Recklessly Yours

by Allison Chase

  Lord Drayton spent the next few minutes soothing the horse. Finally he secured the gate, and turned to regard Holly. “You’re quite certain you’re all right?” he said very low, in a queer tone that spread goose bumps across her back.

  She nodded, then crossed the aisle and stood beside him, in front of the stall. As if the past moments hadn’t happened, the horse stuck his head over the gate and calmly nudged her with his nose. “Is the colt all right?”

  “He’s done no harm to himself that I can detect.”

  “I’m sorry. I . . .” She heaved a sigh. “I keep saying that to you today, don’t I?”

  A powerful hand closed over her shoulder. “Come with me.”

  Just as earlier, his touch cast her into a state of bewilderment. Barely aware of her surroundings, she let him convey her down the aisle, around a corner, and out into the night air. She thought he’d turn toward the house, but he chose the opposite direction, walking with a purposeful stride, one that made her hasten her steps to keep up. Then he came to an abrupt halt.

  Empty and silent, the paddocks, racetrack, and pastures beyond spread like a moonlit patchwork before them. The hush unnerved her, as did the silence of the man beside her, charged as it was with an emotion that pulsed off him in waves. He’d taken her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm, and as they stood side by side, she stole a glance at him. His nose pinched and his jaw sharply square, he stared hard into the distance. She could only guess he was searching for words adequate enough to rebuke her for her foolishness.

  When she could stand it no longer she swallowed and said, “I’m sorry. I only wished to see the colt up close.”

  “The fault was mine, Miss Sutherland. I shouldn’t have sneaked up on you as I did.” He broke off, turned her to face him, and seized her hands with the same intensity as earlier that day on the terrace. “But you could have been seriously injured.”

  She found herself toe-to-toe with him, dwarfed by his greater size, the breadth and strength of his shoulders, his broad chest. As he stood poised above her, his face was a fierce shadow framed by the night sky, his eyes gleaming with the sharp clarity of the stars.

  The emotion blazing in those eyes made her look away, gasp for breath. And then she realized what he’d said and looked back at him. “You purposely sneaked up on me.”

  With a sheepish lift of his brows, a quirk of his mouth, he nodded and released her hands.

  “You thought I was . . . ?” She didn’t finish the question, for the obvious truth was that he’d suspected her of doing exactly what she had been doing: spying. Her pulse rattled a warning that she was glad he couldn’t feel.

  “I am extremely protective of the horses,” he confessed. “The racing world is not an entirely ingenuous one. Rivalries and greed often drive people to extremes.”

  Her heart thudded against her stays. Had he been driven to an extreme act? She wondered how close she had come tonight to discovering Victoria’s colt. Perhaps no more than a stall or two away.

  His expectant look broke into her thoughts. It was her turn to say something, and she realized that despite his apology, he waited to gauge her reaction to that last statement. He was testing her as much as she was testing him.

  If ever she needed to deceive, it was now. For Victoria. For her country.

  “And you thought perhaps I was . . . up to no good?” she said with a touch of dramatic flair. Feigning astonishment, she pressed a hand to her bosom. “You thought I might be ferreting out the secrets of the Ashworth racing success?”

  His lips pursed, and one corner lifted in a lopsided grin. “It does sound rather ridiculous when spoken aloud. But you were inside the stall, Miss Sutherland. Surely you realize how unusual that appears.”

  “But how can one properly judge good horseflesh without getting as close a view as possible?”

  Eyebrows drawn, he seemed to weigh this statement. “You do realize you were on the private side of the stables, where we keep our own horses.”

  Indeed, she’d been very much aware of that fact. She widened her eyes. “Was I? Then I must have misunderstood your sister earlier. I could have sworn. . . . Well, there has been so much to absorb today, I don’t wonder I got it wrong.”

  The crickets and night rustlings filled her ears, became all but deafening as he studied her and she willed every muscle in her body not to quiver, not to give her away. Suddenly exhausted by her game of deceit, she wanted to demand what he was looking for, and what he was hiding. Perhaps it was a delayed reaction to being nearly trampled beneath the horse’s hooves, but she wished for the safety of her hotel room, where she might bury her face in her pillow and—goodness—cry. Let flow tears that she couldn’t explain. She knew only that her heart suddenly ached, and she longed for relief.

