by Amanda Scott
“As well she should.” Cicely acknowledged, grinning. “She knows what to expect should she disobey him. But I am a good deal older, Toby, and his grace’ll not beat me for an hour’s stolen privacy. Nor will he chastise you for allowing it.”
“Whist, m’lady,” the old man scoffed, his eyes still atwinkle, “as though I thought ’e might. Get along wi’ ye, then.”
Still smiling, she wheeled the gelding toward the main carriage drive and soon gave him his head. Connie willingly broke into an easy lope, and Cicely held her face up to the breeze’s easy caress as she relaxed in the saddle. The carriageway was flat and hard, as was the road it intersected a mile or so from the house. Cicely crossed the road and followed a pathway into the woods opposite the tall iron gates flanking the entrance to Malmesbury Park. She knew she should probably have taken a route that would keep her inside the park itself, where there were numerous bridle paths alongside the lake and throughout the huge home wood and deer park. But this was her father’s land, too, and since she liked the wilderness flavor of these woods better, she had headed for them without thinking. Here the underbrush was thicker, more tangled, for there was no army of keepers to keep it cleared away. Only the meandering dirt path was clear, and even so, one had to watch for low-hanging branches. Ordinarily she would follow the path until it came out again onto the main road and then would follow the road back to the main gate of the park. But today, groomless, she realized it would be wiser to follow the woods path back again once she neared the road. It would not do to meet anyone.
There were wild flowers here and a sense of peace that was lacking in the home wood, where one might come upon one of the keepers at any time. Her father might not approve, but if he found out about it, it would mean he had already discovered that she’d left without Toby. Since he would scold her for the one, he might just as well scold her for the other while he was about it. A momentary vision intruded of her sister Alicia standing pale-faced just inside the bookroom door. She had no doubt of Alicia’s fate, but she was shrewd enough to realize that Malmesbury would tend to be lenient in her own case. He might bellow at her, but unless she defied him in the more important matter of her proposed marriage, she did not think she need fear any harsher treatment. It had been years since he had used her so, and now that she came to think of it, Gilbert Leighton, the man she was expected to marry, had been responsible for that incident.
No longer could she avoid thinking about the marriage. It was not, of course, the notion of the marriage itself that distressed her, for she had been raised to expect that one would eventually be arranged for her. It had been far more surprising to discover that her parents had been willing to indulge her fancies in the matter. Even now, she realized, she had no reason to doubt that his grace would have indulged her whims entirely, had she chanced to form a grand passion for one of her myriad suitors. After all, the duke still had Brittany or even Arabella to offer to Ravenwood as alternatives. Cicely could scarcely imagine herself ill-used. She had been given plenty of opportunity to go her own way.
Slashing rays of sunlight made golden puddles on the pathway ahead. Birds chirped merrily, and leaves rustled gently in the slight, March-crisp breeze. Cicely knew she had reacted emotionally, that she had felt momentarily trapped by her heritage.
Remembering the onset of her first Season in London, she knew she had approached it with eager anticipation and romantic dreams of meeting a perfect mate and tumbling into love like the best of storybook heroines, to live happily ever after. Those naive hopes had been dashed by the time of her second visit to Almack’s famous assembly rooms. Two full weeks of being introduced to ogling young men who fairly drooled over her—and whose questions about her home, family, and fortune at best bordered upon rudeness and at worst were blatantly impertinent—were quite enough for Cicely. Realizing how naive she had been, she had determined to set matters right, and although she enjoyed the parties and entertainments, and was unfailingly polite to everyone, she began to guard herself against any emotional entanglements. She had learned to trust no one. Even if a gentleman pretended to like her for herself, she knew perfectly well that behind his charming façade, he was mentally counting the coins in her coffer.
At least, once she was safely married, that would no longer present a problem. If a gentleman asked her to dance then, she would know it was merely because he wished to dance with her.
