his riding crop. “Take no heed of my mutterings. I simply thought that, as you had achieved your objective, you might wish to retire from the field and plan your next battle.”
“Oh, yes,” she assured him. “I did want to discuss the Baminger ball. Would it be too painfully embarrassing to speak with our well-wishers first?”
He glanced back over his shoulder at the riders who were ambling their way. Strolling in their wake, he spotted Tony Cutter alongside the dark-haired beauty who twirled Leslie’s hat between her hands. Eloise Watkin, Cleo had named her. He wouldn’t have minded making her acquaintance. For some reason, however, he had no desire to greet the good major. Besides, if he let the lady keep his hat, it would give him an excuse to look her up later. He returned his gaze to Cleo and shrugged.
“Having to face my ignominious defeat would be simply more than I could bear. Allow me to escort you home.”
She glanced back at the approaching group as well and sighed. But she did not argue as Leslie set off for the Park Lane entrance.
“Les,” she said after they had cleared the park, “I need you to escort me to the Baminger ball.”
Leslie cringed. “I should have taken my punishment in the park. I cannot attend the ball, Cleo. That’s deep into enemy territory.” When she frowned at him, he explained. “Lord Prestwick and I caused a scandal at Lady Baminger’s ball last year. I doubt I’d be welcomed back.”
She made a face. “Can you not ask her forgiveness?”
Leslie didn’t try to suppress the shudder that ran through him. Lady Baminger was a patron of the arts. She sponsored composers, musicians, and artists. It was said, however, that while she sponsored operas, her husband sponsored opera dancers. Her annual ball went a long way toward keeping her family acceptable in the eyes of the ton. The men who had damaged that acceptance would receive little mercy.
“I have no interest in trying,” he told Cleo. “There must be other parties we can attend together.”
He glanced at her to find a decided pout on her pretty face. “I am not invited to other events nearly so public for the next fortnight.”
Les cocked his head. “Will Major Cutter be in attendance?”
Cleo cast him a glance. “I suppose so. He seems to be invited to all the major events.”
So it was Cutter that drew her to that reprehensible ball. Leslie felt his annoyance rising again and fought it down. Why should her interest annoy him? He was only along for the fun. Perhaps he should point that out.
“So, you get your desire while I lose mine,” he challenged.
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You promised me sport, Cleo. Facing Lady Baminger’s wrath is hardly my idea of fun.”
She did not seem to appreciate the obvious. Cleo set her face in stony lines, and they rode in silence for a while. Leslie enjoyed the thought that he had made his point, but as Cleo continued to stare resolutely ahead, he felt his enjoyment waning. Cleo annoyed was a rather chilling sight. He much preferred her happy.
“Perhaps I could learn where Tony Cutter plans to be over the next few weeks and gain us invitations,” he offered.
She did not deign to look at him. “Major Cutter’s presence is immaterial. I told you–a fortnight or more is far too long.”
He wasn’t convinced. But if the major was so inconstant that he could not wait a fortnight, he hardly deserved her devotion.
“Perhaps we can contrive to cause another scandal in the park again,” Leslie suggested.
“Perhaps,” she allowed, but she did not seem hopeful.
Leslie sighed. “Are you always this obstinate?”
She stiffened. “I do not see how being true to one’s purpose is being obstinate. I am disappointed in you, Leslie. I cannot believe you would let a little thing like Lady Baminger’s opinion keep you from going where you want to go.”
Leslie’s fist tightened on the reins, making the gelding prance. “I don’t care about Lady Baminger’s opinion,” he informed her testily. “I simply have no desire to endure the ringing scold she would no doubt give me. I told you, Cleo, my purpose is to have fun. Lady Baminger and fun do not inhabit the same sphere.”
She cocked her head. “Perhaps they do. If I can find a way to make the evening enjoyable, would you relent?”
He sensed a trap but was intrigued nonetheless. “It would have to be exceptionally good,” he warned. “I won’t play the marty
r.”
“You won’t have to,” she promised. “But you may have to play the courtier. Let me think on it. We can talk more during your lessons with Hector tomorrow.”
Leslie was far from satisfied with the answer, but he had no choice but to acquiesce and take Cleo home. He only hoped that that fertile brain of hers would for once not be able to come up with a plan.
Though he rather thought he’d have more luck hoping that pigs might fly.
*
Cleo thought about the matter the rest of the afternoon. The race in the park had succeeded beyond her dreams. She had hoped the tale of her riding would spark comment, but they had definitely drawn a crowd. Still, Eloise Watkin could not be counted upon to gossip, and neither would Major Cutter, she was sure. She had to follow through.
There was no question in her mind that her attendance at the Baminger ball was now imperative. She had to enact another display to press her plan forward. She had hoped to spend the evening in contemplation, but she had not counted on gossip traveling so quickly. She had just sat down to a companionable dinner with Lady Agnes when Ellie stormed into the room. Mr. Cowls phlegmy cough of discretion did no more than earn him her glare. Her black velvet cloak and long gloves proclaimed her intent to go out for the evening. The white ostrich plume in her gold turban quivered as if in outrage.
“You!” She pointed an accusing finger at Cleo. “You are a disgrace to this family!”
Lady Agnes set down her silver even as Cleo felt herself pale. She sat straighter and merely raised a brow, while her insides churned. The enemy had risen to the bait, and the battle was engaged.
“What’s happened?” her godmother demanded.
“Haven’t you heard?” Ellie shook her head. “I am amazed no one saw fit to tell you. No less than three august personages hurried to my door with the tale. Cleo was racing in Hyde Park this afternoon.”
“Impossible,” Lady Agnes declared. “She was out with my godson this afternoon.”
The cannon had been fired. Ellie stiffened as if hit. Cleo wanted to crow with delight. Instead, she bowed her head to hide her smile.