  “Return tomorrow for a private tour of the stables,” he suddenly said. “And a ride, if you wish.”

  What? “Really?”

  He nodded. “If you like.”

  “I would like that very much—”

  She was interrupted by a voice calling out from the stable yard. “Colin, are you here?”

  They both turned in the direction of the hail. Silhouetted by lamplight, Lady Sabrina approached from the archway between the stable wings.

  The earl quickly opened a wide space between him and Holly. “Yes, Sabrina. What is it?”

  “I’ve been looking for—” Lady Sabrina broke off and craned forward, peering through the shadows. “Is that Miss Sutherland with you?”

  He swore under his breath, and Holly wondered what his sister would think to discover them standing here together in the dark. But there was nowhere to hide, nothing to be done but square her shoulders.

  Lady Sabrina met them partway as they walked back to the stable yard. Holly wanted to shrink from the curiosity arching the young woman’s brows. “It is actually you I’ve been searching for, Miss Sutherland.”

  “Me? Is something wrong? Is it—”

  “Do not be alarmed, Miss Sutherland,” Lady Sabrina hastened to say. “She is all right, just a bit of a faint. Mama called for the smelling salts and some tea, which quite did the trick but—”

  Colin stopped her with a hand on her wrist. “Who, Sabrina?”

  “Ivy,” Holly murmured, confirming her own worst fears. “Oh, no!”

  Panic gripped her. Hefting her skirts, she stood poised to set off at a run. The earl pressed forward on the balls of his feet, too, and Holly remembered that Ivy was the wife of his closest friend.

  Lady Sabrina stepped in front of them, blocking their path. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, Miss Sutherland. Lady Harrow is at this moment sitting with her feet propped up in Mama’s blue parlor, sipping tea. And”—she leaned closer and lowered her voice—“no one but Mama and me is any the wiser.”

  “Oh. I—” The open acknowledgment of her sister’s condition brought Holly up short. Was Lady Sabrina also acknowledging Holly’s compromised position of having slipped away with her brother? Not that she had slipped away with him, but surely that was how it must appear. “Thank you.”

  The girl gave a conspiratorial wink that made Holly unsure whether or not she had found an unlikely ally in the young woman. As if to suggest she had, Lady Sabrina linked her arm through Holly’s. “Come, I’ll take you to your sister.”

  “Yes, and we’ll need our carriage brought round immediately.”

  “Oh, indeed not, Miss Sutherland,” Lady Sabrina replied in a tone that brooked no debate. “Mama will not hear of your returning to your hotel. You and your sisters shall remain here, where Lady Harrow may be properly looked after. You may make a list of everything you’d like fetched from your rooms. I shall send a footman and my maid.”

  Holly looked uncertainly at Lord Drayton, who had yet to add his approval to this turn of events. She glimpsed myriad emotions flickering across his handsome features: startlement, hesitation . . . fear? All this passed in the span of blink, and then he recovered his poise and gave a nod. “A prud
ent plan.”

  That was all. Lady Sabrina chatted all the way back to the house, seeming oblivious to the heavy silence that cloaked both her brother and Holly. Holly should have been elated at this further opportunity to observe the Ashworths, and Lord Drayton in particular. But those emotions she’d witnessed nagged like a sore tooth. Were they an admission of guilt?

  “For the third time, I did not faint,” Ivy insisted. “I stood up too quickly and became the tiniest bit light-headed.”

  Perched at the foot of the bed, Willow shifted her legs beneath her and leaned against a bedpost. “You fell,” she insisted. “I saw you.”

  “I lost my balance.”

  Holly poured another cup of tea and passed it into Ivy’s hands. She searched her sister’s face for the slightest sign of illness. The color had returned to her cheeks, and the cup and saucer remained steady between Ivy’s hands. “Lady Sabrina insisted you passed out,” Holly reminded her.

  “Lady Sabrina exaggerates. I became a trifle disoriented, but only for a moment.”