She turned this tasty thought over once or twice in her mind. Marriage per se might have certain advantages. After all, hers would simply be a marriage of convenience, and in this day and age, even partners in a love match did not live in one another’s pockets. Married ladies had a good deal more freedom than their unmarried sisters. Surely Ravenwood would allow her a cicisbeo or two and would not expect her to be constantly at his beck and call. As a matter of fact, he would very likely have his own diversions, most probably, of course, amongst the muslin company. How would she like that?
As she ducked to avoid a sprawling oak branch, she dismissed the notion that such diversions might annoy her. Every man had them. She would not interfere with Ravenwood any more than he would interfere with her. A chuckle escaped her when she tried to conjure up a vision of that thin youth of six years ago enjoying sport with a Cytherean. Try as she might, all she could manage was the gracefully bowing image of a bean-pole dandy who waggled a quizzing glass in one hand while languidly drifting a scent-laden handkerchief under a twitching nose with the other. Impossible to imagine such a creature interfering with one. By now, in fact, if he had gone on as he’d begun, he must be so taken up with his wardrobe as to have little time for anything else. The thought of six years spent in Wellington’s company occurred to her, only to be dismissed with a nearly contemptuous smile. He had been with Sir Charles Stuart, after all, more a diplomatic post than a military one. Just the sort of position for a fop. Lots of balls and parties, if all she’d heard was correct, including a ball at the Duchess of Richmond’s town house in Brussels the very night before Waterloo. It was all of a piece!
Connie sidestepped nervously, and Cicely recollected herself to call him to order. She realized she must be nearing the road again, for in the distance, drawing nearer, came the clatter and rattle of a swiftly moving vehicle. Suddenly there was a stamp of impatient hooves nearer at hand, followed by a shout and the thunder of hoofbeats on the hard road. Then, startling her, came the unmistakable bark of a pistol. The oncoming vehicle slowed, and there was more hoarse shouting.
Unhesitantly Cicely snatched the pistol from her saddle holster and dug her heel into the gelding’s side. Connie responded instantly, and within seconds they had emerged onto the roadway to be greeted by the sight of a duffel-coated ruffian looking down the barrel of a wicked horse pistol into the interior of an elegant, crested carriage. Cicely paused only long enough to take in the sight of a restless, steaming team of matched greys and the two men frozen in place on the box before she leveled her own weapon, sighted carefully over the gelding’s ears, and fired.
Connie’s ears scarcely twitched at the echoing blast, but, to her astonishment, the highwayman slumped in his saddle, hovered momentarily in what seemed, considering the force of gravity, to be an impossible position, then slid to the ground with a sickening thump. Connie had slowed his pace of his own accord and now drew to a halt some feet from the body.
“Merciful heavens!” Cicely breathed. “He cannot be dead.”
“I sincerely trust he is dead,” drawled a lazy, masculine voice from the recesses of the carriage. Dark-gloved fingers curled on the upper portion of the low door, the door opened, and one elegantly clad leg stretched gracefully forth. A shining top boot with a gleaming white upper touched the dusty road with gentle disdain, and soon its mate appeared beside it as the proprietor of that low, somehow stirring drawl extricated himself from the carriage. Cicely found herself staring at a debonair, dark-haired, well-tanned gentleman dressed in the height of fashion in buff breeches and a perfectly tailored coat of Weston’s
famous bleu celeste. “’Twould be a monstrous shame,” he added as he stretched to his full, not insignificant, height, directing a pair of deep blue eyes up at her, “if after expending the price of a bullet on the villain, it should yet become necessary to put this county to the expense of a rope.”
“But I can’t have shot him!” Cicely cried. “I aimed well above his head, I assure you, and though this pistol does have a tendency to throw left, it never shoots low. Oh, sir, do please examine him. Perhaps he has only fainted.”
A sardonic lift of an eyebrow was quickly controlled when she turned her beseeching gaze upon him. Almost apologetically, he lifted his right hand, thus bringing to view a small, silver-mounted pistol. “He has not fainted, ma’am. We must have fired simultaneously, and I regret to confess that I did not aim high. Not knowing,” he added politely and with a small bow, “that there were ladies present.”
Her eyes flashed. “I should hope that had little to do with it, sir. I meant only to frighten him away myself, but I quite see that that might not have answered the purpose at all, for he would very likely have shot you once he’d realized I had only the one piece.” She gazed down at the victim. “What is to be done now?”
A flicker of respect glinted in the blue eyes before his lids drooped lazily. “Done? Why, I shall continue my journey, ma’am, and you shall return to your home. What more?”
“Well, we certainly cannot leave him lying in the road like this!”
“Why not?”
Cicely glared at him. Really, his attitude was most annoying. “Why not! He is a human being, sir!”
“Debatable.” But he glanced vaguely toward the two men on the box. Neither had moved from his place, but the younger regarded his master warily, his face nearly colorless. “Ah, True, be so good as to remove this corpse. The sight of it offends my sweet rescuer. Moreover, it clutters the road.”
“Aye, m’lord,” the man muttered as he jumped to the road. “Uh …” He paused, looking upward. “What d’ye want I should do with him, sir?”
“Do with him? Why, just drag him off the road, of course.”
“We cannot leave him here at all,” Cicely stated flatly.
The elegant gentleman lifted his quizzing glass at that and regarded her as though she were a rare discovery. Cicely squirmed a bit in her saddle under that lazy, somewhat amused gaze. “What would you, my lady? I confess an aversion to sharing my carriage with him.”
Cicely choked back an unexpected gurgle of laughter and forced herself to speak sternly. “Of course you should do no such thing, sir, but it seems to me it would be a simple matter to heave the fellow over his own saddle. Then your man there could lead the horse to the village and turn him over to the constable.”
The gentleman appeared to give serious consideration to her words before awarding the notion a sad shake of his head. “If you say it would be simple, I daresay you’re in the right of it, ma’am, but the thing is I shouldn’t know how to go about it. Tom there”—he indicated his coachman—“has got a troublesome back, and although True is a stout lad, in my experience, corpses are infernally uncooperative. He’d most likely drop the fellow several times before he’d succeed in slinging him aboard that saddle.”
“You could help him,” she pointed out.
“I?” He thought about it, bringing the quizzing glass into play again as he surveyed first the rather bloody corpse and then, measuringly, the distance from the ground to the man’s saddle. “I think not. Such exertion would no doubt prove to be both messy and exhausting. You cannot have noticed the state of the fellow’s coat, or I’m sure you’d not have suggested such a course.”
Cicely’s lips twitched again, but she spoke sharply. “You cannot simply order your man to drag him from the road and thus be done with the matter. Why, a child might discover him!”
“My experience with the unceasingly ghoulish nature of children leads me to suspect that such a discovery would vastly improve the lucky urchin’s status amongst his peers,” the gentleman drawled, incorrigibly unperturbed. But he watched her from under those lazy lids as he spoke, and when her color heightened with real anger, he continued pacifically. “Very well, ma’am. After he removes the body from our sight, True shall take one of the carriage horses and ride for the constable.” He allowed himself a long-suffering sigh. “I shall even engage to await that worthy myself in order to explain what took place here.”
“An excellent notion, sir,” she approved, “but there is no cause for your man to go. I can easily fetch the constable myself.”
With a grace that belied the speed of his action, the gentleman moved a hand to Connie’s bridle. “Unnecessary, ma’am. True wishes to go, and I think you should remain here with me so I don’t become bored in the interim. Conversation with my coachman is hardly like to entertain me.” Then, without so much as a by-your-leave, his hands were at her waist, and Cicely found herself lifted to stand beside him on the ground.
Breathless, she peered up at him. His hands, still firm at her waist, seemed to send rays of warmth through her body despite his gloves and her own thick velvet habit, making her intensely aware of his masculinity. Suddenly aware that her mouth was agape, she snapped it shut and tried, selfconsciously, to step away from him. She had no business to be standing in the road with him like this. If anyone saw her, the duke would be the first to hear of it, and there would be no escaping the scene that would follow with a whole skin. But his hands, instead of releasing her, seemed momentarily to tighten.