  A knock at the chamber door cut their debate short. The door opened, and the Duchess of Masterfield stepped inside. “I do hope I am not disturbing you.”

  “Of course not, Your Grace.” Holly and Willow slipped off the bed and dipped curtsies. Ivy started to follow suit, but the duchess held up an imperious hand as she crossed the room.

  “Lady Harrow, do not dare rise from that bed.” She came to stand at the bedside. “You do look much improved. It must be the tea. Greerson, my abigail, is a veritable catalog of old remedies. I daresay there is no illness the woman has not the recipe to cure. Why, when I was expecting my eldest . . .”

  Perching on the edge of the mattress, the duchess relayed her own experiences with the malaise of increasing. Her hand settled with motherly affection on Ivy’s, giving it the occasional pat of reassurance.

  Seated on the other side of the bed, Holly used the opportunity to study the woman who had raised such a diverse and contrary brood.

  Like her daughter, she was not exactly beautiful, though her features were well formed and spoke of intelligence. The directness of her gaze declared her a woman who missed little, yet she lacked the spark that was immediately detectable in her daughter’s bright manner. The duchess’s eyes were not the gemlike blue of Lady Sabrina’s and her eldest son’s, but a faded hazel, and something in her bearing suggested a vivacity that had also faded with time.

  “I hope you are all contented with your accommodations?” the woman asked.

  Holly and her sisters assured her they were.

  The duchess smiled kindly at Ivy. “I should leave you to your rest.” She turned to Holly and Willow. “Breakfast is laid out at half past nine. Country hours, you know. You’ll find the morning room down the corridor beyond the library.” She patted Ivy’s hand once more. “I’ll have a tray sent up for you, Lady Harrow.”

  “I assure you, Your Grace, that will be quite unnecessary.”

  “Indulge me, dear.” Leaning closer, the duchess stretched out a hand to touch Ivy’s cheek. Her lace-edged sleeve rode up to expose her wrist.

  Holly’s eyes widened at the sight of a weal a couple of inches above her hand, the faded ghost of an injury that had left a blotchy discoloring around her wrist. The woman lowered her arm and stood, her sleeve once more concealing the mottled skin. Holly darted a glance at each of her sisters to see if they, too, had noticed, but their expressions revealed no hint that they had.

  She glanced down at her own wrist, and encircled it with her other hand. A faint unease gathered in the pit of her stomach, the sensation lingering long after the duchess had left them. And for some reason she couldn’t quite name, she hugged her sisters tighter than usual as she bade them good night.

  “Good morning, Lord Drayton. I hope I’m not too early.”

  Dawn had barely broken over the horizon, and the stable yard lay in chilly shadow. The other guests would be hours yet in their beds, but Miss Sutherland was freshness itself as she stood before Colin, the crisp folds of her emerald riding habit elongating her figure and deepening the fiery hue of her hair.

  His reaction to her made him forget the fatigue that clawed at his frame. He’d spent a restless night—thinking about her, and the fact that she lay sleeping under his roof. From countless angles he had imagined her generous curves covered only in some diaphanous chemise and a light coverlet, her rounded cheek plumped from the pillow beneath it . . . her lips softly parted . . . and he, merely down the corridor and around a corner, so close. And very much awake.

  “We can postpone, my lord, if this proves inconvenient for you.”

  Good God, he’d been mutely staring. He gave himself a shake. “Not inconvenient at all, Miss Sutherland. I am merely surprised to see you up and ready so early.”

  “There is nothing like an early-morning ride,” she said, slightly breathless, her green eyes glinting.

  “I agree. Most people don’t realize what they are missing, sleeping half the morning away.”

  “Just so. We were all early risers, growing up at Thorn Grove.” She grinned, and while they stood another moment without speaking, somehow the silence had become companionable, comfortable.

  No, not comfortable. Hardly comfortable. He felt exhilarated, bedazzled, aroused. Dizzy. She made him dizzy with wanting her. Her spicy scent, her riot of curls, her lovely, lightly freckled skin . . . Just once he’d like to pull her into his arms and take in all of her, absorb her, drink in his fill.