“Please, sir,” she muttered hoarsely, looking down at her boots. “This is not seemly. I—I must go.”
Patently reluctant, he released her. But when she turned back toward Connie, a gentle hand at her elbow stopped her. She trembled at even this light touch. “Do not go yet,” he said softly. “It will be some time before True returns with your blasted constable, and I’d as lief not be left to kick my heels without company until then.”
For a moment the drawl had disappeared, and he sounded almost boyish. She glanced quickly up at him as a memory chord was plucked. But it couldn’t be. This gentleman, though certainly a dandy of the first stare—if one was to judge by those clinging buff breeches and that excellently cut coat, not to mention the fabulous flower-decked silk waistcoat and intricately tied neckcloth—was entirely too broad across the shoulders and too muscular of calf and thigh even to be related to the youth she remembered. And there was no softness in the chiseled planes of that handsome, tanned face. There was perhaps a faint resemblance, actually, but that was all. She dismissed the uncomfortable notion that had nipped at her mind and, drawing a deep breath, allowed him to guide her a short distance from the carriage.
The coachman had descended from his perch while True dealt with the corpse and was engaged in detaching one of the magnificent greys from its teammates. Cicely watched the process idly, then said impulsively, “I suppose your man could take Connie, sir. He would be a deal easier to manage than a horse unused to riders.”
“True will cope,” the gentleman smiled. “I daresay he would object to a sidesaddle, you know.” Then, before she could point out that the sidesaddle could be removed, he frowned musingly. “Connie does not seem to be an apt name for that splendid-looking creature. I trust it is short for Constantine or even Conrad. Some such, at any rate.”
“Not Conrad.” She laughed, watching True climb aboard the skittish mount chosen by the coachman. “I’ve a cousin by that name, and I wouldn’t name a favorite horse after him. ’Tis short for Conabos, one of the four horses of Ares, the Greek god of war.”
He nodded. “I remember. Conabos stood for tumult, did he not?” She smiled, following his ironic gaze to the placidly grazing gelding.
“As a colt he was very wild,” she explained. “I tamed him first, then broke him to saddle and bridle. I wanted to breed him,” she added with a touch of sadness, “but my father ordered it otherwise.”
“And quite right, too,” stated her companion firmly. “A spirite
d stallion is no proper mount for a gently bred female.” She glared at him, but he only responded with that lazy smile. “Don’t snap my head off, ma’am. I’m not casting aspersions on your horsemanship, I assure you. Could tell at a glance from your excellent seat that you must be a bruising rider. Nevertheless, there would be moments when he might well fail his training, and you’d be no match for him in strength.”
It was a reasonable point but one she had bitterly resented when it had been raised by her father. Somehow the same words coming from this amiable stranger standing so near as to send prickles dancing up and down her skin stirred no resentment at all. She nodded slowly in vague agreement but was far more conscious of his size and presence than of his words. “I suppose you’re right,” she said, feeling she ought to say something. Conversation with him was a good deal less unnerving than his silence.
“Oh, I’m right,” he said with a teasing smile, “and I daresay your father said much the same thing.” She blinked at him, and the smile grew broader, making her look away again. Silence fell once more. When she dared to glance up at him, it was to find that his eyes had narrowed speculatively. The humor that seemed generally to lighten them was gone. “Where is your groom, my lady? Surely a parent who insists upon a safe mount would also insist upon an escort.”
Cicely flushed, uncomfortable under his suddenly direct gaze. “I—I decided to ride alone today, sir.” Hearing herself, she gathered her wits and squared her shoulders, meeting that gaze unblinkingly. “My father tends to be a trifle overprotective, but I assure you I am perfectly accustomed to looking out for myself.”
“Of course you are,” he said with exaggerated kindness. “You would no doubt know precisely what to do in any given circumstance. For example,” he drawled, placing a hand on her shoulder, “if you were to find yourself quite alone with a gentleman who wished to kiss you, I’ve no doubt at all you would know exactly how to cope with the situation.”