  Ah, God, did he truly think just once would satisfy such a craving?

  “Where are my manners?” he asked, turning his thoughts to a safer subject. “How is your sister? I trust she is recovered?”

  “She insists she suffered from nothing more serious than light-headedness. But we are grateful for the duchess’s hospitality. And yours, my lord.”

  “No thanks are necessary, Miss Sutherland. Especially as it worked out so conveniently, since I did promise you a tour this morning.” Once again he let his gaze drift over her riding habit, from the green feather in her cap to the train looped over one arm. “And a ride, of course.”

  “I apologize again for last night. I realize I shouldn’t have—”

  “My guests are welcome to explore any part of this estate, at any time.”

  “Are we?” She seemed inordinately pleased about that.

  He nodded. “But I thought perhaps we would begin with the horses that are actually for sale.”

  She blushed, but with a grin that sparked his pulse. A little flame grew inside him, a much more pleasant sensation than he cared to admit.

  Side by side they strolled up and down the aisles. He told her the names of the horses, their ages, their prospects. She listened carefully. Her comments impressed him and convinced him she had spent many hours not only riding but also being among horses and grooms. Her knowledge seemed a combination of natural instinct and firsthand experience, and his admiration for her increased by the moment, a circumstance that unsettled him.

  He sought refuge in the one subject he could share with Miss Sutherland without fear of treading too close. “Have you seen an animal yet that strikes your fancy?”

  “I’ve seen many such. The horse you raced yesterday—” She looked about her. “I don’t see him here. What was his name?”

  “Cordelier, and no, you won’t find him among our investment horses.”

  “Oh? And why is that?”

  “Because he is mine, Miss Sutherland. I raced him only to demonstrate what an Ashworth Thoroughbred is capable of. He is not for sale and never shall be. “

  Her brow furrowed. “Not even for the right price?”

  “No price could induce me to part with Cordelier. To me, he is vastly more than just a horse.”

  Damn, but he’d said too much. There were too many memories and too many emotions coiled around his rare triumph over his father.

  Her eyes narrowed and a smile hovered on her lips. “What is he, then?”


  He allowed his own mouth to curve. “Perhaps nothing more than a young man’s folly, Miss Sutherland. But I’ve always thought of him as my challenge to myself.” Yes, this he could share without exposing too much of himself, without ripping open the old wounds. “You are aware of my scientific interests?”

  “Oh, yes. My brother-in-law has spoken of the experimentations you and your colleagues engage in at Cambridge.”

  They resumed walking. She moved close at his side, her swaying skirts brushing his thigh. The rhythm of each swish, swish, swish invaded his mind and made it difficult to focus on what he was telling her. He trusted his mouth to form the correct words while the rest of him swam in a heated haze that blurred their surroundings yet sharpened every luscious detail about her.

  They crossed the arched entryway and entered the private side of the stables. “Cordelier is the first horse I ever bred entirely on my own. I combed our breeding stock for just the right qualities. His father is Harvest Moon, his mother Pilgrim’s Delight. Both champions.”

  “Oh, my, even I have heard of them. With such a bloodline, one would think you’d be eager to race him.”

  “Only privately. I couldn’t bear to part with him, not even long enough for him to be properly trained for the turf. But he sired several of the horses you just saw.”

  “A stud without a track record?”

  “His breeding speaks for itself. Cordelier’s progeny are extremely sought after in the racing world. Ah, here we are.” They stopped at Cordelier’s gate, and the horse circled the stall to offer his ears to be scratched. “Halloo, old boy.”

  Seeming eager to please, Miss Sutherland pulled off one kid glove and worked her fingers at just the place Cordelier most preferred. Colin couldn’t help grinning at the happy glaze that entered the animal’s eyes. “I believe you’ve won him over, Miss Sutherland.”

  She ran her hand beneath the horse’s forelock. “Do all Cordelier’s offspring bear the star?”

  “No, not all, though most do. Actually, I find myself fascinated by how and when the star makes its appearance. It began several generations ago, in a horse called Shooting Star.”